A Room Of My Own

Night Watch

2012-01-06T11:57:00.000-08:00

The moon is bright tonight.Its pale beams pick out the contours of your face: the soft curve of your chin, the gentle bump of your lips, the hillock of your nose. I am a fitful sleeper, I like to watch you on nights like this, when you are in a deep sleep, still wrapped in the warmth of our recent lovemaking. As you dream the foolish dreams of a contented lover: full of memories of the evening that has just past and anticipation of the nights that are yet to come. You turn over, and sigh, a deep, satisfied sigh. I am everything you have ever wanted. I will fulfil your every need.

You don't know it yet, but I am trouble, with a capital "T". Your friends sense it, as friends always do - the iceberg that lurks beneath my still, calm waters. But by the time they get close enough to expose the danger you are in, it will be too late to send up flares. By then I will have run you aground, your lower decks crumpled, as you begin to sink into my icy depths. They will be desperate in their bids to save you, but their pathetic attempts will come to nothing. Life jackets, rubber rings and tiny boats will flounder in the black waters and be consumed by the waves. For you will give them up, each and everyone of them. You will reject their years of love and loyalty in favour of your mistaken belief in me - your inability to see that I am trouble with a capital "T".

I like watching your face at night time. I like to see you still and peaceful, completely oblivious that I have the power to choose both the time and manner of your ending. Sometimes, on a particularly insomniac night, I wonder if I should pity you. But even as your steady breaths form tiny clouds in the cold airof your unheated flat, I know that pity is impossible. All I have ever had to offer anyone is ice and fog - why should you be any different? The moon sinks across the horizon, drowning in the morning clouds that turn black, purple and pale blue. From the east, the first orange rays of sun drift across your face, warming you awake. You smile and murmur as I lean over to kiss you. Your waking grin is as generous as it is foolish.

"Happy New Year," you say.

"Happy New Year. It's going to be a good one."

You beam back, content in the happiness that is to come this year, enjoying the sight of me getting dressed. I smile back with all the warmth that you deserve.

I am trouble, with a capital "T". You just don't know it yet.

A Liberal Feminist Wrings Her Hands #fridayflash

2011-10-21T00:07:00.000-07:00

I just don’t know what to do. Milly wants a Barbie for her birthday. Where on earth did she get that idea? We’ve always been so careful not to gender stereotype. Dolls and toy cars, teddy bears and train sets. Mind you, she’s insisted on wearing pink since she was three, because that’s what girls do don’t they? It goes against the grain, but we’d hate to give her an identity crisis. And she does look adorable in that fairy outfit she insisted I buy her.

We have to draw the line at Barbie though. Those improbable breasts. The invisible waist. The endless legs. The first of too many unattainable images. The kind that lead girls into anorexia, bulimia, unsuccessful boob jobs. It’s not just that though. You can’t buy one Barbie. You have to get them all - fashionista, bride, anchor girl - or your life is not worth living. And now I’ve heard Mattel is carving up half the Indonesian rain forests to make her packaging. Anti-feminist, consumerist and ruining the planet. They’re not the values we want to teach Milly.

But…at bedtime, after I’d turned Disney Channel off and tucked Milly up, she looked at me with her large brown eyes and whispered, “I AM going to get a Barbie for my birthday aren’t I Mummy?”

What could I say? What's more important? A principle or our child's disappointment?

"Of course you are sweetie, " I said, giving her a kiss.

There's nothing else for it. We'll just have to get her one. And keep telling her why Barbie is so wrong. We can always give Greenpeace a donation as well. Fifty pounds should do.

I’ll go out to Toys R Us first thing.

Life Lessons #fridayflash

2011-10-15T05:01:00.000-07:00

My Dad said I'd never amount to much. Slacker, he called me. Good for nothing! Sitting in front of that damn thing all day, when the sun is shining. What's wrong with you? Why don't you play outside like a normal boy?" Yada, yada, the soundtrack of my teens.

I didn't care back then. High School was dull, full of idiotic tribes whose inane rituals bored me. My teachers with their constant nagging, You won't get a good job without decent grades, even duller . My parents were tolerable, but they weren't exactly setting the world alight. Dad with his dreary job at the tax office. Mom with her bake sales and bridge clubs. Why would I aspire to that? Is it any wonder DS was where I came alive?

At first it was the film games I loved the most - Transformers, The Green Lantern, X Men. I loved playing all the lead roles, fighting for justice, defeating the bad guys. It was a blast. That was till I came across the war games - Battlefield, Halo, Soldiers of Anarchy. Soon I found whole worlds to command - my strategic skills and quick fire reactions winning battle after battle. I conquered lands, and empires. My enemies fled at the sight of me pumping bullets with my AK47s. It was an adrenalin rush all right. No wonder daily life sucked.

Dad never got it of course. How could he? Tied to his desk and his spreadsheets and ledgers. I doubt he ever had an exciting moment in his life. He was such a loser. No wonder that heart attack killed him at 50. I expect it was the stress of living so monotonously.

Still. I've showed him. I've showed them all. Those whiny teachers with their lousy report cards. The principals who hauled me in their offices for their tedious Pull Your Socks Up lectures. See, it turns out, after all, those years weren't wasted. All that playing with joysticks and staring at computer screens was perfect preparation for a life worth living, serving my country. All that time to get me ready for this:

My computer screen has a perfect image, relayed back to me through the clear blue sky. A man is standing on the dusty street below, waiting outside a single story brick house. The intelligence on the ground has confirmed it, but I am waiting for him to turn round. To see the face of my enemy. Across the street, I see someone hail him. He turns round, relaxed, easy, unaware of the danger he is in. I cannot pick out his features. I zoom in. The picture is blurry, but that long beard, those black rimmed glasses and hook nose are unmistakeable. It's him alright. My pulse is racing, as I call it in.

"We have confirmation, target is on the plot. Repeat. We have confirmation. Target is on the plot. Do I have permission to fire.Over?"

The response is sweet. The words I've been longing to hear.

"Target approved. Fire at will.Over."

I wipe drops of sweat from my forehead and reach for the controls. For a second, nothing happens. Then the flash of the bomb. The flume of smoke. Rubble, dust. People running.

"Target taken out. Over."

"Nice job sergeant. Over and Out."

I pull off the head-set and hand over to my co-pilot. I walk away from the booth and grab myself a Coke from the machine. The sweet taste of victory trickles down my throat as my colleagues surround me with congratulations. Another kill for my country. As always, it's quite a rush. I can't get enough.

My Dad said I'd never amount to much. If only he could see me now.

#fridayflash Blue Sky Thinking.

2011-10-07T17:18:00.000-07:00

The sun burns bright today. Electric-yellow rays scorch the earth, even at this early hour. The blue sky is empty of clouds. The only thing visible is the heat shimmering on the horizon. Today is a day when a sensible man would stay inside. Cool, collected, protected from danger. But I am not a sensible man, and the sun is not the only thing I fear.

Once upon a time, when the Arabian Nights were real, and not just stories to soothe me to sleep, too much sunlight was the only thing that frightened me into the dark. That was in the days before Our Enemies came. Infidels from East and West with their bomb-filled aeroplanes dropping death and destruction. At first we were able to spot the warning signs. The drone of engines, the glint of steel, the trail of smoke were enough to alert us to run for cover. If Allah was kind, the wind was fair, and we were slight of foot, we'd escape the blasts that ripped our communities apart.

But Our Enemies are clever and their tricks became ever more devilish. Soon we discovered the Russian Roulette of the yellow packages. Glinting, gold bars, dropping from the sky into the welcoming arms of juniper bushes. What treasures would they reveal? One day, a gift of sugar and flour, enough to feed a family for a month; the next a curse of metal shrapnel, enough to fill a child for life.

Was it any surprise, I grew up to curse Our Enemies, East and West? Between them, they robbed me of my Grandfather, Mother, Aunts, Uncles, Cousins. For a while I cursed Allah too, blaming him for my losses, till Mullah Ahmed showed me the error of my ways. It was through him, that I learn that God had made me suffer in order to prepare me for the fight. That the violence I had endured had a purpose. I must beat the Infidel as they had beaten me. Teach my countrymen to burn them as they burnt us. Destroy them as they destroyed us.

I preached this message, and as the Mullah predicted the people followed. For a while, I was blessed with Allah's beneficence, I prospered, married well and fathered children. In Allah's name I smote my Enemies, and brought destruction to their Citadels. And truly, I had no fear, until...the worst fear of all overcame me. The soundless, sightless attack. At any time, in any place, the bomb falling from the pitiless sky.

And now, the Enemy is mine alone. I am on their list - a Wild West villain beyond the democracy they pretend to believe in. My Father appeals to their courts of law in vain. I am only safe if I put myself into their lion's den, allowing myself to be transported to Guantanomo or some other sightless hell. I will not submit, I cannot. Yet my refusal condemns me to this - a life in perpetual motion attempting to out run a killer I can never see. Inside or out, I can never be safe, for the remainder of my days.

It is months since I have seen my family. Proximity to me places them in the gravest danger. One brief visit, and I would be their executioner.So I move from day to day, hoping to survive another day underneath the radar. Hoping my good deeds will be sufficient for Allah to preserve my life for another day.

The sun beats down as I leave the house. The horizon melts into the distance of possible escapes. Above me the blue sky is devoid of life. When the moment comes I know it will show me no pity. A sensible man would disguise himself and be smuggled across the border to freedom.And yet, I cannot leave the country of my birth, and so each day I wake, I pray, I run. Hoping, insh'Allah, that by the day's end I will reach safety.

The sky above is devoid of life. When the moment comes, it will show no pity.

#fridayflash White Wedding

2011-09-30T14:16:00.000-07:00

"You didn't get married then?"
Sylvie shook her head.
"Wow, that's...I mean...I thought you two were so close." Sophie's green-black eyes shimmered her concern.
"We were."
"When I saw you at the bar that night, it looked like you were eating each other."
"He is tasty, there's no denying." Sylvie seemed fascinated by a mark on one of her feet.
"So, what happened?"
"I had the most divine dress."
"Designed by?"
"Stella McCartney of course." Sylvie gazed down at her long black limbs, "V neck, vertical line, three quarter sleeves, white silk - perfect for the hour glass figure."
"And?"
"I happened to glance at our engagement photo and it came to me..."
"What did?"
"It was his diet, you see."
"You left him because he went on a diet?" Sophie's mouth opened in a perfect "O" , exposing a set of jagged teeth.
"He wasn't the person I'd fallen for," Sylvie sighed, "When we met, he was round, cuddly, juicy. Now he's just skin and bone."
"Ah."
"I guess you could say, he went out of flavour."
"That's a lousy joke." Sophie giggled anyway, setting Sylvie off into convulsions. They shook so much that strands of silk holding them together split apart, swinging them in opposite directions like trapeze artists. Sylvie spun sticky threads rapidly as she passed her friend doing the same. They worked hard and in ten minutes they were hanging upside down in the centre of the newly fixed web.
"Has it put you off?" panted Sophie.
"A white wedding? Nah, it'll happen, and with any luck, quite soon..." Sylvie nodded at a bulbous brown male scuttling along the floor below. "See that? Delicious."

#fridayflash The Preacher

2011-08-26T02:01:00.000-07:00

She is hell-fire and damnation. She corrupts my thoughts, polluting me to the depths of my soul. Every day I pray to my Master to have the strength to resist the temptation that the Evil One has put in my path. Verily, I understand, that she has been sent as a test to my fidelity.That I must walk though this valley of death with integrity and fortitude. That if I trust only in the Lord, then shall I overcome.

She comes each week to Chapel, gazing at me, with a brazen mockingness, as if she is questioning every statement that I preach. Her brown hair is piled in curls underneath a hat decorated with yellow and purple bird feathers. Though she is wearing a velvet cloak, I know that underneath, the neckline of her blue silk gown plunges to the point of immodesty. Her sister sits besides her, dressed in suitable grey, never daring to catch my eye, drinking in my every word. A more suitable helpmeet for me, perhaps, but I have strayed off the path of righteousness. I want to reach out and untie that velvet cloak, caressing the blue silk dress with my fingers. I want plunge down beneath the cloth, unhooking the corset, hook by hook. As I preach the Word of the Lord, I am possessed by the idea of doing unspeakable things to her in the darkness, and though I condemn myself for my hypocrisy, I am powerless to stop.

Once, walking home after Chapel, I saw a couple, locked together against the side of an abandoned cottage. She had her skirt hitched up and they were rutting like animals, in utter depravity. The woman glanced up as I passed, and smiled at me like a demon. Sometimes, I believe it was at that moment the Devil crept in to my soul. At night, I am tormented by dreams in which we are that rutting couple, and I give way to the agonising ecstasy, whilst she taunts me, laughing like the fiend she is. I wake in damp disgust, and resolve that today I will rid myself of this affliction. That I will purify my soul and walk again by still waters, that I may lay down with my Lord in green pastures. But I cannot.

She is hellfire. She is damnation. I should have the faith, and the strength to resist this temptation. But I am a weak sinner, lost in the wilderness. There is no way back for me now.

I will have her and be damned.

Halfway up the Hill

2011-08-13T08:06:00.000-07:00

This being my hundreth post, I wanted to it to be a little bit special. So I'm delighted to say that I have something to celebrate.

After 7 and a half years, I have finally achieved something I thought might never happen. I have completed the first draft of my novel. As achievements go, it's not that impressive. I still haven't finished the book or found an agent, let alone a publisher. And as my daughter kindly pointed out - if it's taken you this long to write the first draft, how long will the second take you?

Still, it's worth taking a breather, halfway up the hill, and reflecting where I've come from. Way back at the bottom of the slopes, when the idea for Echo Hall first presented itself, I was a stay-at-home mother, with three children of five and under. My writing time was pretty limited, though my thinking time wasn’t. As a result, I was able to work out the core of the plot and a few key characters, but didn't have any opportunity to write it down. I meandered along the lower slopes for the next three years. Training for the London Marathon in 2005 took up all my spare time for quite a while, though long runs helped clarify plot and character development. Moving to Oxford at the end of that year, and returning to work in 2006 pretty much did for my writing that year, though by then I'd at least worked out the narrative structure.

It wasn't till the beginning of 2007 that I carved out some time and took my first faltering steps up the path to the summit. At last I set down my first five chapters (embarrassingly over the top from this distance, but quite pleasing at the time). Later that year I started a writing course, which I hoped would help me progress, but which often had the reverse effect. The relentless treadmill of constant assignments trapped me in many a thorn bush and several dispiriting dead-ends. When I made the mistake of trying to submit parts of the novel as coursework, the resultant marks and critique sent me spiralling into despair. Still, I perservered with my story, and, thanks to a term sharing chapters with my course friend, Rachel Crowther (who has since published her novel, The Partridge and the Pelican) by the end of the course, I had drafts for 3 out of 5 sections. I was also encouraged by the very lovely Dennis Hamley, whose support for my portfolio (a re-worked beginning) gave me the hope that I was beginning to get somewhere.

When I graduated, I had high hopes that I'd be able to storm off to the summit in no time. After all, I was in a regular rhythm of writing and the discipline of submitting assignments had at least helped me work to deadlines. But, alas, it hasn't been that easy. I spent the end of 2009 and beginning of 2010 mired in a bog of complex work issues. Dealing with that and looking after my family meant my writing had no chance. I discovered #fridayflash around then, which kept my hand in (& at least helped my writing improve), but novels need space and energy and I had very little to give. Last July, thanks to my lovely husband Chris, I got away for a beautiful weekend of writing and surged forward to complete a draft of part 4. But immediately afterwards, I was thrown off course by the death of my lovely friend Pip. After that happened, I literally froze and couldn't write a word for a couple of months. When I was able to go back to it, the novel seemed too daunting, so I stuck to my weekly #fridayflash stories instead. By Christmas, I was preparing for the London Marathon again. Once more, I found long runs useful times for working out plot and character, but I was just too exhausted with that, work pressure and family life to actually do any writing.

Since completing the Marathon, I've found the going slow. Having had such a big focus for the winter, it has taken a while for me to put my energies into something else. Part 5 has progressed chapter, by painful chapter, up a dusty scree slope, slipping back 3 feet for every 2 feet forward. It's taken the relaxation of a fortnight's holiday to give me the impetus to throw down the last 2,000 words and drag myself to this plateau where I am now resting in quiet triumph.

And yes, the path ahead is daunting. Of the 65,000 words written, I'd say only about 15,000 are any good (and even these need re-working). I need more words, and better ones. I will have to write and re-write again, and again and again, before the language is of sufficient quality to do my story justice. I have characters who are half formed, or too stereotypical, who need shaping and developing in complexity. I have to fix period, place and editorial detail. Far too many people change names half way through, and there are huge blank spots where my inspiration ran dry for a moment but I let the story run on anyway. I fear my book is both too elitest and too shallow. Too polemic, yet not stating it's case clearly enough. I have a lot more work to do.

But, the top doesn't look an impossible target anymore. It may have taken years to get here, and possibly a few more before I'm done. Yet I'm eager to continue and I can see what I need to do to reach my goal. For the moment though, I'm taking the opportunity to put my weary feet up and enjoy a piece of Kendal Mint Cake in the sunshine.

Tomorrow, I'm heading for the top.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR BLOG

2011-07-28T09:44:00.000-07:00

My first post was actually on the 10th July 2009, but let's not quibble, shall we? I'd like to take a moment to wish my blog a very happy 2nd birthday.

I started this blog just as I finished my creative writing course. My aim was to develop my own fiction, share my thoughts about writing and connect with the writing community. After two years of being constrained by the academic treadmill, I felt it was time to break free and do my own thing.

I started with a prose poem Midwinter, and the first of many plugs of the month being for my lovely sister Julia Williams, who is, coincidentally this month's plug. Although I don't manage to do it every month, I've been delighted to use this blog to advertise her work, the poems of my sister Joanna Clark and friend, Karen Annesen, and the fiction of my writing buddies, Catherine Chanter and Rachel Crowther.

I had high hopes of writing articles here, and intended to keep regular series going: Art and Craft, has featured Graham Greene and William Goulding; Sublime Screenplay: The Sopranos, ER, Finding Nemo; Rave Reviews: Gilead and Oranges are Not the Only Fruit. I've got a whole bunch more I'd like to write, and add one on Children's Classics, but alas, there never seems to be time.

The main purpose of this blog has been to experiment in my fiction. It took me a while to work out how best to do this until my husband pointed out #fridayflash to me. #fridayflash is a community of writers who post flash fiction on their blog each Friday and advertise it via twitter. Although I don't manage to write or read #fridayflash every week, in the last 18 months, it has become an indispensable part of my writing life. I love the discipline of capturing a story in 1,000 words or less, enjoy reading other people's stories and the warmth of connecting with other great writers. I haven't counted how many #friday flashes I've written, but here's a random selection that I quite like. Alive,alive o is the voice of the anti-hero of my next novel (if I ever finish the current one), A Day In the Life an experiment in twitter that doesn't quite come off, but was fun to do. I like Tommy Rot even though it's very sad, and Submission which is based inspired by a holiday I took in Morocco. Golden Girl reflects my passion for running, whilst Protecting the Legacy seemed the only possible reaction to last year's election. Moving Out is, I hope, a playful response to a particular curse of modern motherhood, whilst Bad Weather Warning and On the Mudflats deal with some bleak political realities. I ended 2010 reflecting on relationships, loving in Night and Day, hard-hearted in Waiting for the Thaw, and comic in White Christmas. I've not written so much this year, but topical events have been a rich source of inspiration for Nobody's Fault, Blast from the Past, A Saturday in March, Breakfast News, Rapture, and The Sheriff Rides into Town. Though my anti-romantic side has also been to the fore with After He'd Gone, Bad Timing, and Red Shoes.

All in all, I feel it's been a productive two years - 98 posts, 30 followers, plus 300 on twitter who come and see me from time to time. I'll never have the time to write as much or as often as I like, but I'm quite pleased with what I've achieved. So thanks to all my followers, visitors and commentators for turning up, reading and letting me know what you think. Hope to see more of you in the year ahead!

Plug of the Month - The Summer Season by Julia Williams

2011-07-15T00:33:00.000-07:00

My lovely sister Julia Williams, has done it again! Her fifth book in 4 years is flying off the shelves. She doesn't really need my endorsement, but she's getting it anyway. And on our birthday too.

The Summer Season is as bright as sunshine, as sweet as a glass of Pimms. A perfect read for the beach or bank holiday. Through the power of gardening and the coming together of a community, Lauren, Joel, Kezzie learn to terms with what they've lost and find out what they need.

Happy Birthday dear Julia, may your rise up the bestseller charts be swift!

#fridayflash The Sheriff Rides Into Town

2011-07-09T03:05:00.000-07:00

I've always lived by the rule book my Father left me. It worked for him, and it's worked for me. In particular:

#Rule No 1. If you are careful, you won't get caught. But you have to be very careful.

Oh, I've been careful, so very, very careful. For all these years, I have been above suspicion. My email is encrypted. I change my mobile regularly. I use so many intermediaries I'm untraceable. If a crusading hero were to ride into town on the whiff of a rumour, they'd find nothing but straws whistling down the wind. And if they were able to weave a tale from the fragments they found, well then:

#Rule No 2.Your friends are your best defence.

I have friends, such powerful friends. There's hardly a politician, newspaper mogul, movie star who I haven't helped in some way. They've all enjoyed the hospitality of my house parties, and appreciated the parting video as a memento of their stay. If our sheriff were to enter the saloon bar with impertinent questions, they'd rise as one to protect me, I'm quite sure about that. As for the tiny few who reject my generosity, ridicule is such an effective weapon, their protest rarely amounts to much. Should some foolhardy idiot dare stick their neck out to defy the mocking bullets, there's always:

#Rule No 3. Deny everything.

Our gunslinger might think he has all the shots, but when he faces me down at the poker table, there's no way he can win. Whatever cards he holds, I'll always call his bluff. My tongue will gild my lily-words, allaying the doubts of even the most sceptic audience. I will tell the tallest of tales, wrapped in the tiniest veneer of plausibility and the world will believe me, as it always done. Failing that:

#Rule No 4. Create a fall guy.

I'm fire-proof. I'm sure of it. Were our dogged loner actually able to penetrate the maze of connections I have created, he'd reach an impasse just before my door. I own my workforce. All of them. They know they have no choice but to hang for me, and, if it comes to it, they surely will. It is hard to imagine they'd have the wit to sell their souls to anyone else, but if they do, I'll have a way out. That will be the day when it's time for:

#Rule no 5. Burn the village.

If all else fails, I have other resources to fall back on. There are still places I can go where none can reach me, and I can begin again. If it comes to it I will burn my village to save it. It will be satisfying to watch my pursuer from a distance, as he warms in the flames of his great victory. A victory that will be bright, beautiful and pyrrhic.

This morning I woke to the sight of waggons circling, of vultures hovering overhead. My nemesis is swaggering down Main Street for our final showdown. I am ready for him. My bags are packed, the possessions I care about least are piled high. All I have to do is light the spark and they will burn.

My Father's rules have protected me all these years. They protect me still. For we have saved the best for last:

#Rule No 6. Cut your losses and be gone.

Dedicated to Alan Rusbridger, Guardian Editor.

#fridayflash - Rapture

2011-05-21T04:53:00.000-07:00

Sylvie wakes with a shiver. She can hardly feel her feet. Her back aches. She has slept with bent knees and now her right leg has cramps. She shakes it back to life, warming her toes as she does so. She doesn't mind the cold, not with Jim sleeping beside her and the knowledge of what today means. She turns towards the blissful sight of of his lovely face in the green tentlight. She could gaze at his face for hours, but the sun will be rising soon, and they can't be late. She strokes his smooth skin and is rewarded with his eyes fluttering open and his lips reaching to kiss hers.
"It's time," she says.
"At last." His grin is ecstatic.

They jump out of their sleeping bags, pulling their clothes on, eager to get moving.

"No time for breakfast," says Sylvie.
"We're not going to need any, where we're going." He grabs her hands and they race towards the cliffs. The air is cool as the grey-blue sky lightens in preparation for the final dawn. Jim takes large strides up the stony path, forcing her to takes twice as many steps just to keep up. The exertion warms Sylvie and she soon forgets her aches and pains.

They arrive at the top, beaming at each other in breathless elation. At the edge of the cliff, they find a grey boulder. They sit against it, staring out across the sea at the horizon which is already lined with a strip of orange-gold. A seagull sweeps past and dives down into the waves below. Otherwise they are completely alone.

"I thought the others might come," she says, trying not to sound too disappointed.

"They were faint-hearted. Not true believers," he smiles at her, "It's better this way. Just us. You're the only one worth saving."

Oh the delight of hearing those words. After all this time, she still can't quite believe she is his chosen one. But here they are, just the two of them, right at the end. She snuggles against him, watching the clouds above the horizon turn pinky-orange. The wind has picked up causing the waves below to rise and fall, crashing against the rocks below. She looks at her watch, five to six. The sun will soon be here and then, and then...

"What will happen to the others do you think?"
"Earthquake, fire, pestilence, plague."
"Even my mother?" This has always been her one reservation. Her mother isn't a believer, of course, but she is a harmless soul.
"I'm sorry sweetie, but your mother is one of the worst. She reads the Bible, but doesn't hear the message. It's right there in Genesis, and Matthew and Peter. This is the last day of tribulation, it's quite clear. Yet she doesn't believe it."
Jim has explained this before - the thousandth year since this, the seven thousandth since that. The importance of using the Hebrew and Gregorian calendars. If truth be told, Sylvie doesn't quite understand, but it is enough that Jim does, "I guess you're right."
"You know I am."

The sun is half way above the horizon, joined at the water's edge by its orange reflection, creating the momentary illusion that a ball of fire is burning the sea. It is getting warmer,d espite the wind and the sky has paled into blue. A dog barks in the distance. Sylvie's watch says a minute to six. She squeezes Jim's hands. He squeezes back.

"I love you Sylvie," he says, and she trembles with joy. This is it. The two of them, about be raised up to heaven. The sun pulls itself above the horizon blazing the sea with orange and red waves. They wait in eager anticipation. Any second now. The hands on Sylvie's watch march round to six. They wait patiently. Any second now.

They wait...any second now...and wait...The sun rises higher in the sky, fading into yellow, it's reflection reduced to a tiny circle in the waves. Six ten, six twenty, six thirty, seven. Nothing happens.Nothing. But the sun keeps rising.

Sylvie's back is sore, her knees ache, her right leg is cramping. She is longing for a cup of tea and a fry up. But she doesn't dare to suggest it. How could Jim have got it wrong? He's always been so certain. Suddenly, Jim throws his hand against his forehead, as if he's heard her thought, "Idiot. I'm a total idiot." He ruffles in his pocket and picks out a leaflet. "Look," he says, pointing to the date and the time. "I misread the time. It's 6pm NOT am."
Sylvie grins with delight."So, it's still going to happen then?"
"You betcha." He stands up and stretches. "Come on," he adds, "Breakfast. We'll come back later"

Hand in hand they run back across the cliffs. Towards the day ahead, and the rapture that is still to come.

Breakfast News #fridayflash

2011-05-13T15:26:00.000-07:00

Gotcha!
1st May 2011 8:31am

RESULT. Go SEALS go. I can't believe the lefty liberal pricks on this thread bleating on about human rights. Don't you get it Obama Bin Laden KILED people. Lots of them. I thought Osama was weak, but not know GO Osama. You showed us the US NEVER gives up.

Appalled.
1st May 2011 8.32am

For God's sake what's wrong with you people? Do you really get off on celebrating death in this way? What makes those people outside the White House any different from those fundamentalists burning US flags?
BTW Gotcha it's OSAMA Bin Laden. Obama's the president.

Gotcha!
1st May 2011 8.33am

Oh come of it Appalled. Ringing your hands about poor little Osama (no typos). The man was a fucking sycopath. He murdered thousands of people. Caused a war, and while his people lived in caves he was larging it in a millionaire's manssion. Fucker deserved to die.

Appalled.
1st May 2011 8.34am

Where should I begin Gotcha? I'm not saying Osama was a saint. But who created him? The fucking CIA that's who. They needed him in Afghanistan and when communism collapsed they needed a new enemy. 9/11 was a TOTAL set up. There were no hijacked planes. It was the US airforce all along.

Jim sighs as he looks at the computer screen. What an idiot. He types in a response, his fingers tapping the keys in righteous indignation. Then, aware of the rumbles in his stomach, he shouts down the stairs, "Jenny, are you doing a fry up?"

Jenny looks up from her computer screen, appalled by the latest comment she has read. "In a minute. Let me just finish this".

She bangs out an angry response to Gotcha. Then she rises from the table and heads for the fridge. She pulls out bacon, sausages, mushrooms, tomatoes and eggs. She drips oil into the pan and starts chopping vegetables.

She knows what makes her husband happy.

Bad Timing - #fridayflash

2011-04-29T00:59:00.000-07:00

"I don't think I love you any more."

These are not words a girl wants to hear. Particularly, when the person uttering them is still inside you, and you are experiencing the after-shocks of a deep and satisfying orgasm.

"Then you'd better go." He doesn't move. "NOW." I push him off me. He rolls over to the damp side of the mattress.
"I'm sorry."
"Save it."
"I wish..."
"Just GO."

He makes no further attempt at civilised conversation. Taking me at my word, he climbs out of bed, and grabs his clothes. I bury my head under the pillow so I don't have to look at him. But I can hear the crackle of static as he pulls a T Shirt over the torso that I was just stroking, the sliding of trousers up the legs that were so recently wrapped round my body.

"Bye then." His words penetrate the muffle of the pillow case. If he's looking for a moment of understanding or forgiveness I'm not inclined to give it. I wait till he has left the room before I allow myself to bring my head up to breathe. A sickly smell of sex pervades the room. It makes me gag. The door to the flat bangs. My cue to jump out of bed, run to the toilet and throw up.

I feel better for a second. And then I begin to cry. My body shakes with sobs that seem to surface from deep in my gut. What am I going to do now?

I don't now how long I sit there crying on the cold bathroom floor, my sticky legs rubbing against each other, aggravating my eczema. I do know that when the tears finally subside, and I pull myself up, my face is puffed and blotchy. He used to say I lit up every room. No-one would say that of me now.

The stupid thing is, that I know he is right. He doesn't love me. He never did. And I didn't love him either. We were held together by mutual orgasm and the need for company on a Saturday night. Would it have made a difference if I'd said it first?

I have a shower, get dressed and make myself some toast. It doesn't change anything, so I phone in sick. I put "Casablanca" in the DVD, wrap myself in a blanket, and settle down to watch.

The bedroom will smell of sex for days. The bedsheets will stay stained.

I'm not inclined to clean up just yet.

Plug of the Month - The Partridge and the Pelican by Rachel Crowther

2011-04-28T11:52:00.000-07:00

This is another novel I've seen in bits and pieces. Rachel and I spent the winter of 2008 emailing each other and critiquing various segments of our books . Of course, she is far more efficient than I and has not only completed a Masters in Creative Writing since then, but the novel too and got published to boot!

I can confirm that although I haven't read the whole and the bits I did read were out of sequence, this is fab.

I'm really looking forward to it. So enjoy!

A Saturday in March

2011-04-09T08:15:00.000-07:00

"Saturday,Saturday." I find myself humming an old Elton John tune as I head down the corridor, carrying a set of medical notes. Mind you, the only reason he found it all right for fighting was that he'd never had to spend it in Casualty mopping up the mess. Down here with the drunks and druggies, who will conspire to ensure my Saturday night will be anything but pleasant.

The glass doors open, allowing me through to the waiting area. It's 9.30pm. The room is nearly full with punters sitting on pink and blue plastic seats, tending their injuries and illnesses under the white strip-lights. We're going to be busy tonight.

I call out "Emily Davies?" There is no answer. I call again. It is not until I call for a third time, that a young girl, with tangled hair and a slightly dazed expression, responds. She is helped up from her chair by her friend. They hobble towards me like survivors in a bad disaster movie.

My heart sinks. The paper work says eighteen, but the girl is at least three years younger than that. I doubt Emily Davies is even her real name. Her friend doesn't look much older and is in almost as bad a state. Runaways, no doubt, who've all too quickly learnt the streets of London aren't paved with gold, but with broken glass and, from the looks of it, an unfriendly fist. Emily's right eye is swollen and will be purple by the morning. She has a seeping bandage wrapped around her forehead, her brown hair is matted with blood. Her skirt is ripped and she has bruises forming on her bare legs. Her friend is stroking her arm.They are both biting back tears. I call them through and they follow me into the small cubicle. I draw the tattered green curtain round to give us a modicum of privacy.

"Can I take a look at this Emily?" She nods, wincing as I take the gauze pad of the gaping wound. The triage nurse was right, this will need stitches. I clean the wound and put a fresh bandage on it for now.
"That's nasty, how did it happen?"
"I fell." Of course she did.
"It looks like someone hit you."
"She told you she fell." The friend snaps. She, too, has had a rough night. Her clothes are rumpled and her mascara is smudged.
"I can get you some help, you know." Emily raises her head, hopefully. Her friend presses her arm in warning.
"Honestly, it's all right. I fell in the street. Su...Sylvia, picked me up and got me here."
"OK." There's no point pushing it, "You didn't lose consciousness then?" She shakes her head. "Right, well I'll send the nurse in to do those stitches, and we'll keep you under observation for a bit. Is there anyone we can call?"
"No, thanks."

I call Lucy over and explain what's necessary. "I'm a bit worried about her, I think I might call the police..."
"I'd wait a bit, see what I can find out. They might be more open with a woman. Besides, the police are a bit busy tonight." She nods up at the telly on the wall. The screen is filled with images of a smoking Trafalgar Square, rows of riot police and smashed windows in the West End. Of course, it was the march today. I'd been so busy I'd forgotten all about it.

I move on to the next patient, and the next. An hour passes before I catch up with Lucy again.
"They're all right."
"Did they tell you what happened?"
"Not really, but I honestly don't think you need worry."

I'm not convinced. I return to their cubicle to repeat my observations. Lucy has cleaned Emily's hair, and the wound is neatly stitched. Sylvia looks better now she has brushed her hair and they are both eating chocolate bars and swigging fizzy drinks. They seem much more cheerful.

"Any dizziness?" I ask.
"I'm fine, honestly. Can I go now?"
"Another hour, I think. Have you got somewhere to stay?"
"I'm going back to Su... Sylvia's."
"Is it far?"
"Tooting. We should still be able to get a Tube if you let us go soon."
"Are you sure you don't need the police? I saw a couple of PC's outside."
She winces again,as if I'd ripped her stitches open. Sylvia says, "NO cops."

It's puzzling, but I can't prove she's 15, that her name's not Emily, and I can't force the truth out of her.

"I'll be back in an hour."

Now the pubs have closed, the waiting room is noisier and fuller than before. Come to think about it, it's even fuller than usual. But before I can work out why, I'm called to the ambulance bay to treat a head injury patient. Ambulances are flashing in and out of the bay discharging patients onto gurneys before screeching into the night.

"What's going on?" I ask a paramedic.
"It's a battleground out there. Police with batons, protesters with bricks. We're just ducking our heads and trying to get people to safety."

I haven't a moment to let this sink in. My head injury needs urgent attention, and after him there's a possible cardiac arrest. It is way past midnight by the time I get back to the girls.

The cubicle is empty.

"I think they just went," says the patient in the next bed, who is waiting to be plastered. I run down the corridor in time to see them heading out of the front doors. I follow them into the March night, gasping at the sudden chill as my lungs flood with fresh air.

"Are you sure you're going to be all right?" I ask, noticing Sylvia's "No Poll Tax" badge, for the first time.
"We just want to go home," says Emily.
"Well, rest up, come back in a fortnight to check those stitches. And immediately if you feel sick."
"Will do, thanks."

I watch them walking off into the night. Lucy comes up to me.

"Do you think they'll be OK?"
"I think they just got caught up in it. We've patched them up and sent them home. They're safe enough now."
"How did you know?"
"Emily Davies, and Sylvia Pankhurst? Somewhat unusual pseudonyms don't you think?"
" I guess."

Another ambulance screams into the bay, and instinctively we both move towards it.

"Saturday, Saturday..."It's going to be a long old night.

Poetry in Motion

2011-04-01T14:47:00.000-07:00

As a writer who runs (or a runner who writes) I find a lot of my trotting time is spent pondering about this and that. It helps to pass the miles away, particularly on the long runs I've been doing of late. One of my regular musings has been the connection between writing forms and running distance. So, in honour of my twin passions, I thought I'd post this simultaneously on my blogs:

Poetry is equivalent to 100-500m sprinting. Short, precise, fluid. Just as the sprint is a perfect mix of swift and simple motion, poems have to hit that perfect mix of words delivered with total economy.

Flash fiction equates to running a mile. Short enough to require that same level of paced precision, but long enough to satisfy a craving to go further. Flash fiction needs control, pacing and an elegant delivery.

Short stories range from 3km to 10km. Now, a runner needs stamina as well as pace, the ability to control the progress of their perfectly placed limbs. There a peaks and troughs, and a critical point to break for the finish line. In the same way, the author directs the flow of a short story ensuring each revelation builds on the last. There are ebbs and flows, and a pivotal moment that determines the fate of the characters for ever.

The novella is similar to a half-marathon. It takes guts and determination to run 13.1 miles, but it also takes a fine-tuned body, balancing energy intake and expenditure exactly. So it is with writing a novella, which requires dedication and commitment, a willingness to put the time in. But also, a control of the narrative, so the reader doesn't lose their way.

The novel, naturally, is the marathon. It requires months of preparation, during which the runner encounters set backs, injuries and false starts. A marathon runner has a clear goal to run 26.2 miles, an often complex journey of with loops, twists. When a marathon is completed, the participants are left emotionally exhausted and totally satisfied. Every aspiring novelist knows writing a novel follows a similar pattern, with dead ends, abandoned characters, and ripped up text. Completing a novel needs stamina and commitment, leaving the novelist, drained, exhausted and ultimately satisifed when it's done.

Stamina, stubborness, patience are all required for running marathons and writing novels. Luckily I'm blessed with both.

RIP Diana Wynne Jones.

2011-03-26T16:32:00.000-07:00

Diana Wynne Jones died today, and I feel like I've lost a friend. I've been reading her novels for over thirty years. I love her work so much that I bought Enchanted Glass the other day at the school book fair, (allegedly for my daughter, but I'm enjoying it a great deal thank you very much).

I can still remember the first DWJ novel I read. I was in the school library one lunchtime when I came across Power of Three. Browsing through the shelves I picked out a nice chunky book, with an enticing front cover - a grey shape emerging out of the water. I sat down and began to read and was immediately drawn into the atmospheric world of Otmounders, Dorig and Giants, and the story of how the curse of a dying Dorig has to be undone if the three communities are going to survive. I couldn't put it down, and though I haven't read it for years, I have never forgotten it. As a gawky, unsure thirteen year old, I completely identified with the central character Gair, who is the only child in his family to lack a special gift. I loved the way Gair learnt to believe in himself, to act courageously and that the very thing he thinks makes him useless, is in fact the best gift of all. It took me a couple more years to develop my self-confidence but books like Power of Three were a great comfort to me in the mean time.

After Power of Three, I read The Homeward Bounders, a somewhat dark tale of children trapped in a virtual gaming world that seems enormously prescient now. Next was Wilkins' Tooth, a group of kids responding to bullying by trying to set up Own Back Ltd with disastrous results. In The Ogre Downstairs, two families come together when their parents marry, creating conflict between the children. When they are given magical chemistry sets, chaos ensues, and they learn to understand each other better. Then there's Dogsbody ( I love Dogsbody) which tells the story of Sirius the Dog Star, who loses his powers and comes to earth as a dog, in order to find a Zoi. The trouble is he can't remember what a Zoi is, and is too full of doggy thoughts to work out how to find it. Eight Days of Luke rewrites Norse mythology when an unhappy boy curses his relatives and releases the God Loki from his prison. And of course, there are the Chrestomanci stories, Charmed Life, The Lives of Christopher Chant, Conrad's Fate,The Magicians of Caprona and others, set in a parallel world where magic is part of every day life and managed by the government post of Chrestomanci.

My absolute favourite has to be Hexwood which I picked up at my Mum's house, my sister had brought it for our nephew and he had left it behind. It is a stunning book, not really for children at all. It starts with a girl, Ann Stavely sick in bed, watching the strange comings and goings of people to the Hexwood Farm opposite, whilst she talks to four voices in her head, The King, the Prisoner, The Boy, The Slave. Then suddenly, we are transported to another planet where a group of shadowy leaders are trying to rectify a virtual game on Earth that has gone awry. Various characters are sent off to see what has happened, without resolving matters. Meanwhile, as Ann recovers from her illness, she decides to visit the Farm where she meets a strange character called Mordion and a boy called Hume. The story is told in a complicated time frame with Ann encountering the two of them at different stages of their lives, and then reaches a startling revelation about half way through which completely changes everything you've read up to that point. A very complex narrative structure is wrapped up with a satisfying ending in a story that has explored issues of power, corruption, child soldiers, and slavery. It's fantastic, I can't recommend it highly enough.

Overall, what I have loved about Wynne Jones all these years was her ability to create believable authentic fantasy worlds, tell stories with wit, compassion and heart. But her stories weren't just about magical worlds, they all had a message: the importance of reconciliation; self discovery; overcoming fear, standing up to bullies. But she did it in such a subtle way, that I never felt she was preaching and I always learnt something.

Coincidentally, I learnt of Diana Wynne Jones' death just as I reached Hyde Park today at the end of the anti cuts march. The middle of a good humoured crowd of people, standing up for what they believed in, seemed a good place to mourn the loss of a writer, who has inspired me for years.

So thank you Diana, for all the wonderful books and characters. I know I'm not alone in saying I'll miss you. The world is a duller place without you.

Red Shoes #fridayflash

2011-03-04T15:15:00.000-08:00

The girl totters on the edge of the pavement. The heels on her red stilettos are high enough and thin enough that if she moves one inch forward she'll fall in front of the cars racing past her. I feel like yelling, "Be careful love," but she won't hear me from down there. Instead I watch her trying to put her umbrella up. It looks like one of the crap ones from the 99p store - it ain't no wonder, it keeps blowing inside out. Despite the weather, she's wearing next to nothing - a thin white cardigan over a low cut blouse, a short black skirt, bare legs. She must be freezing dressed like that, yet she don't seem to notice. She just teeters on the brink of danger. Looks like she's trying to decide something.

I used to dress like that, not caring about the wind and rain, so long as the look was right. I even had a pair of shoes to match - ruby red and glistening with fake diamonds. The were magic - my red shiny shoes - just one click of the heels and off we'd dance on other adventure - clubs, parties, concerts, we went everywhere together. Why, we even once tripped off with a fella up to Blackpool to see the lights. Fantastic they were, and so was he. And he wasn't the only one, neither. My lucky shoes took me dancing, night after night, bloke after bloke.Lovely days they were. Till we danced into George. And after that, I didn't need no more excitement, I had enough right here at home. Life was like that for ever such a long time.

Of course, we don't get up to much these days, George and I. There's not much scope in this tiny flat. And who wants to go out in this wind, when you need thermals just to go to the post office? I'm not like that girl in the street no more. Those days are long gone.

The rain has eased off and the girl's put her brolly down. She turns her head slightly and gazes back this way. Perhaps she's looking at someone, her eyes rest on the flats next door. I'm probably making it up- but it seems to me she's saying goodbye. She turns back towards the road, as if she's come to a decision. Yes, she's taking a step onto the street. There she goes, dashing across the traffic on the dual carriageway. I watch her trip her way towards the tube. You go my girl - I think - click your heels and be off.

The clock strikes five. The sun comes out from behind a cloud. Perhaps there'll be a rainbow in a minute. I don't have to wait though. George needs his tea. He don't like it when I keep him waiting. I slip my red slippers back on and head to the kitchen. I think we'll have chops tonight.

Writing Heroes (1)

2011-03-03T11:46:00.000-08:00

It being World Book Day, it seems like a good moment to celebrate my Writing Heroes (and answer my daughter's question as she asked me this the other day).

So here, in no particular order, are SOME of them.

Virginia Woolf - I find it comforting to share my name with such a literary genius. She wrote stream of consciousness like no-one else can, and made it accessible too. I love the inherent sadness of the passing o f time in To the Lighthouse, the rollercoaster exuberance of Orlando but my all time favourite is Mrs Dalloway. A masterclass in stream of consciousness, she makes it look so simple, as she hops between the minds of her characters, panning out to take in huge scenes and then back to tiny, intimate memories. And it goes without saying that her seminal lecture - A Room of One's Own will always be my inspiration.

Charles Dickens - Victorian fiction is sometimes seen as a little old fashioned these days. But I ADORE old fashioned. Good, straight narrative with passion and heart. Dickens is fantastic at creating memorable characters, from the "ever so humble" Uriah Heap, in David Copperfield, the cold, but conscience stricken Ralph Nickleby in Nicholas Nickleby, the uptight, violent school teacher Bradley Headstone in Our Mutual Friend, hard-hearted mercenary Estella in Great Expectations, and her slightly kinder sister, Bella Wilfer in Our Mutual Friend, Lady Deadlock and Mr Tulkinghorn in Bleak House. I could go on, and on. He's also brilliant at creating atmospheric landscapes, the marshes in Great Expectations, the river in Our Mutual Friend, the mean streets in Oliver Twist. He's funny and ironic, and his writing burns with a passionate rage at the social injustices of his day. What's not to love?

Charlotte and Emily Bronte - As I said, I'm a sucker for Victorian fiction. I like most of Charlotte Bronte's books, but obviously, Jane Eyre is the favourite.The opening scene where sensitive Jane is locked in the Red Room by her cruel aunt packs a powerful punch. The hypocrisy of Mr Brocklehurst at Lowood Orphanage, the burgeoning relationship with Mr Rochester (bordering on the sadistic from his point of view), the chance of happiness ruined by the secret he harbours. And Jane's finest hour when she refuses to be Mr Rochester's mistress, and then later St John's wife, in order to be true to herself. Wonderful stuff. Equally wonderful is Emily's Wuthering Heights (I refuse to rate one above the other). I love the way she describes the landscape and how storms rage outside and within the character's lives. And though it's often painted as a love story, in fact the central Heathcliff/Cathy romance is more a tale of terrible obsession and how it destroys everything around it. Emily is ahead of her time in showing how the cycle of abuse is created from generation to generation, but can be broken in the end by true love, as the burgeoning relationship of young Cathy and Hareton demonstrates. Love them both.

Graham Greene - I blogged at length last year about Graham Greene's skill. So I'll just say here, he's a great storyteller, with fine novels on good/evil/hope/despair/faith/politics, and creates fantastic landscapes and characters with the sparest details. Particular favourites are Brighton Rock, Stamboul Train, The Power and the Glory, The Heart of Matter, The Quiet American, Our Man in Havana, The Third Man.

EM Forster - At his best EM Forster is peerless, quietly and humorously debunks the mores of his time. In A Room with A View he attacks English lack of feeling and hypocrisy, in praise of experiencing real emotion and living life truly. A Passage to India challenges the very notion of the British Empire, not only giving the Indians a voice, but allowing them to laugh at the British too. He's also a fine story writer, with my favourite "When the Machine Stopped" envisaging a world where people stayin their rooms underground speaking to each other on video machines. But his best work has to be "Howard's End" a brilliantly crafted novel highlighting the clash of the personal and political, the emotional and practical, the spiritual and logical selves, and how we have to unite them, if we are to live as full human beings.

Margaret Atwood - Atwood's first novel, The Edible Woman, ends with the main character eating a cake of herself in a wedding dress, after she realises she is selling herself short with the man she was going to marry. Her early novels follow on the theme with her heroines breaking out from stultifying lives in a hygienically clean Toronto. I particularly like the writer in Lady Oracle who keeps running away from her life, changing hair colour and faking her own death at one point. But the wonder of Atwood is she keeps trying new things. There's The Handmaid's Tale a terrible dystopia where a woman's lot is decidedly unhappy, The Blind Assassin (a writer remembers the real story of her youth), The Robber Bride (three friends unite to defeat the woman who stole their men), Alias Grace (the mind of a possible murderess) and more recent forays into science fiction, Oryx and Crake and After the Flood. Atwood is in England tonight, reading to 10,000 people in Trafalgar Square. Lucky them!

And that's just the start...Looks like this will have to be a regular feature.

Happy World Book Day!

Blast from the Past #fridayflash

2011-02-12T02:35:00.000-08:00

It is all a bit different from her last visit. Way back in the '80's when she was experiencing her summer of love. A personal rebellion against the constraints of South London surburbia - living in exciting sin with Oz in his Liverpool bedsit. A complete success in the appalling-your-parents stakes, made even more so, by her refusal to return home and get a job. Instead, she and Oz slept all day, and spent the evenings among the pseudo-anarchists he called friends. The men dressed in black trousers and roll-neck jumpers, wore National Health glasses and smoked roll-ups. The women had long dark hair, wore flowing dresses and hennaed tattoos on their arms..They talked till the small hours about the Contra rebellion, the miner's strike, the virtues of free love. And every Thursday, they queued up with the rest of the unemployed in the foyer of the smoked- filled dimly-lit dole office. The concrete floor was covered in discarded chewing gum, the rug in the corner, marked with cigarette burns. Grey paint peeled from the wall, and the unsmiling staff gave out the weekly cheque from behind reinforced glass. It felt authentic. Real. That they were living the rebellion already.

It's not like that today. Dole in the twenty first century comes courtesy of IKEA. Bright blue sofas adorn the foyer, air-fresh and cleanly-lit with white striplights. The walls are painted pale yellow, the carpet, a soft fawn. The reinforced glass has been replaced by cheery security guards, who take her details and tell her they'll call her for her appointment. She might as well be at the doctors.

Back then, she and Oz convinced themselves they were on the side of the oppressed. Claiming the dole brought them into contact with Thatcher's victims. By opting out of the capitalist labour market, they were refusing to prop up the corrupt system. They were young, free, in love. They were going to change the world. Till she came home one afternoon, and discovered Oz practising free love with one of the dark haired anarchistas and realised there was more to life than revolution. She returned to her studies with enthusiasm, graduating, much to the relief of her parents, with a first that propelled her ever upwards.

Until now. It's unreal and unsettling, but here she is. With the redundancy money gone, her savings eaten up by mortgage payments, what choice does she have? She looks around the room, and for the first time, sees her fellow claimants. When she and Oz queued up in the old days, they never thought about the preoccupations of their fellow unemployed. Now, Oz is too busy being a media darling, he wouldn't be seen dead here. It is left to her to look across at the bald man with the bewildered air, and wonder whether he has just lost his job, or has been coming for a while. And is it stereotyping to think that the young mum trying to control her toddler has never had a job? Or the lads coming in from their quick smoke out the front are boasting about skirmishes with the law? But most of all she wonders about herself. No lover, no parents, no end of degree to fall back on. What is she going to do now?

The security guard calls her name and indicates the lift. Second floor, third desk on the right, Ellen Chapman. She picks herself up with a slight sigh and follows his pointing finger. If this is going to be her life from now on, she'd better get used to it.

The Devil's Detail #fridayflash

2011-02-04T14:21:00.000-08:00

"Morning Melissa," he smiles, and not for the first time, wonders how much longer he'll have to put up with her catatonic grin.

I should have looked at the small print, he thinks, as he does every Friday at eleven o'clock. He pulls up a chair for her and brings her a cup of coffee. Dad always said the devil's in the detail. But at the time, there just wasn't time. We had to get the deal struck and I relied on my team. I had more important things to do.Maintaining a media presence. Looking statesmanlike. I had to trust my boys would get the best deal. What else could I do?

Melissa tries not to wince at his faux-chivalry. How an earth has this happened? A year ago, I was riding high, now I'm just a laughing stock. She smiles, hiding her disdain for the smoothness of James' chin behind a sip of coffee. I shouldn't have left it to the boys. I thought they'd put the party first. Think of the good of the country. It didn't even cross my mind that the real ties that bind are formed in the playground.

"What's the latest Whip count?" his teeth glint in the morning sun.

"Sixty yeas, ten abstentions, ten nays. On your side?"

"Two hundred and forty yeas, six abstentions plus 11 from the other parties."

"So we're safe then?"

He resists the impulse to add, "No thanks to you." Instead, "It would help if you could rein Mark Townsend in."

Melissa stares down at her coffee spoon. The bastard, the total bastard.

"He's making waves you see," his eyes gaze at her with fake sincerity, "And I believe you have some influence?"

She stirs her coffee. Leave now, and the party is destroyed. Stay and I ruin every relationship I have. But once you make a deal with the devil, life becomes a series of increasingly unpalatable choices.

She smiles back, his equal in sincerity, if nothing else. "Of course, James. Now tell me, what is it you want me to do?"

After He'd Gone

2011-01-28T13:57:00.000-08:00

After he'd gone, all that was left in the bedsit was:
A half emptied bookcase.
The stain of brown whisky at the bottom of the glass.
Rumpled sheets on his side of the bed.

After he'd gone, she lay on the sofa, coiled cobra-like, listening for the step of his feet returning up the stairwell. The click of his key turning in the lock. But the only sounds were the shuffle of Marjorie-next door making her way to the bathroom; the thunderous descent of Dec from upstairs and his friends heading out to the pub.

After he'd gone, each second that passed expanded longer than the last. The glowing red numbers on the digital clock moved the evening forward in freeze frame. The sodium-glare outside her window shone on a world of revellers, singing and dancing through the night.

After he'd gone, all that was left in the morning was a rumpled emptiness. The stain of betrayal of their life that never was. All that remained was a half-life. But since that was all she was left with, she uncoiled herself from the couch, and took herself to the shower.

A life half-lived is better than none.

#FridayFlash Nobody's Fault

2011-01-14T14:48:00.000-08:00

It cain't be my fault. I weren't even there. You cain't blame me. So I made a few off-tha-wall comments. I painted a picture to make ma point. Every right-minded individual knows I weren't serious. T'aint nothing to do with me.

Don't look at me. I'm a teacher,not a social worker. I'm just glad if they make it into school. I can't be held responsible for what they do outside. That's their parents' job isn't it?

How is this my fault? With my slender majority, I can't afford to ignore public opinion. I'm too junior to have a voice. If I speak out on controversial subjects too soon, that's my career down the pan. Besides, it's impossible to legislate for this sort of thing isn't it?

Whatcha looking at me for? All I did was serve him. I've got a business to run. Gotta feed my family haven't I? I only give the public what they want. What they do with the merchandise after is up to them. So don't you come round here and point that finger at me.

Don't you go saying it's my fault. I gave that boy everything he ever wanted. Love and kindness, all the toys he ever needed, a gun to celebrate reaching manhood. Sure he's spend the last few years in his bedroom in front of the computer. But doesn't every kid? What can you do about it?

Why does everyone always look at me like that? Like I'm a fracking alien? Mum and those bastards at school were always on my case. The politicos pretended to help, but they lied. The Radio Lady was right, Cylons are real. I had to stop them. So I went to the only man I could trust, got what I needed, and hunted them all down. You're too blind to see the truth is'all.

It's not my fault. You can't blame me.

Congratulations!

2011-01-02T10:41:00.000-08:00

Another of my writing course friends has just achieved success by winning a first novel competition run by Hookline books.

The Partridge and the Pelican by Rachel Crowther, will be published in April. More details then. But in the meantime, congratulations Rachel!

Thanks be to...#fridayflash

2010-12-31T10:48:00.000-08:00

It was exactly a year ago that Lovely Husband pointed out the existence of an on-line writing community called #fridayflash. I'd been blogging a few months trying to find other writers to talk to without much success. All that changed when I posted my first #fridayflash on New Year's Day. Within minutes I had a warm welcome and great responses to my work which have continued all year.

It's very easy to be a member of #fridayflash. All you have to do is write up to 1,000 words, log it on the collector here and let the world know via your twitter page. As soon as you do, people come to visit, and always leave a word of encouragement. I've met some great folks, felt completely supported in my writing and more important, the discipline of writing 1,000 words a week has been the best writing class I've ever attended.

#fridayflash has been a bright spot in a very difficult year, so I'd like to raise a glass this New Year's Eve to the very fine writers I have met over the last twelve months. I'm sure I've missed people out, but the list includes Lou Freshwater, Cathy Oliffe, Icy Sedgewick, Simon/Skycycler, Mark Nash, Mazzz in Leeds, Laura Eno, Laurita Miller, David Masters,Tony Noland, GP Ching, John Wiswell and most importantly Jon Strother who came up with the idea and makes it happen week after week.

Thanks to the #fridayflash crowd for a lot of fun, your wonderful stories and the helpful comments you've left me here.

Happy New Year to you all!

#festivefridayflash - White Christmas

2010-12-23T09:26:00.000-08:00

"A White Christmas? When do we ever get a White Christmas?" He shook his head at the snow falling in ever increasing flakes.
"Never,dear." His wife, anticipating a tirade, did not look up from her stitching.
"I mean, I know it's supposed to be seasonal..." he paced up and down the wooden floor.
"Yes,dear."
"...but how often has it happened in the last ten years? The last twenty?" A floorboard creaked under the weight of his fretful feet.
"Hardly ever,dear." Her needle skimmed up and down, patching holes with consummate skill.
"It's freezing out there."
"You'll be warm enough."
"I'd rather stay at home." He sat back down on the sofa, stretching his large black-booted feet on her lap, forcing her to put down her needlework.
"You say that every year." She pushed him off and picked the sewing up again.
"It's going to be murder travelling."
"I'm sure it will be fine."
"I'm worried about the suspension..."
"You've just had a service."
"...and the brakes in this ice..."
"Will work perfectly, I'm sure."
"Perhaps I shouldn't go this year." He looked at her hopefully.
"After I've spent the last two hours mending?" She handed him his jacket. "Besides, they'll be expecting you."
"I suppose you're right." He took it from her and pulled it over his large frame.
"You know I am." She gave him a firm kiss on the lips.
"Here I go again." He stood up.
"Don't forget your hat!"
"Do I have to?"
"It's traditional."
"All right then..." With a sigh, he pulled the red and white hat over his curly white hair, "I look ridiculous."
"You look gorgeous." She rewarded him with a fuller kiss. "Now get to work."
"Don't wait up."
"I never do."
He stomped outside to his workshop where a small elf was placing the last present on top of a packed sleigh.
"I've oiled the runners sir, the reindeer are fed and watered, and the sat nav programmed," the chief elf beamed with pride.
"Then I'd better be on my way."
He jumped into the sleigh and with a crack of the whip headed East towards the first stroke of midnight. It was going to be a busy night.

Waiting for the Thaw - #fridayflash

2010-12-11T02:17:00.000-08:00

"The path needs doing again."

"Uh,huh." He looked out of the window at the snow flakes falling from the darkening grey sky, obliterating the track that sloped down to the road, where even the four by fours were struggling to keep moving. It was only an hour since he'd last cleared it, but already another two inches had fallen. The snow drifts on the lawn had risen to seven or eight inches and were so densely packed that they were almost reaching the bottom window panes.

"I said the path needs doing again." This time her voice was edged with insistence.

He did not look up from force of habit, but simply turned over the page of the paper he was reading, "It's Someone Else's Turn."

She rose from her seat and walked, back erect, with deliberately paced steps to the door."I won't repeat myself. I have supper to cook." She departed down the stone-flagged corridor for the kitchen.

He sighed, put down his paper and followed her into the dark hallway where the heat of the radiators barely penetrated. His Barbour jacket was still damp from his last outing, his boots were icy when he put them on. He picked up the spade he'd left by the front door, and went outside.

The job took longer than expected. His back and knees were not what they were, stabbing him with pain each time he bent over.The snow fell almost as fast as he could clear it. Large wet flakes splattered his eyes, blinding him, so he had to stop and wipe them every couple of minutes. It was frustrating work, but the dread of being snowed in was enough to keep him at it. He dug and scraped until the path was clear. Though by the time he'd stood at the door for a couple of minutes to shake the snow from his boots, the path was white again.

****************************************

She heard the metal scraping the pathway as she busied herself around the kitchen. At least he was getting that job done. The weekly shop had not been done that morning, and they'd not be able to get out tomorrow. She probably had enough for a couple of decent meals. After that...well it would have to be soup and dry crackers.Tonight, at least, there were two lamb cutlets to use up, and enough potatoes and peas to make it feel like a proper supper. They'd run out gravy, but that couldn't be helped.

She heard the clang of the spade against the wall as he closed the front door.

"Supper will be five minutes," she called.

"Uh, huh."

"I said, "Supper will be five minutes." Her yell had more insistence in it.

"I heard you the first time. I'm just changing my trousers."

Thud, thud, thud - he climbed the stairs, as she took the cutlets out of the oven and put them on the plates. She sieved the steaming potatoes, and dabbed them with butter, watching it melt into yellow liquid running down through the pan. Typically, he was still not down when she put the peas on the plates. She put the food back in the oven till she heard his thudding descent.

As he entered the room, she placed the plates back on the table, and they both sat down.

"There's no gravy," he said

"Someone didn't go to the shops."

He said nothing more, and they ate in their usual silence. The only sounds were his masticating jaws, the clink of cutlery, and, outside, the snow-muffled engines of the last cars to make into the village tonight.

The food was delicious as always, though'd he never say. When he'd finished his final mouthful, he pushed away the plate, rose from the table and disappeared to watch the news. She cleared the table, as was her custom, and began to wash up.

Clink, splash, wipe, clink, splash, wipe. There was something soothing about washing up at the end of the day. Outside the snow kept on falling. The sky was black.

"They say this is going to last till Thursday at least," he called from the living room.

"Uh, huh," she said, looking at the ice that was beginning to form on the steaming window.

It would be a long time till the thaw.

New story at Blank Pages

2010-12-03T11:21:00.000-08:00

Haven't managed a #friday flash for a while (soon, soon, I promise). I have, however, got a story in Blank Pages, a fine on-line arts magazine. I am really proud to be associated with it, and dead chuffed with art work and presentation. Please take a look and enjoy a great multi-media arts collective.

Plug of the Month - Catherine Chanter, Rooms of the Mind

2010-11-21T11:15:00.000-08:00

This is a first ! Consecutive plugs for the same person. But Catherine deserves it. She stood out in my very talented writing class, with her dark wit, psychological understanding, and an extraordinary ability to play with words and images. I am delighted to be shouting from the rooftops about "Rooms of the Mind" her new novella and short story collection. (She's so modest she never will). I was lucky enough to see early drafts and it was absolutely mesmerising, in a ghoulish, black-humoured sort of way. I can't wait to get my copy to see how it all pans out. I can't recommend Catherine's writing highly enough. (So good, I wish I could write like that!)

#FridayFlash Night and Day

2010-10-15T14:01:00.000-07:00

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tock, tick...

Sylvia wakes with a start from a sleep she hadn't meant to take. Her knees are stiff and her back is sore. The Roman numerals on the clock are at four thirty already. The sun has already reached the bottom of the hill, painting her sitting room wall red and orange. Funny how she used to hate that clock: the over-large gold leaves and the distorted cherubs seemed to sum up everything she disliked about her mother-in-law, Alison. How many afternoons had she and Paul sat in this very room, keeping Alison company, to that relentless tick, tock? Alison, whose days had ceased to please her, so she must destroy theirs, forcing them to stay and listen to her endless complaints -sciatica, rheumatism, loneliness. It was always such a relief when Paul's sister took over, and they were released to the night air, the moon, the stars, the dancing.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tock, tick...

She's old, she needs me, Paul would say, as he whirled her across the dance floor like Fred Astaire. Though Sylvia knew it was true, she didn't want him thinking that way too long. She'd pull him with her into the music, and soon, he was singing a different tune, Night and day, you are the one...She smiles at the memory. Time was, when her feet could glide to that tune and she could dance through to pink dawns and still feel fresh and ready for more. Such days they were, when her hair was black, and she could follow her desires so easily: when an hour with Paul seemed to last a thousand years. Now Alison is dead, Paul too, the children left home, and those days may as well have been a thousand years ago.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock...

The rim of the sun is hanging on the horizon, sending shafts of red across the sky, making the moon blush. That clock has ticked its way through so many of her suns and moons in this house that she's come to love it for its ugliness. She even loved Alison a little in the end, as the years softened that sharp tongue and the arrival of grandchildren brought some comfort. Now Sylvia's own days are an uphill struggle, and walks are something to dread, she can understand the old woman somewhat better too. Still, it was more pleasant living here in the later years, once the kids were grown, when it was just her and Paul, and Sinatra sang as they danced...Only you beneath the moon or sun. Those were the days when her hair was still dark, and he still thought her beautiful. Vanity of vanities - he wouldn't think her lovely now.

Tick, tock, tick,tock, tick, tock...

Outside the shadows are falling. Night rushes across the garden, masking the signs of Spring - the almond tree beginning to blossom, the sparrows laying nests. She ought to get up and make herself a cup of tea, maybe ring Gill, who worries too much. Only last year she would have leapt up the minute she awoke, but, her legs still feel shaky after her sleep, and she needs to catch her breath. There's no hurry after all. She might as well sit here for a while longer. She closes her eyes. Her breath shallows. And a voice sings to her across the years...Its no matter darling where you are, I think of you... She smiles, stretching out a hand for one last dance.

c Virginia Moffatt 2010

Cradle Song

2010-10-05T11:23:00.000-07:00

This poem was written for an assignment last year, inspired by a true family story. My twin sister has just found the birth certificates of the two babies, Winifred and Wilfred Clark, so it seemed a good day to post it.

Cradle Song.

They wrapped you in white blankets,
swaddling you tight to keep you warm.
It was not enough to ward off death,
who came and wrapped her chill, thin fingers
around you both. Your mother’s face
crumpled, as pale as the tiny tissue-white
bodies, she cradled, unbelieving.
There was no coffin small enough to carry
such tiny bodies. Your father found a drawer,
empty now of baby-linen, just large enough
to lay you in. It was too early for the two
of you to be at rest. Still, the warm earth
welcomed you, wrapping you in her tender
arms, as the wind sang to you in your sleep.

c Virginia Moffatt 2009

Rave Review - "The Writer's Tale" by Russell T. Davies

2010-10-03T06:59:00.000-07:00

It's not often that I read a book I love so much I can't put down. And I've never ever put one down and started blogging about it straightaway. But "The Writer's Tale" by Russell T Davies (former front runner for Dr Who) is just so brilliant that I have to tell you about it. I've been dithering about getting hold of a copy for ages now. I knew I'd enjoy it but the £30 price tag has been a tad off putting (For goodness sake BBC, some of us struggle to fork out half that for a book). So yesterday, when I saw it in the library, I grabbed it with both hands. And have been pretty much reading it ever since.

I've blogged about the great RTD here, which gives you an insight into why I love his work so much. What makes "The Writer's Tale" so special for me is that it is a treat for me both as a fan and as a writer. The book is basically a series of emails between Davies and the TV journalist Benjamin Cook. It begins by Cook asking whether Davies would be prepared to talk about how he writes an episode and quickly becomes the story of how The 2007 Christmas Special, and 2008 Series 4 are written. Seeing the ideas first form and change is absolutely fascinating. For several months Davies and Cook correspond about the new companion, Penny Carter, and then suddenly there is an option of Catherine Tate returning as Donna. Out goes Penny and Davies has to quickly think how/why Donna comes back, though using some of the same material. Only he and Cook ever know Penny existed and both are a little sad at the "demise" of this unwritten character. Yet when Series 4 is complete, Cook pays the ultimate compliment that Donna was way better than Penny would have ever been. (Interestingly enough the name stays as a journalist who gets caught up peripherally in the events of Episode 1).

Similarly we see Davies struggle with narrative points in the Series Finale. Why will Donna have to leave the TARDIS? (He comes up with a brilliant solution).How does he get all the companions from various places to be with the Doctor at the end? how does he get Rose to go off with Doctor 2 without it undermining her first departure? This last one is particularly interesting as most viewers felt that it didn't quite work. Davies is honest enough to realise he'd written himself into a corner when he'd come up with the idea of 2 Doctors and then made it central to the finale's resolution. He writes and rewrites the scene, and though the final version is better than the first - it's still a bit of a miss. But you have to admire him for trying.

The other thing that is interesting is how difficult he finds it to write. You'd think a writer of his stature and experience would find it easy. Yet it seems like he flies by the seat of his pants every time, procrastinating all day and writing into the middle of the night, right up to the morning of production. That's either depressing or encouraging to writers like me. I'm an optimist so I'll take encouraging every time. And he's honest and sometimes quite impossible, and arrogant, yet also deeply humble. In a very long email he completely dissects his own behaviour at the BBC launch of the Titanic episode and is disgusted with the false notes he plays. I find that very heartening and human.

Finally, I love this book because it ISN'T prescriptive. Davies cut his teeth in script writing years ago. He doesn't need to be taught, because he's worked out for himself there are natural pauses that make a 3 Act structure. I like the fact he kicks against us needing to read Robert McKie to write. I do love the Robert McKie book too and found it useful, but it's refreshing to hear a successful writer say they're not bound by it. The book ends with a quote about gaining your writing voice that sums it up perfectly:

"Gaining a voice, whatever that is, comes with experience and practice - and the writing, again, is indivisible from the person. Your voice tends to be something that others talk about, about you. It's not something that you think about much yourself, and certainly not whilst writing. I never - never - sit here thinking, what's my voice? You might as well ponder, who am I? It is, in fact, exactly the same thing. You can wonder your whole life and you'll never get an answer to that."

This is a great read - I hope your local library has a copy.

Plug of the Month - Catherine Chanter in the Asham Award

2010-09-28T12:47:00.000-07:00

For those that don't know the Asham Award, it's a biannual short story competition for women. The closing date for next year's award is this Thursday, so I thought it an apt moment to plug last year's collection - "Waving At The Gardener" . I enjoyed the previous collection "Is This What You Want?" enough to submit a piece two years ago. Sadly I wasn't even longlisted, but my friend Catherine Chanter made it to the final 12 and deservedly so..

I first read her excellent story "A Summary of Findings" when she submitted it for critique before handing it as an assignment. The brief was to write a piece from at least two different points of view. Whilst most of us went for the standard two person piece, Catherine in typical bold fashion, wrote a story with a monstrous but hugely sympathetic central character, whose mistakes were coldly analysed by commentaries from various professionals writing reports to cover their backs after a terrible event has occurred. Catherine makes us completely understand Callie's difficulties and pain, yet also, how her failings as a mother contribute to the tragedy that unfolds. There is a wonderful word play (particularly on the multitude of uses for the word "unit") and a sense of impending danger that builds up to the dramatic conclusion.

Highly recommended.

And STOP PRESS I have just seen that Catherine has won the 2010 Yeovil Prize for Poetry with her poem The Foster Boy's Bedroom. If this was the one she shared in class, I'm not surprised. Well done Catherine!

#FridayFlash Awards (Finally)

2010-09-25T15:40:00.000-07:00

So here I am on Saturday, reading some #FridayFlash stories and remembering just what I love about this online writing community. I'm hoping, after a two month absence, that I'll find some inspiration to join in next week, but right now, it is about time I gave out some long promised #FridayFlash awards. The very wonderful Mazzz in Leeds nominated me some time ago and the deal is that one is supposed to nominate other writers too. It's been a long summer, so I've never quite managed it. So here goes, with probably my first round, 4 that I love (in no particular order):

Laura Eno who writes over at A Shift in Dimensions is one of the earliest (maybe even founding?) members of #FridayFlash. She's always welcoming to newcomers and she's also a very fine comic writer. Her ongoing serial about the adventures of a peanut eating Death and his best buddy the rather hapless Chronos (Father Time) are hilarious, and this week's entry, though not in that series, is just laugh out loud funny. Enjoy.

Simon at Skycycler is very different. He writes poetic, moving stories of moments between people that are poignant or funny, sometimes both. He hasn't been writing much of late, so I hope that's just a blip. And I look forward to more in the future. But treat yourself to his back catalogue - you won't be disappointed.

Mazzz in Leeds is another regular #FridayFlash writer, and one I loved even before she nominated me! She's well known for the high death rates in her stories, but they are done with such aplomb and infinite variety that each new story is a complete revelation. I love her sense of the gothic and dark humour and the moments of pathos that come when the laughing stops. Read her write now!

Finally, I came to #FridayFlash because my husband spotted David Masters tweeting about it. David writes over at Truant Pen with an enviable delicacy and incredible range. He writes with compassion and understanding and seems to be able to move from satire to compassion, humour to tenderness with incredible ease. Definitely one to watch.

There are many, many more, so I'll have to do this again, but that's it for now, my first round of #FridayFlash awards!

Obituary for Pip O'Neill

2010-08-31T12:08:00.000-07:00

My obituary for my friend Pip O'Neill is now up at the Guardian in their Other Lives section. I hope it captures a little of her wonderful wise spirit. You can read it here.

Philippa (Pip) O'Neill - In Memoriam

2010-08-24T13:22:00.000-07:00

This is not a personal blog, I use it for writing and thinking about writing. You may have noticed that I have been a bit quiet of late. This is because one of my best friends, Philippa (Pip) O'Neill died of cancer last week. I have been trying to think of the best way to pay tribute here. I have written an obituary and sent it to the Guardian, but I wanted to remember the fact that she was such a whole-hearted supporter of my writing. I wanted to remember that even though she had nothing published, she was a terrific writer, sending me a wonderful short story recently. I wanted to remember her love of literature.

This morning, I remembered this poem. It is one of my favourites - written by Tennyson after his close friend Arthur Hallam died. It seemed right, for Pip, who drank life to the lees and remained strong in will to the very end.

Ulysses
by Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toiled, and wrought, and thought with me
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads you and I are old;
Old age had yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Philippa (Pip) O'Neill 15/9/61-18/8/10

On the mudflats

2010-07-31T01:18:00.000-07:00

It's nearly dusk, but there is no sun on the horizon. There hasn't been one for days. Just grumpy skies filled with low, grey clouds, indistinguishable from the sea that meets the end of the mudflats. Growing up inland, the first time she saw the broad expanse, she felt dizzy as if she might fall off the edge. She'd struggled to walk through the soft sands down to the muddy cockle banks. The only sand she'd seen before was in her father's time turner. He used to let her play with it while he read engineering reports. She'd loved turning it up and down, seeing the sand shift and slide, shift and slide - watching as time ran out.

Each day at low tide, the path through the soft sand marks the passing of her days. On the way out, her boots are clean, her tray empty. On the way back, she is mud-spattered, cold, wet, carrying a full tray back to the Collector waiting on the shore. There is no room for slacking. Only a full tray will do. And her father needs the money, so a full tray is what she will collect. Though her back is sore with the constant stooping, her arms ache, with the raking of the shellfish beds. Rake, sift, rake, sift - the pattern of her days

The shift is nearly over, the day is nearly done, but her tray is not full enough. These beds have been over-harvested, there are slim pickings to be had. Her fellow workers have moved towards the edge of the mudflats, closer to the incoming tide. She can see by their increased activity they have struck lucky. She squelches towards them, every footprint filling with water the moment she raises her boots. They will have to be quick.

On the seashore, the Collector looks down at the workers crouched over the shifting sands. Sky and sea meet in a dark grey huddle, it is hard to distinguish where the water's edge is. It is beginning to rain again. He cannot call the cockle-pickers - they will not be able to hear him. He could raise his arm, but it is unlikely they will look up from their labours. He considers his losses and turns towards his van.

On the mudflats, the workers have completed their haul. They stand up and begin the long march back to the beach. The sand shifts and slides beneath their feet. Shift, slide, shift, slide - time is running out.

#fridayflash Too Close to the Sun

2010-07-17T04:30:00.000-07:00

This week's #fridayflash is dedicated to the Our Lady's School Storytelling Club a fine bunch of young storytellers and creative writers led by their inspiring deputy headteacher Mr Edwards-Grundy. This year we've been listening to Greek and Roman myths. The children have then mapped the key points of the story and learnt how to tell them to each other. Here's my version of one of the stories we spent a lot of time on. With many thanks to everyone in the group for their hard work and fabulous creativity. It's such a pleasure to help out.

The sun is high in the sky. It is too far away to see Apollo with his fiery chariot and his flaming horses. Icarus sighs. He wishes he was up there in the heavens, soaring in freedom, not trapped in this tiny tower room with his father. Why did Daedalus have to upset the king so? They should be honoured guests down below where the guards flash red, white and blue as they march up and down the courtyard; gardeners water the olive trees and orange groves; the queen's women shimmer gold and silver on their morning walks. Instead Icarus is forced to watch from the window, as he gathers feathers the birds leave behind on the ledge. His father is collecting them for some strange reason that he has yet to explain. But Icarus is an obedient boy, he picks up the morning offering and brings it back to Daedalus without question.

"Thanks son." His father is crouched in the corner, his back to the grey stone wall. He is sewing feathers together in what looks like an enormous cape. He adds the last few to the bottom and then sits back satisfied. He stands up and lays it on a table next to three others. "Now come here." He picks up a candle and lights it, letting the wax drip from the wick, and build in pools on the base of the candle. "This is going to hurt a bit." He pours molten wax on Icarus's right shoulder, down his arm, and the centre of his back. Icarus yelps with pain. His father ignores him but quickly picks up one of the feather capes and sticks it onto the wax. The wax hardens and the cape clings to Icarus' back. It is itchy and heavy. Daedalus repeats the procedure on the other side.

"Now do you see?" he says. Icarus moves his arms up and down with wonder. His father has fashioned wings that fan out as he moves his limbs. He helps Daedalus fix his pair and they move towards the window.

"Two pieces of advice before we go," says Daedalus in a stern voice. Icarus nods, but he is only half listening. The ground looks a long way down. Can he trust his father's contraptions to work? He drags his attention back. "Aim for the middle of the sky. Fly too low, and the sea water will spray on your wings, weighing them down, dragging you into the water. Fly too high, and the sun will melt the wax. Did you hear what I said?"

"Not too high, not to low. Got it."

"Good luck," His father pushes him to the edge. "Go, fly. Be free." He shoves him off. Icarus falls forward and sees the ground rushing towards him. The soldiers look up from their marching and scatter at the sight of the boy hurtling in their direction. The gardeners drop their watering cans. The women put their hands over their mouths in horror.

"Spread your wings, Icarus. Spread your wings." Just in time Icarus hears his father's words and spreads his arms out. At once the air currents lift him up. He flaps harder and moves higher, leaving the shouting, open- mouthed guards and astonished women behind. Daedalus dives off the tower to join him. Father and son swoop over the palace, out across the fields towards the sea.

After months confined to the tiny turret, the sheer expanse of sky and sea is a marvel. Icarus thrills to feel fresh air on his face, to be able to stretch his arms and legs. He soars and plunges through the sky. He is young. He is alive. He is free. He laughs with delight.

"Save your energy son," says Daedalus in warning, "It's a long way to go."

Icarus just laughs and leaps above his father's head. The sea stretches ahead of them for miles. The coastline is invisible. Daedalus has a point. The boy flaps his wings and settles into a rhythm. Gradually, Icarus finds his arms beginning to get heavy. A breeze builds up, and he floats for a while. But this brief respite does not last and soon his stiff limbs are forced to move again. On and on they fly, no land in sight, just patches of sea mist, which begins to thicken around them. The air becomes dank and chilly. Icarus shivers. He flies a little higher in an effort to keep warm. The mist swirls about them. He loses sight of his father. Cold drips through his bones. Where is Daedalus? How far now? Perhaps if he can rise above the cloud he can see where he's going. He flies higher, and higher. At last he emerges from the cloud into a blue sky glowing in sunlight. His veins flood with heat, restoring his energy. The coast is approaching. Below him, some distance away he can see his father beating a steady path with his wings. He sighs with relief.

Icarus laughs and soars upwards. He forgets his father's warning. He is drawn towards the smouldering orange sun above him. Higher, higher and higher he flies. Now he is close enough to see the wheels of Apollo's chariot, the blazing eyes of the horses. He can even see Apollo's gold curly hair and bronzed skin, the concentration on his face as he whips his beasts along, straining in the heat of the fire-ball behind him. Icarus feels his cheeks sizzle and burn. And something else - a drip of liquid running down his arm. Then another, and another. Suddenly, he remembers his father's warning. Feathers are falling off him as his wings begin to peel off his body. In terror, he throws himself down, away from the melting heat of the sun. But it is too late. The wax is running over his skin, the wings are falling apart. He hurtles down through the sky, through the sea mist. He calls for his father, but Daedalus is too far to help. The terrified boy plunges down, down, down until he hits the water and is swallowed up by the deep blue waves.

Daedalus flies back to the spot, hoping against hope to see his son's face, an arm, a finger even. The water rises and falls, but there is no sign of the boy. At last, Daedalus feels his wings droop, and he knows if he is to survive, he must fly on to the shore.

He lands on the beach, and stands looking back towards the island. The waves lap at his feet. Across the horizon he can see Apollo's chariot reaching the end of its daily journey. A gull calls out over the darkening sky. Suddenly he sees a mass floating in the water. His heart leaps for a moment. Then the waves shift and he realises it is simply pieces of broken wings bobbing in the tide. A wave crashes on the beach leaving behind bubbles of sandy foam. And something else. Daedalus stoops to pick it up and sighs.

This is all that is left: a small brown feather, caked in sea foam and marked with spots of red wax.

Plug of the Month - Evolve Journal

2010-07-12T13:28:00.000-07:00

I discovered Evolve Journal almost by accident. Readers of this blog will have noticed by now I take part in the wonderful writing community that is #fridayflash (which deserves and will get a plug all of its very own soon). Jon Strother, the #ff coordinator, tweeted a link to an interesting article about whether to grade the writing in #fridayflash. You can find that article here. I was one of the myriad of commentators who argued that #fridayflash is about writers supporting writers and was struck by the way Chase, the author of the article, engaged with us and was willing to listen to our point of view. At the end of my comment, I invited Chase to visit this blog, which he duly did. I was so interested in the discussion (and to be honest, don't have much time to be looking at websites in much depth) that I didn't register the article was posted under the title Evolve Journal.

So when EJ started following me, I didn't make the connection. I did what I always do, checked their twitter page and website, and liked what I saw. An online magazine promoting writing and writers, with a belief that "that literature can and should entertain while working to better society. We believe that literature should engage its readers in every possible medium, and that it is the role of the writers, publishers, and patrons of literature to help others enjoy and learn from literature" In other words - my kind of magazine. It was only when Chase asked me to submit a story that it dawned on me that this was the person who'd been kind enough to listen to a tirade of comments from passionate #ff writers and my admiration for EJ was complete.

Each month EJ publishes a short story in a format that looks easily accessible for readers who you use EBooks and easy to read for those of us who don't. Each story has a front cover, chosen with great care to reflect the tale that is being told. They also do excellent book reviews and fascinating and encouraging interviews with writers about how to deal with rejection.

I know I'm biased, as EJ very kindly published me last month, but this is a great new magazine, already publishing interesting writers and reviewers. You only have to look here at July's story by Chloe Ackerman to see what I mean. It deserves a wide readership, so please go and visit them soon!

#fridayflash Memento Mori

2010-07-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

She looks so fragile in her sleep. The firmness of her finely sculptured face has crumbled into cavernous folds of skin between her cheek bones. Those hands - those powerful hands - are withered, covered in liver spots. Once, she was considered beautiful. Now - as death waits to claim her - all that is left is ugliness.

Some feel sorry for her. It doesn't matter anymore who she once was. Now she is simply a frail old woman, sick and in pain. She needs our loving care, just like all the rest. After all, we know her because she was in the public eye, Ginny says, Who knows what these others might have done in their time? The girls nod and sip their tea, before returning to soothe aches, change soiled clothes, turn bodies to prevent bed sores.

I remain behind in the staff kitchen, swirling the last dregs of my tea round and round, a tannin whirlpool at the bottom of my cup. I am not like my colleagues. It is precisely because of who she was that I cannot let her be. Thanks to her, I watched my father lose first his job, then his way, finally his life. Cirrhosis of the liver. No surprise - we had lived with the memento mori of yellow skin and bloodshot eyes for years - yet the real culprit got away. Those hands, those powerful hands, waved away factories, call centres, shops and with a flourish of the pen, signed away benefits and health care. Whilst those beautiful chiselled cheeks smiled to the cameras as she explained it would create a leaner, fitter, more productive society. How can I forget?

I will be alone tonight. Once these sick women have all been tucked up like small children, my colleagues will leave. Over the next eight hours I will wander from room to room checking that the patients are sleeping, breathing - that all is as well as can be expected. It is not uncommon for death to come in the dark hours before dawn. I am often the first to find, and then report the passing of someone's mother, grandmother, aunt. It would not be so unusual if it happened to her tonight. She is very old, she is very sick, and in great pain.

The girls all leave at ten o'clock, laughing and joking as they escape back into the life that exists beyond these mortuary walls. I pace from room to room until I arrive at hers. I look at her still, sleeping face. She is barely breathing. I plump up the pillows, and steady myself for what comes next.

Moving Out.

2010-06-26T03:07:00.000-07:00

This was a nice neighbourhood. The Davies family had to agree. Plenty of room inside and out. Lots of families so the kids had plenty of friends to play with. An easy commute for Pete. A good school nearby, with lots of PTA activity to keep Jan occupied.The forest round the corner was wild enough to be exciting for the children but safe enough not to provoke parental anxiety. After such a long time searching, it was a relief to unpack their bags, and settle in.

Time passed. Susie and Paul got married and left home. Allie finished her A levels and began to be excited about University. Joseph got the lead in the Year 10 school play. The twins, Jenny and Georgia, went camping with the Guides. Life was good that summer.

It was Joseph who ran home with the news that another chemical spill was flowing through the forest. The streets were awash with foam and unbearable smells. Allie followed quickly afterwards to announce the bulldozers had arrived, combing the territory, destroying everything in their wake.

"Not again," said Pete, "We've only just got settled here."
"I must phone Susie and Paul," cried Jan.
"There's no time," said Pete, "You know the score. We've got to go. They'll find their own way."

The family gathered what they could and hurried through the streets, covering their mouths with their gas masks so as not to be overwhelmed by poisonous fumes. Escapees from the bulldozers limped past with broken limbs. Some, already overcome by wounds and toxins, settled in street corners to die. The usual carnage.

The Davies knew how to survive. They had done it many times before. This was just the first assault. They headed for the deepest part of the forest, where the chemicals had not yet penetrated, where the bulldozers struggled to clear. They dug themselves in at the base of the deepest tree. They clung for dear life as the bulldozers swooped around them, the chemicals poured out over the foliage. They breathed into their gas masks and waited.

At last the cries and shouts faded into the distance. The foam dissipated, leaving a slimy residue across the paths. The bulldozers disappeared.

"It's time," said Pete.

They trudged across the slippery landscape, trying not to weep for their lost paradise. They could mourn when this was all over. At last, they reached the edge of the forest, and a chasm that yawned between them and safety. The ground shuddered, bringing the chasm closer.

"Jump!" said Jan. They jumped. First the twins, then Allie, then Joseph. Jan pushing the children ahead before she made the leap. Pete was last, the ground was shuddering again, the chasm opening up.

"Come on Dad, come on," the children cried. The chasm was widening. He closed his eyes and with a running leap, jumped across it's increasing gape, grabbing the ground with the power of all his legs.

The family gathered themselves together and went in search of a new home.

*******

"Are you scratching?" said Angela Smith later that day.
Sarah looked up. "No."
"Let me check," Angela peered between the strands of Sarah's hair, "Yes,you are. There's a whole family of nits in here. I expect it's like a forest to them."

She sighed, and reached for the teatree and nit comb.

Bad Weather Warning

2010-06-18T14:22:00.000-07:00

The radio warned of bad weather. Only go out if necessary, the announcer said. Well I thought it necessary, and it wouldn't be for long. Just a few of us out on the street, determined to make our point. I braved the wail of the wind, that blew my umbrella inside out in seconds, breaking three spokes as it did so. I endured the lash of water saturating my clothes, oozing into my skin. I had promised to be there, and so I would.

The crowd was unexpectedly large. As if the rain and wind had thrown down a gauntlet and people had risen to the challenge. We marched to the sound of a drum beat, drenched. We would not let the cold defeat us.

We did not expect the soldiers. Fully armed soldiers standing on the corner as we moved towards our final destination. I thought they were there for show. To intimidate our rain-soaked bodies back home, with our bedraggled tails between our legs. We refused to be intimidated. We marched on.

A sergeant-major barked an order, and the soldiers blocked our path. Our leaders hesitated for a moment. Then stood their ground. Some called for quiet. Others began to chant. We halted. The soldiers cocked their rifles. The rain poured down.

Who knows what triggered it. A shout? A stone? The slip of a finger? Too hard to say in the noise of the gale and the blurring water flooding from the sky. But we all heard the unbelievable sound of a shot. So unreal I thought it must be a car back-firing. Until I saw the mass of people begin to run in different directions. Another shot. And another. A squeal of pain. A crack of bone. The soft thud of bodies tumbling to the ground.

I ran and ran and ran. Shouts echoed all around me. Shots ricocheted off buildings.

And the rain kept falling.

(Bloody Sunday - In Memoriam)

#fridayflash A Woman's Work

2010-06-11T15:24:00.000-07:00

I wake at six to an unfamiliar ceiling. Alex is snoring, and I can just hear the sounds of Ben stirring next door. So I must be in the right place. It takes a moment for realisation to dawn with the sunlight peeking through the cracks in the curtain. We won, though I never thought we would. We Won. Therefore We Moved. And now my life will change in - oh, so many ways.

I don't need to stagger out of bed, and peek out of that curtain, to know the street below will be full of paparazzi. I've no intention of doing that - giving them the chance of a rapid snap. Me in my nightie with my hair all over the place. No doubt the day will come and I'll let down my guard. Some photographer will get lucky on the back of my hitched up skirt or drunken pratfall. But not today.

Cherie, Sarah, Sam. They've all been here before me. Modern women - who juggled careers and children and lived lives independent from their husbands - until they reached this bedroom. How did they stand it? Cherie, one of the brightest of her generation, reduced in the public eye to a scrounging scally. Didn't Sarah have a job in PR once? Somehow it submerged into twitter and her husband's smelly socks. As for Sam, she gave it all up the minute she crossed the threshold. A family can only take one alpha parent after all. And someone has to be at home for the kids.

Of course I supported Alex when he said he wanted to be party leader. A girl wants to stand by her man when thinks he's in with a chance. I just didn't expect him to get it. Still, I thought, it won't last long, we can return to obscurity soon. No-one expected the Prime Minister to call a snap election, but it should have been a shoo-in. Our electoral pain should have been over in a month. We should have lost with dignity, and got on with the rest of our lives, knowing, that at least we tried.

All it took was a few thousand votes. A two percent swing the other way and we'd have been back at home drowning our sorrows. Because of those few thousand people bothering to go to the ballot box, I'm lying here staring at an unfamiliar ceiling. Wondering how the hell we manage a life that had enough complexity in it already.

The clock blinks six fifteen in red digitalised numbers. Ben potters into the room and climbs in bed for an early morning cuddle. Alex continues to snore. In a minute, Alice will wake. In a minute, I'll have to work out where we have breakfast, find school uniforms, determine how we get them there. In a minute Alex will be woken and dragged off into a world that will consume him utterly. I doubt that I will see him much before tea time.

A woman's work is never done.

#fridayflash At Dawn.

2010-05-27T13:47:00.000-07:00

Well this may be a bit of a cheat. Something written by one of my characters in the Work in Progress. I'm wondering whether it works as a piece of writing. Or is a tad melodramatic. So thought I'd post as a #fridayflash. My cop out is that Elsie Forbes wrote it. Is this what you call meta fiction?

The women huddled by the rocks on the river bank. Their black cloaks clung to them, damp in the grey-white fog that rolled down to the water’s edge, obscuring the river. They did not speak. It was time to wait. They shivered in the cold dawn as they heard the sound they were dreading. A soft splash of oars – the signal for them to part. Splash, creak, splash, creak, the boat was coming closer. Soon the shape of the prow could be seen, forcing its way through the mist. The crouching boatman came into view, as he lifted his arms and pushed the wooden spars towards the shore.

He said nothing as he arrived, just held out his hand for the girl. She hugged her mother, stepping into the boat without a word. She stared ahead. She did not look back. The boatman took up his oars. Creak, splash, creak, splash. A curlew called across the water, a mournful screech. The mist rolled round the boat, obscuring first the daughter's shape, then the boatman's. Finally, they vanished altogether, leaving the mother alone on the banks listening to the lap, lap,lap of the waves.

Her daughter was gone. And now she could no longer bear to be silent. She tore at her cloak, let out a curlew-shriek, and threw herself on the ground. When at last, her weeping was done, she picked herself up, smoothed down the grime on her skirts and walked back across her fields to the house that was no longer home.

The seeds called out to their mother; the corn begged to be threshed; the fruit to be picked. She ignored their pleas. She could not tend the earth until her daughter was returned to her. Until that time came,nothing in the land would grow. Nothing.

Driving Lessons

2010-05-25T07:55:00.000-07:00

It was always going to end in tears:
you and I locked fighting in the car.
The memory haunted us for years.

All my errors fulfilled your fears:
each missed turn; each judder and jar.
It was always going to end in tears.

I nearly crashed when changing gears,
the A10 proved a road too far.
The memory haunted me for years.

I wanted to drive, like all my peers:
to be in charge of my own car.
It was always going to end in tears

That last Christmas, drinking beers,
you said you felt you went too far.
The memory haunted you for years.

I passed the test after all those years,
the day you died I got my car.
It was always going to end in tears.
The memory haunted us for years.

RIP Joseph Henry Moffatt - Feb 3rd 1924-May 25th 1995.

Brush Strokes.

2010-05-21T15:07:00.000-07:00

It's the fiddly bits that get you when painting. The parts between wall and ceiling where you can't rely on your rollers anymore. Where you have to stretch arms, strain your neck, stand on tip toe to ensure your paint brush doesn't fleck the ceiling or corner wall as you attempt a neat finish. A perfect line between purple, white and green. It helps to have a bottle of turps and wet rag handy, ready to wipe away splodges and mis-strokes. You've been doing this for years now, you know the score. Still, these days you come down with lower back ache, sore calves and aching shoulders. You are not as young as you used to be.

Later in the bath, as you sip a glass of wine, you remember watching Jim paint that first house in Blenheim Yard. You were hugely pregnant, happy to watch him as he turned the nursery blue for the boy you imagined you would have. As he came down from the step-ladder he tripped, knocking the paint which splattered blue stains across the new white carpet. He fell in it, rolling around till his face was covered with blue woad. You laughed, and laughed. You could not stop till your waters broke and the next blue was a flashing light. Jenny was born at three in the morning. You never did have a boy. Perhaps that was part of the problem. And when you arrived home two days later (for these were times when mothers were allowed recovery time) Jim had cleaned the carpet and the walls were perfectly pink.

It was when you moved house to accomodate the expanding family (Alex, two years after Jenny, then Sophie, and finally Emma) that you needed to take up the brush yourself. Jim was too busy earning a crust so you could all eat. You didn't begrudge his trips abroad, the long evenings by yourself. It paid for ballet lessons, drama clubs, school trips. The least you could do when you were alone and the children were sleeping was give the girls' bedrooms the makeovers they deserved. Pink, purple, red. The colours changed with the ages, and the fads they went through. Though you drew the line at black when Sophie and Em went all emo just before they left school.

It's funny, you think, as you get back to the job the next morning, in all these years, the one room you never got round to was your own. It takes a husband leaving to do that. Now as you finish the final corner, you step down from your ladder and look round with pride. Purple, green and white - suffragette colours.

Life begins.

Plug of the Month- Julia Williams The Bridesmaid Pact

2010-05-09T14:51:00.000-07:00

Lovely twin sister, Julia Williams, has done it again. The Bridesmaid Pact is her 4th novel in the last three years (and I'm still plugging away at my first sigh). Anyway, this one's her best yet. A celebration of love, friendship and the possibilities of redemption, set in a North London suburb that seems uncannily familiar. The ending made me cry. It's out on 27th May, so go and order your copy now!

#FridayFlash - Protecting the Legacy.

2010-05-07T14:31:00.000-07:00

The Prime Minister looked at his reflection in the mirror. Twelve years ago, when the country swept him into power on a torrent of love, the skin below his steel blue eyes was taut and tanned. Now that affection had ebbed away to the tiny trickle of his third election, it sagged towards his cheeks in black wrinkly layers.

It was time to leave. And on his own terms. He and Jenny had made their decision sometime ago. The lecture tours, board positions and consultancies were all lined up. They had no desire to put themselves through a fourth round of the polls which was bound to end in humiliating defeat. He would go with his head held high and his dignity intact.

There was only one question left. The legacy. How was he going to protect that? His successor couldn't do it. A political bruiser with a tendency to lose friends, he would probably manage to hold the party together for the next three years. Then the glorious experiment would end with a pathetic whimper. Which is why the Prime Minister had been preparing for this moment since the day he arrived. And if all had gone well, his next appointment would provide him with the solution he craved.

There was a knock at the door.

"Come in." He looked up eagerly. Had the experiment worked? The special committee entered together, the heads of MI5 and 6, the Foreign Office, and MOD. Behind them walked a man in his late thirties, tall, but not too tall, with an open, engaging face.

"We've done it," said Professor Stanton, the Chief of Government Research. "Let me introduce you to the next elected Prime Minister."

The younger man stood in the centre of the room. He turned towards the Prime Minister and stared at him with his striking blue eyes.

"This country is tired. It has had enough of the old system. The old ways. What this country needs is change a new beginning, a new way of being." He wrung his hands together with a sincere intensity that was captivating.

"It's me," said the Prime Minister, "My DNA slightly rearranged, but really me."

"Of course it is Prime Minister," said Jeremy Barnett, head of MI5."We can place him in the opposition and ensure he takes up the leadership. When the election comes, the people calling for change will, of course, get what they asked for."

The clone looked across at his maker. "What this great nation of ours needs is a robust economy, strong borders and armed forces we can be proud of. I alone can provide you that."

The committee applauded. "Well said, sir,", " I couldn't have put it better myself, sir."

"Congratulations, everyone," said the Prime Minister, "You've done me proud."

The group nodded and trooped out of the room. At the door, Professor Stanton turned and said, "By the way sir, there is another one."

"There is?"

"Just in case. For the other party. If the people are uncertain, and a hung Parliament's on the cards. "

"Good thinking," said the Prime Minister. He wandered over to the window and looked down at the police officers guarding his front door. So reassuring to know that he was safe, and all was well.

The more things change, the more they remain the same.

Conversation Killer

2010-04-30T12:38:00.000-07:00

Midnight.

"I saw Gill Evans today."
"Mmm?" Ali is drifting off and only half listening.
"At the rehearsal. Gill Evans was there too."
"Yeah?...Gill...Haven'tseenher...forages...Howishe?"
"Well. Really well."
"Uhuh..."
"Good night then..."
"Good night."

Mid-morning

"Bill's tied up with his am dram, and I'm left holding the baby, literally. She's teething right now, so will she let me put her down? All bloody night."
"Tell me about it. Freddie grizzled from six till twelve last night."
"Look at them now though, they'll sleep all day if we let them."
"At least we can enjoy coffee."
"True. Here's to coffee." They clink cups and laugh.

Lunchtime

"Ali! How lovely to see you!"
"How are you doing Gill?"
"Is this Melissa? God she's beautiful."
"Isn't she?"
"I want one."
"There are strings attached..."
"So I'm told, but when they're asleep like this. They're just gorgeous."
"True. So what are you up to these days?"
"Work, work, work. You know me..."
"Yeah."
"I've joined the Crawley Players though. Give me something else to do. Nice to see your Bill there."
"That's right, he did mention it. What part are you playing?"
"Cleopatra."
"I didn't know that."
"Didn't he say?"

Midnight.

"I bumped into Gill Evans today."
"Hmm?" Bill is half asleep.
"She said she was playing Cleopatra."
"So?"
"Aren't you Antony?"
Bill says nothing for a moment and then says, "Did I tell you that Jim's just been made redundant?"

There's nothing kills a conversation more than a non-sequitur.

"

Golden Girl

2010-04-24T00:50:00.000-07:00

for RB

Breathe and stride...Breathe and stride...Breathe and stride...

The wind is ruffling the leaves on the trees as I begin to gather pace. It feels so good, after the months of darkness, to be out in the open. To smell Spring, freshly mown grass and apple blossom, as I run. My legs are stiff from months of dis-use, but now as I turn down the familiar path that leads to the river, I can feel them lengthen and stretch. They were made for this. I was made for this. For this moment when body, muscle, mind, lungs flow into one, so there is no effort, no thought, just a unity with the ground, water and sky. This is what I am, this is what I do, this is what counts.

Breathe and...

I was twelve the year I learnt to run, or rather that running was my thing, surprising myself by coming first in every race on Sports Day. As the morning wore on, everyone got behind me Jill-ee-an, Jill-ee-an. I'd never been so popular. Even though Mum and Dad missed it, as usual, telling them later was nearly as good. I pestered them till they let me join the athletics club. They thought it was a fad, and perhaps it would have been. But that was a miserable winter. Running in rain, wind and even snow, was preferable to nights sitting on the sofa in between their silent enmity. I trained, and trained, and trained. Weekends were full of early starts and long drives to muddy cross country races. My parents never watched, never saw me come 500th, 200th, 50th, and at last my crowning glory, 5th. But Alan Forster did.

...stride and...

Kindly Alan Forster -all smiley eyes and crinkly hair - the coach we all wanted. The one who got girls into the national squad, whose proteges went to World Championships and even, once, to the Olympics. He saw what I could do, and promised I would do more. You'll be another Kelly, he said, our very own golden girl. And I believed him. Right around the time Dad left, I started a strict diet of protein and carbs, and Alan's special supplements. I went out every day at 5am, and abandoned the idea of a social life. Mum cried a lot, but I didn't miss Dad much. Alan Forster was much nicer anyway. Besides, I had races to win.

...breathe and...

I reached the local championships. The regionals. The nationals. I won, I won, I won. The local paper called me "Golden Jill". Olympic qualification beckoned. And then I hit a slump. A bad cold meant I lost the only race Dad ever watched. A miscalculation next time saw me come in third. I trained harder, but my times got worse. The season began to slip away till one day Alan came up with a solution. Every champion needs a pick me up, he said. It's not illegal, it'll just tide you through. Whatever it was, it did the trick. I made the squad. Mum was so proud she let Dad come round to celebrate.They drank champagne and got all giggly. I had to be up early, so I left them to it.

...stride and...

Now I ran three times a day. I ate constantly but the hunger never left. I slept early, rose early, my muscles sore. I looked at the other girls' times and I need to do more. I didn't care about running, it was winning that counted, the crowd calling my name - Jill-ee-an, Jill-ee-an. I pushed and pushed myself, but my times stayed static. I did fartlek, Kenyan hills, speed trials. Nothing helped. Try this, said Alan, It will do you good. The devil has a familiar face and sups with a long spoon - THG mixed with modafinil. I supped with him. I took what he offered because I wanted to win. When he told me I couldn't be caught, I believed him. I hit my personal best again, and again, and again.

...breathe and...

A few drops of urine. The difference between triumph and disgrace. Sponsors queuing up and rapidly dropping you. The crowd shouting your name and the changing room blanking you. The minute the news broke, Alan left, but I had nowhere to run. After the press, and loss of friendship, all there was was a room at Mum's. Dad came back to a house no longer silent, but full of whispered concern. I sat in my room, looking at the wall. They took me to the doctor. Depression, she said, as she prescribed the cures of the modern age - therapy and Citalopram. I sat silently through the first, and the second made my head fuzzy. My body sagged, my legs became flabby with disuse.

...stride and...

It was a cold winter. The snow no longer beckoned me. I couldn't imagine running in the rain. Spring came slowly, blue skies, chilly air, an occasional bud. Still, my room seemed the safest place to be. Until this morning when I turned on the TV to see the crowds at Greenwich queuing for their moment to run. The camera panned over bodies throwing themselves into motion, faces strained with effort, legs stampeding. A memory stirred. I can do this. I went to the cupboard and got out my kit.

...breathe

The sun sparkles on the water. A swan glides by. I was born for this. My body was made for this.

There is nothing to do but run

Sunday Story - Easter Rising

2010-04-04T05:43:00.000-07:00

Well this will be a bit longer than my usual friday flash, but actually long fiction is what I tend to do more of anyway. This is an old story, reworked a couple of years ago. I rather like it, though it's failed to impress several competition judges...(one day). It being the right season, I thought I'd post it up and see what you all thought.

(Sorry it's one long scroll, still have to work out how to paginate!)

Easter Rising

And what if excess of love
bewildered them till they died?

WB Yeats “Easter, 1916”

“I’ll sing you a song of a row in the town”

The boys are in fine form tonight, he thought, as he drained the last drops of his pint. The tap being dry, he was drinking English beer, instead of his usual Guiness. It was rancid as communion wine. He looked at his watch, time to be getting back; but the bar was warm, and the song took him back to his childhood,

“And they played the best game played in Erin go Bragh.”

Ah, go on, I’ve time for another, he thought, though he knew he’d regret the head in the morning. He rose from the table and made his way to the bar; a small round man, whose face was too flushed to be healthy, with skin too lined for someone not yet sixty. Every table was full, the standing customers were packed from the wooden walls to the dark brown bar. The room was a fog of cigarette smoke. It smelt of sweaty bodies, and the sourness of spilt beer.

“Same again?” said Tom, the barman.

“Just a half,” he said, fiddling for the right coins. He was getting old, three years since decimalisation and he still missed the feel of a crisp ten shilling note. He took the beer, and made his way back through the carousing crowd.

“God rest gallant Pearse and his comrades who died,
Tom Clarke, MacDonagh, MacDermott, McBride” they sang with enthusiasm, several of them losing the tune. He smiled, his Daddy used to sing this to the three of them at bedtime: Sean, Thomas and Pat, all named for the heroes of 1916. Well that was a long time ago. Who’d have thought he’d end up here on the other side of the water? The singing died down and the pub buzzed with argument and laughter. He drank his beer, his mind wandering back to those days on the farm.

“Knockanure!” shouted someone, “Let’s have Knockanure”. He hummed along with the singers, though it wasn’t his favourite. The bar was as warm as his mother’s kitchen. He let his arms rest on the table, his eyes drooping slightly. It would be easy just to rest here, wrapped in the comfort of strangers in the pub, and not go home tonight. But his duty lay in ambush on the edge of the song: he couldn’t afford to stay much longer. As if answering his thoughts, the tune changed again,

“But the angelus bell o’er the Liffey’s swell

Rang out through the foggy dew”

If that wasn’t a sign he should go, he didn’t know what was. He sighed, gulped the remainder of his beer, adjusted his dog collar and pulled on his black overcoat: no longer Pat at the bar, but Father Pat Geary returning home. The April evening was cool, and there was a hint of jasmine in the air. It was a long walk, but he preferred it that way. In these dark times, when even his accent was suspect, it wouldn’t do to be seen drinking in a republican bar. He walked away from the warmth of the revellers, every
reluctant step taking him towards the unfinished sermon and the longest week of his year. Time was when Holy Week was everything to him. From the dramatic entry into Jerusalem on Palm Sunday, the betrayal of Maundy Thursday, the darkness of Good Friday, to the resurrection of Easter, he was the chief actor, the inspiration for his people. Now the ritual was all that was left; words said by rote that he wasn’t quite sure he believed.

It was midnight when he arrived home. He let himself into the narrow hallway, nearly tripping over Father Andretti’s size thirteen boots. Damn him, only here a week, and the curate was already a nuisance. Father Geary’s head was beer-fogged and the temptation to leave the sermon overwhelming, so he took himself off to bed. As he lay down, his eyes were drawn to a bare hook on the white wall. In the days when prayer had meant something, there had been a crucifix on that hook. It had been put in a drawer long ago; now the priest went to sleep unblessed.

When he awoke, it was with a dry mouth and a thumping head. He padded barefoot along the cold grey lino to the bathroom. As he arrived, Father Andretti emerged with a breezy ,“Good morning, Father.” Father Geary grunted in response, a man could be too cheerful in the morning. The passage was narrow, and Father Andretti, large. They squeezed past each other, and the Italian went downstairs humming to himself.

Was there ever such an oaf as Father Andretti? Father Geary thought later, during Palm Sunday Mass. In the middle of Father Geary’s hypocritical sermon, he dropped a hymn book. When they rose at communion, he collided with an altar server. As the two priests came out of church, he nearly fell over the step. It was enough to drive a saint mad, and Father Geary was no saint at all. The performance brought much amusement to the congregation: Dr Hewitt’s comment was typical,
“Morning Father Geary. I see you and Father Andretti are modelling yourselves on Laurel and Hardy. Perhaps you should hire a choreographer to avoid further collisions.”

He guffawed at his own witticism, and Father Geary reddened. He was unequal to such jokes; after ten years he could never tell whether the laughter behind them was affectionate or cruel. Hewitt moved on, and was soon engaged in a long discussion with Father Andretti. Other people shook Father Geary’s hand, but his attention was drawn to the lively debate between Hewitt and the Italian. How was it that the parishioners were always more welcoming to his curates? Why were they never so easy and relaxed with him? Suddenly, he’d had enough and went inside to tidy up, his head ringing with Hewitt’s sneering laugh. They were all like that these snotty English, mocking him and acting as if he hid terrorists under the bed. What in Heaven’s name was he doing here? This was not what God called him for, all those years ago. This was not how he was supposed to live.

It was the day the mountain collapsed, that he heard the voice of God, or so he thought. Then again, he was young at the time, dreamy and quiet, and he thought a lot of daft things. He was living with his mother and brothers on the family farm. Their Daddy had just died, and Tom and Sean were helping Mammy farm the land. Pat Geary was still a schoolboy then, doing his evening chores, checking on the sheep in the far field. There’d been heavy rain at the weekend. People said afterwards that it loosened the trees further up the mountainside. The first he noticed was a slight rumble, like thunder. He looked up to see where it was coming from, and for a moment stood still, his mouth gaping. The whole hillside was sliding forwards: trees somersaulting over themselves, mud and rocks cascading down in a torrent. Then he realised his legs could move after all, and he had the presence of mind to throw himself over the stone wall. He cowered behind it as the boulders and earth rampaged past him. The roaring earth sprayed gravel and sharp stones that whipped his body.

In the height of the tumult, he thought he felt a hand on his shoulder and voice saying “Do not be afraid”. In the midst of his terror and despair he felt a calmness descend on him and he stopped trembling. When at last the landslide halted, he rose, choking with dust; blood streaking his eyes; his limbs were raw from the battering of the stones. The sheep he had been tending were buried under several feet of boulders and dirt: only one small lamb had escaped to his side of the wall. It was blackened with the earth, and one of its’ eyes was bleeding; it bleated piteously for the mother that would never return. Looking down the hill, he saw that the earth had beaten a path to the edge of the farmyard, destroying several fields on the way. The crops were all gone; the cows, like the sheep, were smothered by the rubble. He picked the bleating lamb up in his arms, and made his way down to the small, white farm house, now flecked in dirt and mud.

His mother and brothers had taken refuge in the cellar. They emerged as he arrived, pale and shaking. For a moment, none of them could speak, and then Mammy said,“Will you look at yourself, Patrick. How in heaven’s name did you get yourself so mucky just tending the sheep?”

At this, they fell upon each other laughing and crying all at once, as the lamb wriggled out of Pat’s arms and ran off to the barn. They knew what the moment meant, but they went inside to celebrate anyway,

“After all,” said Mammy, “We’re together safe, and that’s what counts.”

So they raised a glass to new life. Soon after his mother went to live with her sister, Sean and Tom were off to America, and Pat was free to enter the seminary. Convinced that God had saved him for a purpose, he saw himself out in the missions: a modern St Paul, bringing salvation to the world.

“And look where it got me,” Father Geary almost shook his fists at the cross, “ministering to a bunch of stuck up English people. I wanted to go to Africa, and serve people who really needed me. But, instead, I ended up here in this damned backwater. What good do I do here?”

The figure on the cross was silent, as always. Presently, the priest finished his tasks, locked the church and went next door to the presbytery. Father Andretti loomed at him from the lounge, “I am sorry, Father Geary, for being in your way today. I was born, as I think they say in this country, with two left feet.”

Father Geary looked at the younger man. The blue eyes usually bright with laughter, looked troubled; the mouth normally creased in a smile, was solemn. Even the dark curly hair seemed to have lost its buoyancy. He was ashamed of himself, didn’t Mammy always tell him to be kind to others, and they would be kind to you?

“Ah don’t mind me Father, I’m just getting old: too used to my own ways. “ He resolved to make more of an effort. After all, he couldn’t blame the other man for his disappointments. It was his cross – for him alone to bear.

As Holy Week progressed, through a conveyor belt of ceremonies - benediction, confession, daily mass - he was glad of this resolve. Father Andretti might be clumsy, but he had the strength of a pack horse and proved an able assistant. Even so, by the time Good Friday arrived, Father Geary was so exhausted that the simple task of putting on his vestments took his breath away. When he spoke the opening words of the Mass, they seemed to come from somewhere far away. The church was hot and stuffy, every seat was taken; the latecomers filled the side aisles and overflowed into the porch at the back. He forced himself to concentrate on the rhythms of the service, but his mouth was dry as dust, and the prayers seemed to have no meaning. By the time they arrived at the enactment of the Passion of Christ, he was shaking from head to toe. He held onto the lectern to read the part of Jesus, steadying his voice, till he reached the final words,

“My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” .

His voice cracked, he was conscious of the congregation looking at him from the end of a dark tunnel; a voice in his ear calling his name. He had the vague awareness of someone helping him off the altar into the sacristy, and helping him lie across two chairs. Somewhere in the distance, he could hear Father Andretti continuing with service. He drifted off. It was pleasant to lie there, peaceful even.

After a while, the dizziness passed. He was able to sit up and look about him. Dr Hewitt was sitting opposite, and now Mass had ended, Father Andretti was disrobing.

“I thought you were a bit peaky Father, let me have a look at you.”said the doctor, “Hmm. I don’t think there’s anything seriously wrong, but your blood pressure’s a little high and your heart rate too. You’ve probably been overdoing it a bit. You work far too hard you know. You must let Father Andretti lighten your load a bit. Have a bit of rest now, and book a time to see your GP will you?”

With that he bustled off, leaving Father Geary open mouthed, only too willing to be led off to bed.

When he woke at seven, he felt more refreshed. As he came down the stairs, he could smell fish frying in the kitchen. Father Andretti was at the stove.

“How are you feeling Father Geary? I thought you should eat.”

“Better, thank you. And this is too kind: more than I deserve.”

“ We have to take care of each other, we men of God. For who else is there? Now I am making you some fish in olive oil. Just like we make it in Tuscany, and in honour of our Lord. As you know, he liked a bit of fish.”

Father Geary laughed. Here was a man, after all, who might be worth getting to know. He began to talk freely, and soon they were discussing Irish history.

“Ah but they were men,” Father Geary said “Pearse, Clarke, Connolly, Macdermott and Plunket . Pearse, there was someone who understood the meaning of the cross. He sacrificed his blood for the love of his country, knowing it would only be understood long after his death. That’s a kind of man I could believe in. That’s the kind of man I wanted to be.”

“He was indeed, and they did a fine thing to free Ireland.” said Father Andretti. “But these modern day bombers, I am not so sure of them.”

“A terrible beauty is born”

“Sorry?”

“Yeats said it in a poem. I think he meant they were right to give their lives, but what it might lead to who knows?”

“Ah yes, I remember, ‘Easter, 1916’.”

They thought for a moment, and then Father Andretti said,“So what brought you to England? Did you not wish to stay among your own people?”

“I wanted to be a Missionary in Africa, but my superiors had other ideas. They thought me too proud and full of ego. Ah, but I was young then, so, perhaps I was. Anyway, they sent me here to learn my place; to know the will of God.”

“And do you? Know the will of God?”

“Well now, I can’t say I do. I live with these cold English, never allowed to be a missionary. All I do is say Mass and give the sacraments, and that with very little grace. And now there is so much change. The Vatican Council did away with everything I knew, and I am too old for new ways.“

“You know I think we dwell on authority sometimes too much in this Church of ours. I wonder what Jesus would make of us if he came back now. Would he be pleased with us, or would he run through our churches overturning tables do you think?”

Fr Geary laughed, “Perhaps he would be after pulling the Bishop’s palaces down now?”

“You should see inside the Vatican my friend. Still I think you’ve had some hard blows, Father Geary, the church has not been kind to you, and yet you remain here.”

“Yes but for what? What good am I?”

“Haven’t you said it yourself? You give people the sacraments, care for them when they are sick, pray with them when they are dying”

“But I have lost the habit of kindness. I shame myself.”

“You are too hard on yourself! I think you are a man who has lived an excess of love, though bewildered by the people around him. Yet, I see what you do in this parish - and I think, you have been a faithful servant.”

Father Geary fell silent at this, and then changed to a lighter subject. They talked late into the night. At bedtime, when Father Geary looked at the bare hook on the wall, it seemed to him that something was missing. He opened his sock drawer, and took out the crucifix. He marvelled at it for a moment, before placing it in its rightful place. He went to sleep light in heart and spirit.

It was with a strange elation that he prepared for the Easter Vigil Mass the next day. For the first time in years, he enjoyed dressing in the gold and white vestments. As the two priests lit the fire to start the familiar ceremony, Father Geary was possessed with an awe he had not felt for a long time. He held the Easter Candle in the flame and watched the spark light the wick. The altar servers lit their tapers and the fire was passed among the candles of the congregation. As they entered the dark church, Father Geary raised the Easter Candle high above his head. The two priests sang with confidence,

“Christ our light.”

Behind them small flames were doubling and tripling, illuminating the shadows. The smell of incense filled the air; smoke rose like steam from his mother’s kitchen.

The priests reached the altar and smiled at each other. An altar server switched on the church lights. Dark night was banished; Easter had begun.

Copyright c Virginia Moffatt 2008

#fridayflash The Stationmaster.

2010-04-02T12:26:00.000-07:00

The mourners followed the pall-bearers to the grave. They watched as the coffin was laid on slats of wood, the undertakers holding the rope taut whilst their chief removed each plank from underneath the brown box. Then inch, by inch, they lowered it in the grave. The deceased's daughter let out a long moan. His wife began to dab her eyes. The mourners followed suit. Hankies were brought to watery red eyes, hats were doffed in respect. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. He returned to the earth from which he came.Little spots of rain began to fall, then larger ones, umbrellas were raised and the funeral party scattered for cover.

Later, at the wake, his wife sat, straight-backed and pale-faced, in her black crape gown. She greeted her damp guests with an air of slight indifference, that was put down to shock. A young woman joined the queue. She was slim, dressed in Charles Worth, carrying an elegant black parasol.The wife shook her hand, wondered for a moment who she was, then turned to the next person. The woman wandered through the crowd, greeting no-one. She nibbled on a cucumber sandwich, wiping the crumbs from her mouth with a tiny lace handkerchief. A little girl ran up. She was dressed in black velvet, yellow curls tumbled down her back.

"Hello," she said.
"Hello."
"My grandfather died."
"I know."
"My mother is very sad."
"He was a good man."
"He used to tell me stories."
"Me, too."
"Was he your grandfather too?"
"No. He was just a friend."
"Oh," the little girl paused for a moment, contemplating the idea that friendship existed among adults. It was too much. "There's cake. Would you like some?"
"I'd like it very much."

The lady in grey allowed herself to be led to the table. She ate a sliver of fruit cake, made her excuses and left. No-one ever saw her again.

*********

"It's just too sad," said the neighbour.
"It is," her friend nodded.
"A mother shouldn't see her child in the ground first."
"No."
"They say she ran back to the house to get the baby's toy. If she'd only stayed in the shelter..."
"It's too bad."

The neighbours watched the grieving mother follow the coffin out of the church. She walked with a ram-rod back, her face invisible under her black veiled hat. Her husband walked behind her, staring ahead with expressionless eyes. There was to be no formal wake. The couple said it was because they had to get back to the baby, and everyone understood. But in truth, they couldn't bear the throng of sympathetic handshakes. The graveside was dealt with as quickly as was decent. Water, earth, ashes, to ashes. She returned to the ground from which she came and it was time to go home. The little girl was napping, their friend said. They thanked her and saw her out.

The father poured out two glasses of sherry.

"I think, in the circumstances..."

She nodded, took off her hat, and let down her hair. Blond curls, greying in places, cascaded down the back of her black rayon suit. She looked out of the window as spots of rain fell on the pane. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their drinks. A cry came from the child's bedroom, her old room. The mother sighed, she knew the routine. She put her drink down and walked upstairs to offer the necessary comfort.

*********

"...I have a mental image of her now, standing on the front step in her dressing gown, shaking her fist at the house as if it were to blame for locking her out." The mourners laughed, there were many such moments to remember. The deceased's daughter continued, "What I loved about her, was she could laugh at herself too. She knew her own little foibles. It was a great gift, and for that and so many others, we'll miss her." She stepped down, and returned to her seat. Her husband raised an arm in comfort. Her brothers and cousins stood up to lift the coffin. Under the watchful eye of the undertaker, they carried it out to the funeral car and then arranged the convoy to the cemetry.

It was a colourful parade by the graveside, in keeping with the deceased's wishes. No black, I hate bloody black, you've got that? They got it, and in respect wore turquoises, purples, reds, oranges. The daughter who'd given the eulogy wore a bright yellow dress, a sun-hat and strapless sandals. The grandaughter was sporting a blue miniskirt and pink halter-neck top. Only the second cousin made the mistake of dressing according to tradition, and they forgave her that on the account of the effort she'd made, coming all the way from Newfoundland. But the sunshine and brightness couldn't disguise the inevitability of the thud of the coffin as it reached the base of the grave. The sprinkling of water, the clods of earth. Ashes, to ashes, dust to dust, she returned to the earth from which she came.

Afterwards, in the pub, the grandaughter approached her mother who was sitting alone with a glass of wine in her hand.

"I've got something for you." It was a photograph album.
"Darling, how sweet. Where did you get these?"
"Grandma liked to tell me the old stories. She had all these old photos. She said I could keep them."
Her mother flicked through the pages, "Oh look, that's my poor grandmother who died in the war. And her parents, who raised my mother. She always said it was harder for them than for her."
She carried on turning the pages, "My goodness there's my great, great grandfather."
"He was a station-master wasn't he?"
"Very straitlaced apparently, though Mum always hinted at a disreputable past."
"Wasn't there some strange woman at his funeral?"
"So Mum said. They never did find out who she was."
"Perhaps she was his first wife?"
"His mistress?"
"His daughter?"
"He looks very respectable though. Maybe she was just a regular passenger on the line come to pay her respects." She closed the album and put it on the table. "This was very thoughtful of you sweetheart. Now go and mingle."

She sipped a mouthful of her drink. "What do you think Mum?" she said.

Plug of the Month

2010-03-31T13:04:00.000-07:00

A Prickly Affair by Hugh Warwick.

Unusually, my plug of this month is for a work of non-fiction. Slightly strange for a literary blog perhaps except that:

Once upon a time I did a Biology degree. I therefore have pretensions to being an environmentalist.
Hedgehogs formed a huge part of my childhood - my parents (particularly my Dad) would always put milk out, and then we'd listen to the snufflings of the little critters coming up the garden.
I now know, thanks to Hugh, that the milk malarkey is turble for poor little hedgehogs, but garden wilderness is a GOOD THING. We have a great patch at the end of the garden and our own resident ball of spikes. (At least we did have, but there was some roadkill last autumn that looked a bit familiar. I sincerely hope it was the neighbour's)
They are undeniably cute.
Thomas Hardy wrote a great poem mentioning hedgehogs,* so they are literary after all.

Anyway, anything endorsed by both Jeanette Winterson and Anne Widdecombe must have a lot going for it. And to be described by The Guardian as "endearingly batty" has a certain cachet, don't you think?

For anyone in Oxford, Hugh will be speaking at Science Oxford on Thursday 8th April at 7.30pm "How Hedgehogs Can Save the World". I can guarantee he will be witty, enthusiastic and informative. But if you can't get to Oxford, the paperback is out tomorrow, easily ordered on Amazon etc. And do visit his website which is brilliant.

* First seen at Thomas Hardy's birthplace in Little Bockhampton, an apt epitaph for my Dad, an English teacher, who had recently died.

#Fridayflash - Safe & Sound

2010-03-26T13:26:00.000-07:00

"Can I go to Lily's for a sleepover on Saturday?"
"No, you can't."
"Why not?" Petra's pulls her face in a pout that looks like a stuffed salmon. Her mother sighs.
"Because not."
"But everyone's going to be there."
"Everybody minus you."
"But WHY?"
"Because Dad's on lates, and I say so." Her mother doesn't add that Lily's parents cannot be trusted; that Lily and her friends wear clothes beyond their age; who knows what they get up to? No wonder she prefers Petra to be safely under her eye at home.
"It's not FAIR."
"Life's not fair sometimes. Haven't you got homework to do?"

Petra sighs in return and stomps upstairs to her bedroom. She opens her laptop and begins her history essay,"To what extent was Germany's defeat in World War 1 responsible for the rise of Hitler?" She looks up a few websites for information; weighs up pros and cons; ponders the nature of oppression and considers herself hard done by. At last, the essay reaches a state that will satisfy Mrs Blandings. She emails it across and switches to her Facebook page. Suzy's latest update makes her grin.

Suzy wishes Year 10 teachers would stop going on about GSCE's.

Petra posts,

Petra has finished her history essay & wishes her parents weren't such control freaks.

Suzy must be on-line. Her response is almost immediate.

Mine too. Do you think they learn it at parent school?

Petra yawns, types back,

LOL. I'm tired. Off to bed now xxx

Just before she closes down, a final message appears,

Sleep well. Talk tomorrow.S xxxx

She smiles and exits.

A hundred miles away, Tony smiles back, as he sits in his bedsit, preparing updates for tomorrow.

#FridayFlash - Good Mornings.

2010-03-18T15:43:00.000-07:00

I find, as the years pass, my morning routine becomes ever more essential to my well being. I dislike it when my mornings are disturbed.

I am not an early riser - the preservation of beauty requires at least eight hours a night - and I need a leisurely breakfast if I am to last the day. Not that I eat much - half a grapefruit, some quinoa and a glass of pepper juice - but I like to take my time. Then a stretch, and a look in the Mirror. The 3am girls always reassure me I'm fairest. I've never known them to let me down.

After breakfast: a bath. And then to work. Age will not wither me, but the maintenance of youth takes effort. There are eyebrows to be plucked. Grey hairs to be excised. Body parts to be moisturised. Once a week: a visit to the salon, for bleaching, botoxing, lifting shadows from eyes. At home: an hour in the gym working on core muscles. A model stomach cannot sag even a millimetre.

I lunch alone: a sliver of grilled chicken, a mouthful of salad. I rest a little, and then prepare for the night ahead. I manicure, coiffure, choose my wardrobe, with only Rosa to help. It does not do to have an audience. It is important to be seen when all imperfection has been eradicated. I like to dazzle.

So my days pass, as they have passed for years. Until this morning. This morning was different. Disturbing. And now I will have to act.

I had a long lie in as usual, meditating on a delightful night out. Cocktails at the Ritz. A film premiere. A nice little model to play with in the small hours. His smooth body and hard muscles proving a welcome distraction whilst Marco is away. Everything as normal until I picked up the Mirror. It took one tiny article to shatter my routine completely.

"Down at the Blue Note Club dancing the night away we bump into the ravishing Bianca Nievicata, daughter of Fashion King, Marco Nievicata, and stepdaughter of the gorgeous Catherine. She tells us her father is developing a new line for her age group. “ I’m so excited!” she gushes before rushing back to the dance floor. Where does this leave step-mum Catherine we wonder? Is she about to be supplanted as the face of Nievicata? Having met Bianca we can’t say we blame her Dad. Catherine may be good for her age but on balance we have to say, that Bianca is far and away the fairest of them all.”

No mention of my turn on the red carpet. The new Nievicata creation I wore (a stunning little piece in purple velvet). Just Bianca's pouty red lips. Her silky black hair. Her paler than pale skin. How could they let me down like this? I'd ring their editor, but it would only make things worse. Marco dotes on that child. Naturally, so do I. It wouldn't do to have that myth exposed.

Marco hasn't dared mention his latest little scheme. He must have been worrying how I'd respond. I will have to embrace it with enthusiasm. That should be easy enough - living with Marco has always required a certain amount of deception. I'll make suggestions about the launch: venues, celebrities, refreshments. I'll do all the grunt work, get the right publicity, make it go with a bang. Then, when they're reassured they have nothing to fear, I'll phone the Huntsman. He can take care of Bianca for me. As he has done so many times before.

The preservation of beauty takes considerable effort. It's well worth it - don't you think?

* A gossip column in the Mirror newspaper for the uninitiated.

Sublime Screenplay (3) - Finding Nemo

2010-03-17T14:51:00.000-07:00

I promise one of these days to reflect on some of the brilliant British screenwriters out there, but Mother's Day reminded me of all the great children's films I love. So, I thought I'd take a moment to talk about one of my favourites. Pixar films are undoubtedly the geniuses of the modern age, worthy successors to Walt Disney's legacy. Whilst I love Toy Story (1) &; (2), A Bug's Life, The Incredibles, Wall:E , Up, none quite match Finding Nemo for its storytelling and humour. After all what's not to love about an unfunny Clown Fish, a forgetful Blue Tang, vegetarian sharks, surfer -dude turtles, the inhabitants of a fish tank trying to escape, greedy seagulls and grumpy crabs? Andrew Stanton's screenplay is brilliantly structured, a worthy Oscar winner (Best Animated Feature 2004) and nominee (Best Original Screenplay 2004. It lost out to the much more inferior "Lost in Translation", which just goes to show how wrong the Academy can be). So here's my take on a film that makes me both cry and hoot with laughter, and which I love watching with my children and hope to enjoy with grandkids, should I ever have any...

1.The premise.

"Finding Nemo" tells the story of father and son clownfish, Marlon and Nemo. When Nemo is taken from the reef where they live, Marlon has to search the ocean to rescue him. A simple enough story, but Andrew Stanton is such a fine writer, it becomes something quite extraordinary - a masterclass in screenplay. Here's why.

2. Archetypal story-telling.

All good films follow archetypal stories. "Finding Nemo" has three.

The first, is the quest, specifically in this instance, for a loved one. Quest stories require a hero (Marlon), a sidekick (Dory), obstacles (sharks, jelly fish, whales), life lessons (from turtles and Dory) and a destination (Sydney).

The second is the prison break out. The hero here is Nemo. He is the outsider who will not settle to the system, unlike all the shop bought fish who are more content with their lot. He is the young rebel, aided by the old hand, the grizzled Gil, who has the brains and the wit to plot a way out. Prison break outs require complicated planning, solidarity, failure, and eventual success for the hero at least.

The thirds is rites of passage. Here Nemo has to learn to be who he is, and his father, has to learn to let him grow up.

Archetypal stories work best when they are familiar, in an unfamiliar setting. And what better way to do that then to set them in an underwater world amongst tropical fish?

3. The protagonists.

There are two protagonists in the story. Marlon and Nemo. Like all good heroes, they have their flaws.
Marlon has lost his wife and 499 eggs to a shark attack. He is therefore over-protective of his only remaining child, and fearful about the world. He wants to keep Nemo safe for ever. But he needs to learn that he has to let Nemo go. Nemo on the other hand wants to be a good son and to fit in. He needs to learn he is more capable than he thinks and if he trusts in himself he can achieve anything.

The antagonists are various, the scuba-diving dentist that captures Nemo, the various sea creatures Marlon encounters, the dentist's niece, Darla, and the ocean itself.

4. Structure

One of the reasons "Finding Nemo" is so successful is that it is beautifully paced. This is because it follows a clear 5 Act Structure.

Act 1 Set up & inciting incident

Act 1 introduces us to Marlon and Nemo, we see their flaws and their obvious love for each other. This builds up to the inciting incident - the moment for both characters when everything changes. This comes about 15 minutes in when Marlon realises Nemo's teacher has taken the class to the edge of the reef, where the shark killed their family. Marlon tells Nemo he has to come back with him, and in a rare moment of defiance, Nemo refuses. Instead he takes up his class mates dare, swimming out to touch a boat that's anchored some distance away. As he is coming back to face the music, a deep sea diver grabs him, leaving his father literally reeling on the reef. Now, Marlon will have to overcome his flaw, in order to rescue his son, and Nemo will have to overcome his, in order to escape.

Act 2 - Progress

The story now splits into two, following each of the characters in turn.
Marlon - Marlon recovers his breath and follows the boat, but he loses it. In a panic he asks different fish if they've seen it. No-one can help till he meets an excitable Blue Tang called Dory. She's seen the boat and he follows her, only for her to stop and ask what he's doing. It turns out she suffers from short term memory loss so, whilst she is keen to help, she's not necessarily the best person for the job. A memorable encounter with vegetarian sharks, brings them into contact with the scuba diver's lost mask. Dory is able to read it and remember the address. Now they know Nemo is in Sydney, they can find him.

Nemo - We catch up with Nemo as he is being placed in a fish tank. He doesn't know where he is and frantically tries to escape, hitting the sides of the tank till someone explains to him. When the tropical fish discover he's from the ocean they are a bit suspicious, at first, till Gil, the old hand, welcomes him into their midst and they ask him to join their club.

Act 3 - Progressive Complications

Marlon - Marlon and Dory's journey is fraught with danger. After escaping the vegetarian sharks and an explosion, they have to find directions to Sydney. Marlon manages to offend a school of fish by his grumpiness, but Dory persuades them to help. Their path takes them through a crevice, the fish warn not to go above it. Marlon thinks this is stupid and manages to trick Dory into forgetting. They go above and hit a mass of jelly fish. Now their journey is a terrifying bounce across the top of the jelly fish avoiding being stung, and Dory is nearly killed. They are rescued by sea turtles who swim with them along the East Australian Current. When they exit, the sea is so polluted they can't see anything, except, a huge threatening looking whale. How are they going to get to Sydney now?

Nemo - Meanwhile in the fish tank, Nemo discovers the scuba diver is a dentist, and the reason he has been caught is a present for his niece Darla,. Darla is a terrifying brat, who has killed her last pet. Gil hatches an escape plan. They need to block the tank filter, so the dentist will clean the tank, leaving the fish in plastic bags by the window. They'll roll off the edge, across the street and into the sea. The trouble is that Nemo will have to swim up a tiny tube with a pebble and if he fails he could be sucked back into the motor. The other fish are worried that it will be too dangerous and beg Gil not to go through with the plan. Nemo tries, but as he is leaving, he gets stuck and the pebble doesn't hold. The motor starts and he is being dragged back. The fish pull him out with a piece of weed, but he is weak and exhausted, and they agree it is too dangerous to try again.

Act 4 - Crisis

Marlon - Dory tells Marlon she can speak "whalese" and as a result they are taken up in the whale's mouth. Marlon is despairing trying to escape, and angry with her. Suddenly the water starts disappearing, and Dory says the whale wants them to let go and follow it. Marlon thinks this is madness, till he remembers last time he didn't follow Dory, he nearly got her killed. The moment he decides to literally "let go" is the moment he realises sometimes he has to trust things will work out. The result is that the whale shoots them out in its spout and they are at their destination, Sydney.

Nemo - The day of Darla's arrival is drawing near. Nemo is in despair. But then Nigel, a friendly pelican comes and tells Nemo all the ocean are talking about Marlon and Dory's search for Nemo. At first Nemo can't believe it, but when Nigel remembers his dad's name, it gives Nemo the courage to act. As the other fish watch in horror he shoots up the tunnel with the pebble, and escapes the other side. The fish tank becomes dirty. The escape plan is working

Act 5 - Resolution.

In Act 5 Marlon and Nemo's stories rejoin to create first a false resolution and then the final proper resolution. Marlon and Dory meet Nigel who takes them to the dentist's studio. Meanwhile, the fish wake up to discover that the dentist has introduced a laser cleaner which has cleaned the tank. Darla arrives and Nemo is transferred to a bag for her. He plays dead in the hope he will be flushed down the toilet. When Nigel arrives with Marlon and Dory, Darla is distracted and chaos ensures, with the dentist chasing after the pelican, and Nemo being bobbed around. Marlon sees Nemo and thinks he is dead, the dentist chases Nigel away before he realises his mistake. Nemo's bag bursts and he manages to flip down a drain to the ocean.

Marlon thinks it is all over and abandons Dory, trying to make his sad way home. But Nemo is just behind. He meets Dory who is her usual helpful, but forgetful self. Just as we think she's not going to remember, something he says brings all the memories back, she rushes him to Marlon and they are reunited. Dory gets caught in a fishing net, and it is up to Nemo to rescue her. Marlon momentarily thinks Nemo can't but remembers just in time the lessons he has learnt, and Nemo is strong enough to say he can do this. He rescues the fish and Dory and they return to the reef. The film ends as it begins with Nemo going off to school, to "have an adventure."

6. Conclusion.

It's perfectly paced, it follows all the rules, it tells archetypal stories, which is half the battle. But that wouldn't be enough on it's own. The film works so well because of the wonderful mix of anthropomorphism and animation. The characters all look and behave like sea-creatures should, but they are believably human. Dory's enthusiasm and forgetfulness is such an exuberant combination make her immensely lovable. The moment when Marlon abandons her and she cries "But I remember better when I'm with you" is truly heartbreaking. The laidback sea turtles are chilled out beach bums surfing the currents of the world. My particular favourites are the sea gulls, that attack in formation, saying "mine, mine, mine" - a perfect mix of real animal behaviour and description of what they might in fact be saying. At the heart of is is a truthful father/son relationship that says everything parents need to know about letting their children grow up (and one of the reasons I cry through my laughter). The dialogue is cracking and the whole thing zips along with great humour, summarised by the brilliant post-script at the credits. The fish tank fish, have managed to make it to the pavement. They roll in their bags over to the edge of the sea. Success! They roll into the water. The last one makes it to great applause. Then someone says, "how do we get out of the bags?!

Sheer bloody genius.

#FridayFlash- Submission

2010-03-05T15:40:00.000-08:00

This piece has taken longer than I expected to wrote and is probably deeply flawed as a result. It's inspired by the wonderful interfaith work of Ray Gaston and Annie Heppenstall and a memorable trip, too many years ago...

The bus rattled along the bumpy road, through miles of brown rock and pink dust. It was not the image of desert I'd had in mind when Lee suggested the trip. I knew it was irrational to feel disappointed when we reached the oasis on the outskirts of the town. But images of palm trees, shimmering water, camels and sand dunes were hard to shake off. Mud, a trickle of water, and scraggy trees were poor substitutes.

We struggled off the bus, sitting at the side of the road to check our Lonely Planet. A couple of hawkers drifted up, hopefully. We were old hands by now and brushed them away. They took their collections of purses and beaded necklaces down to the gate of big hotel, lying in wait for the rich tourists. We were hot, thirsty, and our clothes were full of dust. Not for the first time, I wished we had money. How nice it would be to sink into clean sheets, an air conditioned room, and a swim in the cool pool. Our destination, as always, was the heart of the medina - a narrow terraced hotel, with a small bed, squat toilet, a 50:50 chance of a shower.

I picked Lee up in a bank in Casablanca. We got chatting in the queue and it seemed natural to go for lunch afterwards. When we discovered we were both heading to Marrakech, it was the easiest thing in the world to join forces. A relief, too. I was getting tired of the incessant stream of men following me around. A man at my side was a talisman to ward off their advances. As we journeyed south on the train, watching the green fields leach into stony mountains, it was pleasant to lean my head against his, sharing life stories.The night was clear; the moon, full. The landscape would have been dreary by day, but that evening the rocks and boulders sparkled like jewels as the shafts of light bounced between them. It seemed to me, at that moment, that Lee was the greatest treasure of them all.

Three weeks later, and Marrakech had lost its charm. There are only so many trips to the souk, so many snake charmers, so many bowls of couscous. Even sunset, at the top of the Cafe de France - as the lights of the city came on, one by one to the muezzin's call, - was passe. I didn't need much urging to make the Saharan trip, it was a journey I might not have made alone. Even though now we here, Lee had taken charge again, I reminded myself it would still be worth it for the sight of sunrise over the dunes.

The hotel was like all the rest, on a narrow side street off the main square. A plain reception desk with blue and white tiles behind. A morose man on the desk, who spoke only to Lee, as I tried, and failed, not feel excluded. Rooms off a central courtyard, that still retained the heat of the day, even after nightfall. We dragged our rucksacks up to the room and threw ourselves on the bed. It was good to stop moving for a while.

We struck lucky on the shower front. Once we'd washed we were ready to descend and forage for food. As we crossed the courtyard, a woman emerged from a door at the back of the hotel. She was wearing a long purple dress., her head covered in a lilac hijab. She was carrying a bowl of couscous and tajine, which she took to the man on the desk. She spoke to him briefly and then scurried back, not looking at us as she passed.

"What a life." I said, as we walked down the street, trying not to wrinkle our noses at the smell of rotting rubbish.

"What do you mean?"

"Waiting on a man too lazy to get his own food. Covering yourself up to avoid his censure. In the twenty first century too. So submissive."

"Seems alright to me." Lee joked. I nudged him in the ribs, and we continued on our way.

At bedtime we lay naked, on top of the bedclothes. It was too hot to make love. Outside the army trucks rumbled through the town. Occasionally we heard people shouting somewhere in the street. I slept badly.

************

The Europeans arrived after prayer-time. Khadija and I were mopping the tiles in the courtyard. We watched them climb the stairs. They were tired and didn't see us.

"Look at her clothes " I cried, "She is practically naked!"

"That's what the Western girls wear," said Khadija, who'd grown up in the hotel and was used to their funny ways. "The mini trousers are called "shorts". Ther top, is a "T" shirt. They wear them to be cool."

This was odd. When I wanted to be cool, I wore loose clothing. In the middle of the day, I rested. I couldn't imagine why she wanted everyone to see her long tanned limbs, the curve of her breasts.

"How can her hair be so yellow?" I asked.

"Hair dye probably," I pulled a puzzled look, "Like henna. We colour our hands, they colour their hair."

How strange, I thought. But I was having to get used to strange things since my marriage to Bilal. Since leaving my village and living with his people. In a hotel, you see all sorts. Soldiers on leave from their garrisons. Guides preparing to take the tourists to the desert. Business men on their way to a conference in the resorts. Khadija said we'd have our fair share of Europeans in the summer, but it was spring, and these two caught me unawares. I supposed I'd get used to their peculiarities, but it wouldn't be easy. I continued to wash the floor.

At supper time, I brought Bilal his evening meal. When his Father is away, he's the only one able to manage the front desk. He can read, write, speak French, do Arithmetic. Sometimes he is there for hours on end. Bringing him food is all I can do to help.Bilal said the man had tried to bargain for a cheaper room. How dare he? We offer the best prices in town. Everyone knows. That's why the foreigners come, because we're cheap and safe. Yet, here was this ignorant fool acting like he was in the souk. We shrugged at the mysterious ways of Westerners and I made my way back across the courtyard. I did not meet the their eyes, but I was aware of the woman looking at me with distaste. I marvelled at her ignorance.

Later, in bed, I asked Bilal, "Why does she wear such clothes?"

"Who knows? Perhaps, she thinks it brings her strength."

What strength? I wondered. It seemed to me that she was lost, in need of guidance. But I had no idea how I could offer her that. We didn't even speak the same language. Presently, Bilal drew me to him, and we forgot the strangers upstairs. It was a hot night, but I slept well.

We woke as usual to the muezzin's call. We rose, prayed, and went about our daily business - Bilal to the front desk, Khadija and I to the cleaning. I am lucky to live here with my husband, who I love, a family that welcomes me. Bilal's parents treat me like their daughter; Khadija is my soul-sister; and he is so tender, so kind. Sometimes he suggests I should abandon my hijab, like a modern Moroccan. But that's because he studied in Casablanca for a while, and was caught by city ways. I am happy to cover up, I say, to submit to Allah's will. It is fitting not to parade my beauty in public. The avoidance of vanity seems to me the true practice of islam. He tries to argue, and then, seeing my determination, laughs and kisses me instead. Truly, I have all the luck.

I am not so sure of this European woman. Yesterday she and her friend rose late. They asked Bilal about hiring a grand taxis to go to the desert and he directed them to Ibrahim. They packed their bags and departed, we thought for good. But a few hours later, they returned, red-faced and stiff with each other, checking in for another night. Khadija and I heard shouting from their room, but we couldn't understand the words. Bilal said it seemed to be about money, but that was all the English he knew. They left again this morning. Yusuf told us that he saw them take the bus back to Marrakech, they seemed to be barely speaking. Khadija and I still wonder what they were arguing about.

Later, when I cleared the room, I found a bottle marked "Garnier Nutrisse. Light Ash Blonde."

The words meant nothing to me. I threw it away.

Copyright c Virginia Moffatt, March 2010

#FlashFriday At 4am

2010-02-25T15:15:00.000-08:00

The monster crawls out of my cupboard. It has enormous white teeth, like a crocodile. Its eyes are red diamonds. It is going to eat me. I want Mummy, but she doesn't come. The monster climbs up my bed. It chews my covers. It wants me more.

"MUMMY!"

She hears me this time. She climbs into bed and gives me a cuddle

"The monsters have gone," she says. "Look, Alice is asleep. You're safe. It's four o'clock in the morning. Time to sleep now."

I doze in her arms.

*********

"What? What?" A body falls across my bed, waking me up from a dream I cannot recall. For a moment, I'm five again, and the monster is climbing the bed. Then I realise this body is human. It is heavy. It smells of alcohol and cigarettes. It is Alice. She giggles.

"So,sossorry."

"Gerroff me."

"Tripped on your bag. Shouldn't leave bags on the floor. Interfere with stiletto heels." She tries to rise and then falls back on me. I sit up and push her off me. I look at the clock.

"It's 4 o'clock in the morning."

"Sshsshshssh. Don't tell Mum. Don't tell Dad. SShhhsssh. Good girl. Back at midnight.Shhhshshhsh."

"Go to bed will you? I've got a test in the morning."

She staggers across the room, sinks under her covers fully clothed. I could help. I should help. But I cannot move now. My bed is cosy and warm. She'll be all right. I turn over and go back to sleep.

*********

I can't get comfortable. This bed is too small for two. His legs are too long, his torso too broad. Every time I move I cannon into another heavy limb. He's sleeping soundly, emitting the occasional snore. He is oblivious to the movements of my body. I glance over at his digital clock. It blinks red letters at me 4:00. I realise I am wide awake.

We haven't drawn the curtains and a shaft of moonlight is shining on the bedside lamp. His face is in in the shadows, but as I lie here, I can study the contours. His large Laurel ears are suggestive of imminent wiggling, even in sleep. His nose is perfectly straight until just above the nostrils. That slight wonkiness was what first drew me to his face. His lips are just the right side of fleshy. His chin, strong, but not too rigid.

In the blurred hours between sleep and waking, the sight of him is all the rest I need. I look at him for hours.

*********

A wail wakes me. Again. It seems like only a moment since I put her in her cradle. My eyes will not open. My body is stiff. My night-shirt is wet with milk. Iain turns over and shoves me.

"Baby's crying," he mutters. As if I didn't know. I am screaming with tiredness. I push my body up the bed, forcing my eyelids apart. Molly is building up a storm now. I sit up, and turn to the edge of the bed.

"Mummy's coming. I'm coming." Useless words. All she wants is the milk, but I can't move fast enough.

I switch on the lamp and look down at my watch. Two hours since the last feed at 2am. This child is voracious. I pick her up, and move back to the bed, plumping the pillows up with one hand. Two days ago, I'd sit and marvel at this tiny creation, her black spiky hair and little round mouth. Now, I'm just anxious to get the job done and back to sleep. I sit back down and pull her to my breast, trying to remember the midwife's words. Make sure she has the area around the nipple in her mouth. It's not as easy as it looks. Her mouth is wide open with her piercing shriek, but it slips off my breast. Once. Twice. Three times.

"For God's sake," says Iain.

"I'm trying my best." This time she clamps hard on my nipple and draws blood. I yelp, but at least she's on. She begins to gargle the milk down as if it is days since her last feed. Iain turns over in relief, and is soon asleep and snoring.

I, on the other hand, will be here for some time.

*********

"MUMMY!" Oh God. It's the third time this week.

"Your turn," grunts Iain, I hope not triumphantly.

I stagger out of bed, wishing we hadn't opened that third bottle. My mouth is dry. I'm going to have a hell of a hangover in the morning. Molly is sitting up in her bed, staring in terror at the wall.

"The monster. The monster. It's climbing out at me."

"Shh,shh." I rock her to and fro. I'm exhausted, yet now I'm here, I love to enclose her body in mine, feel her limbs gradually relax as the dream recedes. Her hair smells lemony, her pyjamas are soft.

"You're safe," I say. "It's four o'clock in the morning. Time to sleep now."

She dozes in my arms.

FridayFlash Eye of the Storm

2010-02-19T16:25:00.000-08:00

The forester removed the stake from the last sapling and stepped back. For a moment, he stood looking the tiny tree, and then on impulse leant forward to stroke the bark. It was smooth and cool to touch. He smiled, picked up his equipment, and trudged back to his van.

The sapling, released from her constraints, stretched her branches to the sky - as if for the first time. It felt so good to be free from the stake that had pegged her to the ground for so long. Her leaves fluttered in the breeze, thrilling to the possibility of energy and motion.

"Finding your roots?" said the neighbouring oak - old, lumpy and misshapen. Her branches bore the scars of lightning blasts; her bark peeled in places; fungi grew from her base.

"It's lovely," said the sapling. "I've felt so cooped up."

The oak shook her foliage. "It's all right now," she said, "But, you'll have to take care in the storms."

"What are storms?" asked the sapling.

"Don't you remember last winter?" asked the oak. The sapling shrugged her canopy. The oak reflected for a moment, "I suppose you were too young and have forgotten how the gale buffetted you. You were protected by that piece of wood. Now when the wind blows you will only have your trunk to help."

"When the wind comes, what should I do?"

"Learn to use your limbs."

"How?"

"You are not old, and bulky like me. I have strength enough, and girth enough to withstand any onslaught. But your trunk is supple and light. When the wind blows, you must bend with it. You are too slight, too young to withstand its full power. Bow with the pressure, listen to its rhythms, learn, and grow. And each time you do, you will find more strength, more will, until the wind, however strong, will pass you by."

The sapling stilled her branches, thinking about what she had heard. The oak seeing her seriousness, laughed.

"The winter winds are far away. Enjoy the sunshine and the ruffling air. You are young. It is summer. That's enough."

The summer passed. The sapling drank from the ground. She grew several inches. Her leaves greened and grew to full size. The birds sang from her branches. The forest animals raised about her. She was young. She was happy. She was alive.

As autumn approached, she found the mornings cooler. Her leaves began to discolour. One by one, they dropped from her branches. The birds flew south. The forest animals began to hoard. She shivered in the day time and wondered where the warmth had gone.

One day, the sun did not seem to rise. Grey cloud hovered over the horizon. Strong currents began to shake her branches.

"The storm is coming, little sister," said the oak. "Bend your branches."

The sapling curved its body towards the oak in acknowledgment. "I'll try."

The wind increased. Cold and cruel from the north. It raged through the forest, blowing human rubbish in its path - a plastic bag, a toy car, a child's hat. At first the sapling tried to stay upright. She forgot the oak's words and pushed back at the wind in her attempt to hold her ground. But, the force of the gale pounded her again, and again, so her bark began to flake. It pummelled the centre of her being so hard she felt that she was about to break apart. And, then, just as she thought she might give way, she remembered the oak's words. "Bend". She felt the litheness of her trunk, she let it slip in the wake of the wind, which pushed her so far down, the tips of her branches were touching the forest floor. It passed, she rose. But immediately it returned. Back and forth, up and down.Again, and again. She thought it would never stop.

And then - just as suddenly as it had arrived - the wind departed. She creaked her body upright and looked about her. All around the forest floor, her siblings lay broken, their attempts to fight the wind had failed them. She turned to look at the oak, still standing, though several branches lay on the ground beneath it.

The trees bowed to each other in respect.

"Look," said the oak. "It is morning. The forester is making his rounds."

Brilliant Bookshops (1) - Scarthin Books, Cromford

2010-02-14T14:16:00.000-08:00

If you've been following this blog (and I hope you have), you will remember that this isn't my first post about a bookshop. But since that post was about the incomparable Shakespeare and Company (probably the best bookshop in the world) I think we can safely say this is my first post about other Brilliant Bookshops.

I am a big fan of books, libraries, and bookshops. In my view, a house ain't a home unless each room is groaning under the weight of as many tomes as you can fit in without compromising your need to have furniture. If I ever get on Desert Island Discs I'll not be taking music but as many of my favourite novels as I can pack. Husband and family would (of course) be the first to be saved in a fire, but books would have to be next. The brave new world of Kindle and all its electronic rivals fills me with dread. An electronic gizmo cannot match the excitement of feeling a front cover and opening pages. The world would be a joyless place without a shop filled with shelves of books to browse. But, the truly independent bookshop is a rare creature these days, and each one needs our help to survive. So, when I come across such a place, I will shout out the news as loud as possible.

So first up, just because I was there this weekend, is the marvellous Scarthin Books of Cromford (in the Derbyshire Dales). We were staying just down the road, and on Friday night as I was telling everyone about the wonders of Shakespeare and Company, somebody mentioned that Scarthin Books was a bit similar. So, of course, I had to go. I wasn't disappointed. Cromford is the only kind of village a city girl like me could live - it has arts and craft shops,a lively looking community centre, nice pub, beautiful hills, and of course a 3 storey bookstore that's simply crammed with books. Like all great independents, it is wonderfully quirky. Little quizzes are posted on the shelves teasing readers to identify texts and authors. Win and you get a fiver, though I couldn't get any of them. The man on the desk said the one that really baffled me (something to do with war and ideologies) was so obscure that only one person had ever got it. He wouldn't tell, and I'm still wondering where it came from... Staff recommendations are stuck on the wall (and I know Waterstones do this, but here they felt really personal each person writing detailed reasons why they liked a book). The cataloguing system is rather random (I had to ask to find where Fiction "A" was) but that adds to the charm, and the knowledgeable woman at the desk knew a) who Chimomanda Ngoze Adichie was b) had read her books and loved them and c) could point out where they were. I like that in a bookshop.

They do pretty much every kind of book, new and second hand, and upstairs there's a great children's section, with only one polite plea not to leave kids alone as they've had a bit of vandalism. A fair enough request I thought. The other great feature upstairs is the surprising cafe through a wooden door, which looks like a lovely place to eat. We didn't have time to stop, but my friends tell me that you can order lunch, go back into the children's section and they'll call you when it's ready. Making it a great family day out, and ensuring that you leave with bags of books under your arm. They also have regular discussions in the cafe under the title "Cafe Philosophique", a lovely idea that gives the place a definite French flavour. As I went to pay for my purchases (Roddy Doyle, A Star called Henry, and Irene Nemirovsky, Suite Francaise, in case you are interested), I noticed a little picture frame with the words Shakespeare and Company. And, I thought, as I left - if any bookshop has a right to consider itself an English cousin - it's Scarthin Books. So, if you're ever in Derbyshire for even just a weekend, make sure you don't miss the chance to go. Spend the day, have your lunch, buy lots of books, and keep the bookselling trade in business.

Plug of the Month. Joanna Clark in The Rialto

2010-02-10T13:24:00.000-08:00

It's a bit late, but I've been waiting for The Rialto to come out again, so I can plug my lovely sister Joanna's concluding "Sonnets for Colin". In the words of the magazine, "Superb". I'm biased, but I agree!

In the absence of a picture of the actual magazine, here's one of the bridge:

The Green Zone

2010-02-08T12:48:00.000-08:00

As promised - prose poem - inspired by 2 years living opposite here and posted today, because lovely hubby (aka Chris Cole) is quoted in The Guardian today. This poem was inspired by a class with the great Jenny Lewis, who taught me poetry last year. I'm not much of a poet, but thanks to her, my sister Joanna Clark, and the equally wonderful Jane Draycott, I'm better than I was...

This is one of my experiments that might not quite work, or may even be a tad pretentious. It is deliberately shaped as if it is a fence. But, you may think that unnecessary. Let me know. (I'm sure you will!)

Across the brown fields, encased in grey steel, a little piece
of America        lies facing us.         Behind the barbed wire
fence,    under the silver dome, they sit    in their computer
-simulated home,         waging their war games        around
the world.    In near real time,        they look at the pictures
taken by satellite           or unmanned drones,          analyse,
and           write reports               that are sent up the chain
of command.             So the general, at breakfast     in the
Pentagon, can take a view        of        the meaning of      a
vehicle,         or      visits between neighbours,          decide
that this is suspicious        or       not       and give the order
to drop the bomb,    fire the shot, whilst he           can carry
on with     his kippers on toast.      All this can happen while
I give my children lunch,        and the       results of        the
general’s morning decisions will         be on my     TV screen
by tea. America’s reach is vast. I watch   from my kitchen.

#FridayFlash Tommyrot.

2010-02-06T02:55:00.000-08:00

Bit late (but maybe it's still just about Friday on the West cost of the US!)Busy week. Not sure if this one works at all. Think it might be a bit too unsubtle, but I've really run out of time!.

In honour of the late Harry Patch and Lance-Corporal Joe Glenton

I had it all today. The pipers piping. The military salute. The flag draped over the coffin.

Funny how they honour us now. Back then, it seemed we were nothing much. Pigs in the muck. Sitting around waiting for orders. I thought war would be glorious. I'd fight for a righteous cause. Save Family, King and Country. Come home a hero.

What I got was infected feet, headlice, the stench of latrines. Forays across grey mire, feet clogging with the mud. Advancing an inch, retreating six. Saving those you could, and leaving the dead to their swampy graves. Sticking the enemy in the guts, never looking at their faces. Wondering why this stretch of bog was quite so important.

Sometimes I wished someone would just say. STOP. Someone, anyone. Perhaps that should have been me.

I never did.

I had it all today. The military salute, the piper, piping, the flag spread over the coffin.

It’s hard seeing your wife mourn you. Your kids. Trying to make sense of why you’ve gone. Words like “sacrifice” seem strange from where I’m standing. I was proud once, of my uniform. I thought it would bring me glory. I’d face death for a righteous cause. I’d return a hero.

The truth was, we were never welcome there. We hid behind high walls, making occasional forays into an arid land. Brown fields shimmering with heat. Searching for the enemy with no time to separate innocence from guilt. Firing at them, never looking at their faces. Leaving the bodies to rot and stink in the midday sun. Sometimes it was hard to see quite why it was so important.

Sometimes I wished someone would stay STOP. Someone, anyone. Perhaps, that should have been me.

I never did.

Can Writing be Taught?

2010-01-31T13:23:00.000-08:00

This weekend I received an invitation to the graduation ceremony for my writing course. I don't really like such ceremonies and I'm not sure I'll attend. But it got me thinking about the question - can you really teach people to write?

Twenty five years ago, when I was an aspirational, rather than active, writer, I'd have probably said "No". After all, there were never creative writing courses around in Shakespeare's day. The great novelists of the 19th Century didn't need lessons in their craft. Nor did Eliot, Auden or Larkin. Besides, back then there were few such courses around. The only one I really remember hearing about was the East Anglia MA, because its alumni included Ian McEwan and Rose Tremain, but it never crossed my mind to apply myself.

I think it would be true to say at that time, I believed that writers were born, not made and that if I plugged at it long enough, I'd get good enough. I think I still believe that to a certain extent. But as the years passed, and I kept putting off my writing career, I noticed creative writing courses beginning to flourish. And then one, by one, everyone I knew who was a writer signed up for a course of some sort or another. They all found them helpful, and although I was a bit dubious, I began to consider doing one myself. When I finally got a place on a course, it wasn't my first choice, but I decided that it was worth going for anyway. I couldn't get a grant, and we don't have much money, so in the end, I bit the bullet and took out a Career Development Loan.

So , was it worth it? I think on balance it was. There were certain aspects of my particular course that drove me absolutely crazy. It felt over academic to me - the constant grind of assignments wearing me down, and the Reading for Writers module being particularly obtuse. I'm fairly sure the marking system was fixed so that only a certain number could reach the higher grades - frustrating at the best of times, but the standard in our group was very high, and it felt like sometimes tutors were forced to give spurious reasons for their marking. There was an over-emphasis on the copy-editing function of critique, which often meant that artistic aims didn't get a look in. All of this often made me despair and wonder what on earth I was achieving. Particularly, when I thought of the costs - balancing with my family life, heavy work commitments and paying back the loan we could barely afford.

But the course did bring me a number of benefits. From the best tutors, I learnt a range of techniques in drama, fiction and poetry that I can use interchangeably between different types of writing. I discovered, to my surprise, that dialogue (which I thought I wasn't very good at) comes more naturally to me than description (which I know is important but stops me from getting on with the story). I learnt that I have a strong sense of narrative and a natural desire to work on a big canvas, fitting in with my aim to be novelist, but making the precision of poetry really difficult for me. I learnt that, even so, if I have a lot of time, I can occasionally produce a poem that's worth something (even though I don't intend to write poetry ever again). I learnt that I have a better sense for drama than I thought, and that screenplay excites me. Most importantly, I realised that I'm the kind of writer who has to get something out first, however bad, and then I can work on it. That means it takes me several drafts, and a very long time before I get something right, which explains why so often my early attempts miss the mark (see this week's Friday Flash) and why it's taken me the best part of 6 years to get 2/3 of the way through a novel that will take a further year at least to complete.

The course also brought me into contact with some wonderful writers - Catherine Chanter, Rachel Crowther, Wendy Osgerby, Dan Stott, Roger Bannister, Janine Oliver, Adipat Virdi, Jing Lee, Gaby Crewe-Read, Jools Poore, Mary-Lucille Hindmarch , Joseph Nwokobia -all of whom have it in them to produce something wonderful some day (and some of them, like Catherine already are). They provided me with honest, supportive critique, and challenged me to be the best I can be. The highlight of the two years was the Summer School at the end of the first year, where we workshopped, wrote, talked in equal measure. And I realised the best way to BE a writer, is to be WITH writers - to share work and learn from each other.

So - do I think writing can be taught? No, not really. You've got it or you haven't. But, can a writer attending a course be nurtured, prodded, challenged, pushed todeliver their best work? Absolutely. And the crunch question? Am I better writer for having done a course? Undoubtedly.

#FridayFlash A Day In The Life

2010-01-28T12:50:00.000-08:00

So here's my attempt to tell a story in tweets. Inspired partly by an, I'm sure, untrue story (which I won't repeat. Also by my lovely former classmate Catherine Chanter, who showed me you can do this sort of thing . (She's brilliant at it, this is a pale imitation.)

Having seen a few comments, I seem to be baffling people. Not my intent. So, try reading this several times backwards and forwards. Think of it as someone's Twitter page, which shows events in reverse... I've changed a few things, so will be intrigued if it becomes clearer now.

Home

misspiggy Brangelina to split? Do I want them to stay together for the kids or him to get back with Jen? Hmm… http://cli.gs/A59Y4
1 minute ago from Tweet Deck

@jollyjenny @laserlight @pirates_ofthecaribbean @second_handman Thanxs for the messages.
2 minutes ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy So…I'm back...He’s gone…He's really gone...How’s the Twitterverse?
3 minutes ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Got to go now. CU L8terxxx
about 9 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy RT @laserlight Alicia Keys snags fiancee Aah http://bit.ly/bR7XOJ
about 9 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy @jollyjenny. After scientific test, I admit you’re right. Chocolate spread IS better than honey on toast.
about 9 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy@ pirates_ofthecaribbean. It’s got to be Britney hasn’t it?
about 9 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Really, really must go… but… a couple of burning questions need answering first…
about 9 hours ago from Tweet Dec

misspiggy Looks like flashing lights were necessary. Brother appears to need trip to casualty. Something cardiac (possibly). He could be joking of course.
about 9 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Son is knocking VERY LOUDLY. Better go & see what he wants.
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy @laserlight. Aww, that's sweet. Wish you were my brother.
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Madonna to conceive one last time? http://bit.ly/cEUt9b She wouldn't would she?
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Very strange. Can see flashing lights out there. What has Son done now?
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy @ pirates_ofthecaribbean. Absolutely. My Pop Princess of the 90’s? Let me think…
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy I'm gonna fight, fight, fight for this love... Perhaps if I sing loud enough, Brother will Leave of his Own Accord. (Not a fan).
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Listening to Cheryl Cole on my i-pod. This girl has suffered folks… She deserves better than Ashley…
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Son has just got back from school. Does he come up here to kiss his old Mum?Not likely.
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Currently testing important scientific theory. Chocolate spread V honey - which is best on toast?
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Now if he were to buy me an iPad…
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Fact. My brother is a lazy immature 40 something, who is hogging my sofa. In the middle of the afternoon! Why can't he go and sleep on his own?
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Just been downstairs for materials to test @jollyjenny’s theory of chocolate spread v honey on toast. Will report on research soon.
about 10 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy @jollyjenny All this talk of chocolate spread is making me hungry. I’m off for a snack and to check on Brother, who is suspiciously quiet...
about 11 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy @laserlight Yeah iPad looks cool. Will be getting one as soon as I’ve got some spare cash ie never...
about 11 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy @second_handman Delighted there’s a man out there so enlightened. Why can’t Brother be more like you?
about 11 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy@jollyjenny I prefer honey myself.
about 12 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy Even Son is Better Than That. Though he did set the smoke alarm of at 3.30 the other night. Making toast. (So he says).about 12 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy …socks on the floor, toilet seat permanently up, football on. It’s like my childhood all over again.
about 12 hours ago from Tweet Deck

misspiggy 3 days and Brother is STILL HERE. He's outstayed his welcome by about 35 hours...Time for him to GO HOME.
about 12 hours ago from Tweet Deck

Copyright c Virginia Moffatt 2010

Rave Review (2) "Oranges are not the only fruit" by Jeanette Winterson

2010-01-24T14:06:00.000-08:00

"Oranges are not the only fruit" was published when I was 20, and made into a TV programme 4 years later. I honestly can't remember whether I saw the programme first and read the book or vice versa, but this one of the few occasions of book & TV adaptation working in perfect harmony. I loved both, and was hooked. Jeanette Winterson's rites of passage story is so extraordinary that it sets her apart, and she remains one of my great inspirations. Winterson's novels are always events for me, but, it all started with "Oranges" so I thought, as it reaches the silver anniversary of publication, it is time to honour a modern classic.

It is common for novelists to use their life experiences in their first novel. And the rites-of-passage story is so well used, it easily becomes hackneyed. "Oranges" avoids such pitfalls, for three reasons. First, the quality of Winterson's writing raises the book high above any other in the genre. Second, it teems with fabulous characters, set in a world that is so well drawn, you can almost smell the factory smoke, and feel the wind in your face. And thirdly, Winterson intersperses her storytellings with her narrator's imaginary stories, which are inventive, funny and act as a subtle comment on the action.

The novel tells the story of Jeanette, a young girl adopted by a zealous Evangelical mother, and put-upon father. But this is no ordinary adoption. Her mother has chosen her specially to be a child of God - a future missionary. As Jeanette grows up and begins to make sense of her world, she realises her mother's fervent beliefs are somewhat unusual, and that she may not want to follow the path laid out for her. It is only as she enters her teens, and falls in love with Melanie, that she is understands that she will have to make a choice between the family of her church, and her own wishes and desires.

It is the nature of all good books that they draw us in from the outset and Winterson's first paragraph is a corker, including one of my favourite lines, "My father liked to watch the wrestling, my mother liked to wrestle; it didn't matter what. She was in the white corner and that was that." which tells us all we need to know about both of them. From that moment we know we are in the hands of a skilful writer, who can move us from the comic (the mother's pet hates, the "Sacrificial Lamb" that is eaten on Sundays) to the poignant (the description of the town as Jeanette and her mother walk up the hill) and the fantastical (Jeanette's story of the princess and the moth), with consummate ease. Her writing is wonderfully fluid, weaving between Jeanette's stories of people, the church, her mother's religious rituals, to the conversations that perfectly pitch her character's voices and quirks. By the end of the first chapter, we are already immersed in this world and want to find out more.

This is a book about women, and it is the female characters that stand out. Jeanette, herself, is a wonderful creation. Part innocence, and wide-eyed, we spot her rebellious streak from the first. In an early scene she uses the Biblical fuzzy felt to have Daniel being eaten by the lions, but has an immediate explanation for the grown up who notices. Going to school and being an obvious outsider, she is prone to being bullied, till she turns the table and scares her bullies rigid with threats of immersion in water after school. She's a dreamer. Whenever things get difficult, she's off in her vivid imagination - the life of snails on TV horrifies her mother, but Jeanette pictures the snail family at home worrying about their son not coming out of his shell; a tetrahedron becomes an emperor with many faces; a prince seeks the perfect wife, but is not happy with what he finds. She's fiercely loyal to her mother, and struggles in the early part of the book, to understand why their religious beliefs are considered to be so outlandish by other people. But, as she grows up and begins to understand the wider world, and as she comes to realise her mother will never accept her true nature, she has to develop the strength to make a difficult choice.

Jeanette's mother is a marvellous character. She spends much of the book being comic. The first page lists her enemies and friends - enemies include "slugs", friends, "slug pellets". She is "bitter" that the Virgin Mary "got their first". She listens to the World Service each week to map the progress of Missionaries preaching to ludicrously described tribes. She is "Old Testament through and through" - quick to judge, to name the sinners, but not much given to believing in redemption. She's a snob too. The family is working class but they don't live at "Factory Bottom", they would never buy cheap clothes from "Maxi Balls" where the poorest people go. At first, we laugh at her. Then, we realise her rigid religious beliefs are potentially destructive. When Jeanette goes deaf due to her adenoids, her mother ignores it for three months, thinking she is overcome with the Holy Spirit,. It is not until another grown up interferes that Jeanette is given the treatment that she needs. Later still, she is monstrous to her daughter, and yet Winterson always shows us that beneath the hard exterior, there is love and affection too.

Another strength of the novel is the sense of time and place. Winterson describes a world and a community that is long gone. An industrial northern town that in the 1960's that is struggling with extreme poverty. Jeanette's house doesn't have a separate bedroom or outdoor toilet. The posh kids live on the Avenue and don't have school dinners. Yet there are poorer people than Jeanette's family, the Factory Bottoms community in the back to back houses. The community enjoy gipsy fairs but despise the gipsies. People still have to fight cockroaches and silver fishes. Raspberry ripple and sherry trifle are great treats. It's a closed world that Jeanette will have to escape if she is to survive, yet there is tremendous warmth and community too.

Winterson is a genius at weaving religion and fantasy throughout the novel. Thus each section is given a title from the Old Testament, Genesis, describing her arrival in the family, Exodus, as she goes to school and so on. The stories of the bible permeate the text in the early sections and then as Jeanette turns away from her church, the absence is firmly felt. Each section of the story breaks off from time to time, into Jeanette's fables that make sense of her life. A prince searches for the perfect princess, but does not recognise her when he finds her. A princess chooses not to fall in love and is punished for it. King Arthur's Court is disrupted by the search for the Holy Grail. Jeanette dreams of marrying pigs and hallucinates about doing a deal with a demon. These digressions are written with a lightness of touch, and are a superb commentary on the main action. It is no surprise to find that many of Winterson's later novels (particularly the fabulous "Gut Symmetries") are clearly novels of ideas, and yet somehow have a strong narrative at their heart.

It is usual for a rites-of-passage book for the central character to make a startling revelation that enables them to grow up. In this novel, Jeanette has three. She finds out she is intelligent, and could go to university. She realises she doesn't want to follow her mother's path. And she discovers she is gay. Each one of these would be a strong story, but the three together entwine to make her journey both complex and deeply satisfying. Much has been made of the lesbian elements, but I'm inclined to agree with the author, love is love, and what's most important here, is that Jeanette learns to be who she must be. That was a very satisfying and encouraging resolution for me as a young woman, and is why I thought it one of the finest pieces of feminist fiction around. Twenty five years later I still do.

#FridayFlash - The Snow Queen.

2010-01-22T05:08:00.000-08:00

Fridayflash is making me remember half thought of pieces. This is from some time ago, and may be a little melodramatic now. Recent weather seems to have permeated somewhat...

As ever, I would welcome helpful critique. I always write in a hurry, so know this may not be perfectly paced or punctuated!

I can hear you calling me through the house. There is a longing in your voice I'd love to answer. I wish I could give you what you want. But here in the dark, I have lost the way.

We had a summer once, but that was long ago. It plays in my mind like an old home movie - flickering images of a picnic blanket, me in a red and yellow dress, you in green shorts and white T shirt. A river bank. Blue skies. Champagne. In the film in my head, you kiss me over and over again, and I look like I'm enjoying it. Perhaps I did, but now, I cannot remember what it felt like. That was the time before the Snow Queen came, bringing her perpetual winter. She's gone now, but I'm left with a heart full of ice. I don't think it will ever thaw.

She stole up on us one January, in the middle of the worst snowfall in forty years. The salt had long run out, grinding the iced-up roads to a halt. Drifts of snow blocked doorways, even in our small town. Food supplies were running low, and there were riots at the supermarkets. The government's assurances grew weaker and weaker, with each forecast of the blizzards to come. It was time, she said, in her first broadcast, for something to be done. This was a situation that only the army could deal with. It was a temporary measure - to ensure society didn't fall in chaos. Once the snow had receded, she would call an election. We were cold, and hungry, with no end in sight. We watched the army trucks clearing the roads, the tanks patrolling the supermarkets as food was rationed out. We were grateful that someone, anyone, was doing something.

The cold spell ended in late spring. The snow melted slowly, exposing flashes of green, a welcome change from the perpetual white. As the sun warmed us, the patches of grass and pavement increased, leaving piles of cleared snow, snow men and igloos. Till at last, they too were gone. But the tanks and the soldiers never left. The election never came.

Some people liked it. At last, they said, a leader to deal with the unruly young. Curfews, and boot camps rather than asbos and electronic tags. A rigorous approach to immigration. And a firm hand with dissent. It soon became dangerous to express a different opinion, so we went underground. We moved from place to place, trusting only each other, working with those we could find. We did the little we could. Leafletting houses in the dark. Graffiti in shopping mall. Printing pamphlets and distributing them among a chain of sympathisers. Low level stuff, hardly likely to bring down her regime, but dangerous nonetheless.

It didn't pay to be careless. I should have checked the street properly. But I was tired, and hungry. I wanted to get home to the warmth of our bed. I missed the footpatrol in the shadows and was caught. Worse still, I hadn't ditched the remaining leaflets. I couldn't claim innocence. That I'd lost my way in the dark.

They grilled me for hours. I said nothing. They left me in a cell. They pulled me out a few hours later. I'd barely slept. I said nothing. They threw me back. The pattern of my days. They began to try other methods, less pleasant. I hoped you'd moved on. Our friends too. But I was cold. I was hungry. It became hard to see your face. To remember why silence was important. One night they left me outside, as the snow was falling. My hands lost all their sensation. My feet throbbed. My body froze. When they pulled me back in. I could think of nothing but the food and warmth they promised. My reward for speaking. I spoke. I named everyone. Of course I did. I was cold, I was hungry, so I named you. I told myself it didn't matter - you were long gone - but the truth was, I no longer cared. They brought me near the kitchen. I could hear the soup bubbling, smell the freshly baked bread. I was desperate to eat, so I told them everything. They kept their promise, but when the food came, the bread was dry, and the soup tasted of salt and vinegar. I remained hungry. And though they brought me clean clothes, and turned the heating on - my veins were filled of ice.

I never saw them again. I presumed they'd arrested you and the others. And that I'd be in jail for good. I lost count of the days I stayed in the dark cell. One night, the prison officers woke me up, without a word, blindfolded me and drove me to a street. They left me in a doorway. I tried to get up but my legs were so weak I sank back. I took off the blindfold to the surprise of sunrise. I'd been so long in the shadows, that, at first, I couldn't think why the clouds were turning pink and red. I enjoyed the sight, but though the day became warm, my body was still stiff with cold. Perhaps I'd have died there, if a stranger hadn't spotted me and called an ambulance.

The hospital welcomed me. They warmed me up, did tests, gave me medicine. Cleaned my wounds without comment. Declared me an elective mute, and let me stay till someone collected me. I couldn't imagine that happening, but suddenly, there you were. You took me in your arms. You said all the right things. But I didn't respond. I didn't know how.

You took me home anyway. Back to your home and bed, to take care of me. You do it well. Every day you cook for me - nutritious soups, home-made bread. I know that you have worked hard, that the food will do me good. But it is dry in my mouth, and I struggle not to choke on it. You tell me stories, show me photos of the time before. I hear the words, see the pictures, but they make no sense - your stories belong to someone else.

I hear you calling through the house. I want to come. I want to find my way back. But the Snow Queen's icy touch has never left me. I cannot. I do not know how.

It is warm in this cupboard. The dark comforts me. You call and call for me, knowing this is where I am, that you'll have to come for me again. I hear it in your voice, the longing, that this time, I'll make it out on my own.

I think I'll stay for a little while longer.

#FridayFlash. Before Dark

2010-01-14T14:21:00.000-08:00

Emboldened by promises that there are no rules on FridayFlash, I've condensed a story that is a lot longer, but unfinished. Not sure if it works, particularly the end. So, let me know (I can take critique!)

The children come to me at sunset. Their chores done for the day, they rest at my feet, the younger ones tussling to sit on my lap. I am always scrupulously fair, I monitor lap usage closely: noone is ever cheated out of their turn. When they are all settled, they beg me, “Tell us a story, Grandma”, and, remembering how my own grandmother used to do the same for me, I am happy to oblige.

I always have to begin the same way, I am not allowed to get a word wrong: The way out of Eden was dusty, the road was stony as the darkness fell around them. They turned back for one last look at the garden they had left behind, to see a brilliant flame of white that dazzled their eyes. There was no way back: an angel guarded the path... Their eyes are round with anticipation, they huddle closer to each other. I don’t know why I tell them these old tales, but somehow I find it comforting to link them to my past, and they always seem appreciative. Sometimes, though they don’t want a story, but to hear about when I was small. So I get out the faded photographs and show them the pictures of my grandmother, older than I am now, looking half my age. There I am with my mother, a little girl in a pink dress. I tell them of the cities that stayed awake all night, the stars blotted out by the yellow and orange lights, the silence shattered by the noise of cars and people shouting. I tell them of the sweet shops of my childhood, where I could choose from twenty different types of confectionary. How you could type into a computer and be in contact with the whole world. How, once, people even went to the moon. But they, who have known only this small farming community - white crofter’s cottages, nestling between grey-green mountains and brown cliffs - cannot imagine such miracles. I can see in their eyes, that my past is as mythical to them as Adam and Eve.

Their mothers come and collect them at bedtime, leaving me to the encroaching darkness. Our generator has enough energy to give us an hour’s grace before nightfall. On warm nights I'll sit out on my porch just gazing at the sky, the stars visible in their millions. Out here it has always been possible to see them: white flickering flames from long dead supernovas, each one reminding me of the people I’ve left behind. It is overwhelming sometimes, but I have had to get used to feeling this alone. What has gone, has been gone thirty years.

I’m one of the lucky ones, I know. To have survived. To have found my way here. To have married a good man and had his children. To have the satisfaction of knowing that one day my descendants may be numbered like the stars. And yet, on these starlit nights, I can’t help but long for the sensation of silk sheets on my bed. For a day at the spa to soothe my weary bones. For the touch of the lover I still dream of at night. I stay outside till the chill seeps under my skin, sending me shivering indoors to my itchy hemp-sheeted bed. I will sleep till dawn and another day's work. Once, that meant a ride on the tube to an open-plan air-conditioned office. Days creating persuasive designs to sell junk to eager buyers, interspersed with latte and long lunches. Now, though my curved back excuses me of the heavier duties, I am required to look after little ones, cook for the workers, draw the water from the pump.

This place is hard in the winter. The food is scarce and each year my body fails me a little bit more. There cannot be many years left to me. I should count each one as a blessing and enjoy the pleasures that are left: the brightness of children, the wind in my hair, the stars in the sky. And yet, sitting here in the darkness, it seems too much to ask. All, I can do,then, is survive, as I have always done. To prepare myself for another day.

There is no way back: an angel guards the path.

Sublime Screenplay - ER

2010-01-13T14:58:00.000-08:00

Our TV company has just put up 10 of the best episodes of ER ever, which gave us the opportunity to see a double episode I hadn't seen since it aired here in 2001. I was at my mum's at the time whilst lovely husband was at home and I remember ringing him at the halfway point so we could rave about it. At the end we were both almost speechless with emotion, much to my mother's amusement. It was great to see the episodes again and that they had lost none of their punch over the years. Of course the reason I remembered these two above the 200 or so episodes I've ever watched is because of the quality of the writing, which brought the best out of the fine ER actors and directors. So having recovered from the emotional rollercoaster, here is my tribute to another example of sublime screenplay.

Part 1 - Be Still My Heart by Lydia Woodward

Interlocking stories.
One of the great strength of ER is it's multi-story format, which allows us to see the central characters grappling with similar issues but in different ways. Be Still My Heart is a great example of this, where the central title is replayed in every story, from the dramatic, to the comic. The episode opens on Valentine's Day (of course) and a recurring motif throughout is the number of hearts around, paper hearts, heart shaped cards etc, as the staff plan to end the shift with a party.

The major storyline is Carter & Lucy. Carter is one of ER's heroes. A young idealistic student in Season 1, he has matured through changing direction from surgery to ER doctor, suffered any number of traumatic incidents, to be a resident at this point (Season 6). One of his duties as a resident is to mentor young students like himself, and Lucy has been his student for a while. Carter's relationship with Lucy is a mirror of his relationship with his mentor Benton. Benton was a tough supervisor, arrogant, clever, who nevertheless respected Carter's integrity and humanity. Carter is a tough supervisor to Lucy, who he recognises is much cleverer than him, but he mistrusts her value base. By this episode they have reached a truce, but Carter has never quite supported her in the way Benton supported him. When she comes to him at the beginning with a request to help with a patient, he is busy, and dismisses her, setting in motion events that will lead to tragedy.

Storyline 2 involves Carter and a new student Abby. Abby is a former ante-natal nurse who has switched to a career in medicine. She is confronted with a typical ER scenario of the elderly patient who doesn't want too much intervention. Carter and Abby are more natural allies, she is empathetic, warm and caring. Consequently, Carter is a kinder and more supportive supervisor & this story acts as a counterpoint to Storyline 1.

Storyline 3 starts about a third of the way in, and centres on Carol Hathaway, the head nurse and one of the emotional centres of the show, and Luka Kovac, the new Doctor from Serbia, who is still finding his way around. Each of them is involved in treating parents injured in a car crash which in turn becomes a bonding moment for them.

Storyline 4 provides the comedy. Dr Romano the Chief of Staff and most unpleasant character in the show, pages his Head Surgeon, Elizabeth Corday for an urgent operation, which turns out to be for his dog.

Storyline 5 centres round Elizabeth and her boyfriend Mark Greene one of the ER's attending physicians (consultant) and another person at the heart of the progamme, and their relationships with their parents, Mark's widowed father and Elizabeth's divorced mother.

Story 1 is the most dramatic and leads directly into the events of Episode 2. Lucy's patient is presenting in an odd way. She tries to ask Carter for help and her rebuffs her, because he is dealing with Abby's patient. Then Lucy's patient becomes a bit aggressive. Lucy is looking for Carter to assist but the patient leaves the room, causes a scene and Dr Greene notices. He lambasts Carter for not supporting Lucy, who then shouts at Lucy for not calling him. As the programme unfolds, Lucy's patient becomes increasingly problematic and likely to need psychiatric care.When he is given a spinal tap to check for meningitis, he fights Lucy and Carter and we realise he is potentially dangerous. We can see that Lucy is trying her best, but this is over her head. He leaves the treatment room again and is found in the staff room where there food is out ready for the party. Lucy gets him back, but Carter is cross that she hasn't managed to get the psychiatric consultation so she can get on with medical cases. He tells her to sort it out.

Carter is also being called on to help Abby deal with the events of Story 2. Her patient has breathing difficulties and limited options. Abby begins to bond with her when she shows her a Valentine's card she is carrying from the year before, from her husband, who has since died. The card says, "Be still my heart" as in, always be my heart. But the alternative meaning is literally, let my heart be still ie let me die. When her patient suffers cardiac arrest, Abby tries everything to revive her till Carter intervenes and tells her that this is not what she wants. Reluctantly, Abby lets the patient die, but afterwards she is devastated. Later, Carter finds Abby on the roof, where she acknowledges how different this is from the maternity ward. Carter is everything a boss should be, sympathetic, supportive, a marked contrast to his behaviour with Lucy and Abby is reassured.

Story 3 is much shorter, and in typical ER fashion rushes through at breakneck speed. A couple and their young children are brought in after a road traffic accident. Luka is treating one, Carol the other. Their children are stunned but OK and are taken to the paedatric unit down the corridor. The little girl breaks away and wanders up to the treatment rooms, but is pulled away before she can see what's going on. The action switches between the treatment rooms as the doctors and nurses work furiously trying to save the patients. But within seconds, both parents die, and it is left to Luka and Carol to go and tell the children, a moment that is both painful for them (how do you give children such terrible news) but also brings Luka and Carol closer. We know that Luka has some mystery about him, and that Carol has lost the love of her life, Doug Ross, so we are left wondering if these two will now become lovers.

Story 4 is simpler still. Dr Romano abuses his surgery privileges to operate on his dog, Gretel. This being ER we have all the usual complications and difficulties, and the pet nearly dies. But thanks to Elizabeth's fine skills, she survives. The point of the story is both to reflect the main action in a humorous way, but also to highlight Romano's humanity. He is usual cold &calculating - to discover he cares about any living creature, even if it is just a dog, is a revelation, and we can see that behind her laughter, Elizabeth is deeply moved.

Story 5 is classic ER example of personal lives intruding on work. Mark's mother has recently died, his dad has emphysema. The men love each other, but until now have found it difficult to relate, but Mark has invited his dad home to care for him. Elizabeth's mother is a scientist, clever, cool, critical. She's passing through Chicago for a night and wants to see Elizabeth at work. Elizabeth, normally very confident, is defensive with her mother, and embarrassed when her first sight of Elizabeth in the hospital is with Romano's dog. But later, her mother sees her operating and is impressed, and we can see this has an impact. By the end of the episode, Elizabeth's mother has arranged for Mark, Elizabeth and Mark's father to all go out for the evening. And although the pair are dreading it, it starts off well, with their parents vying to boast of their offspring's medical exploits, and Mark's father singing at the open mic.

As all the story lines pull together, the Valentine's party is in full swing, though noone can find the cake knife. Mark and Elizabeth leave for their evening with their parents. Carol goes home to her twin girls, so postponing any possible romance with Luka. Carter & Abby wander in. Things have quietened down workwise, though the party music is deafening, and Carter remembers to go and find Lucy. In a normal episode, this would be the moment for him to apologise for his bad behaviour, and for them to move forward in their always rather delicate relationship. But this is not a normal episode, and he can't find her. He opens the door to a treatment room, and notices a card on the floor, the very same one that Abby's patient had. He stoops to pick it up, and we see Lucy's patient behind the door. Before he has time to turn round, Lucy's patient stabs him, and he collapses on the floor. The last shot shows him looking under a trolley to see Lucy, who has also been stabbed. He calls her name and the credits roll.

The real skill of this episode is making these disparate stories connect without us feeling anything is forced. The whole thing is beautifully paced so that we weave between the highs and lows of each tale, giving us time to catch our breath as the tension builds in the Lucy/Carter story. Which allows for 2 minutes of the most nail-biting television that literally left me reeling first time round and still caused me to catch my breath when I saw it this week. It really is a piece of fine writing and hats off to Lydia Woodward for pulling it off so well.

Dialogue.

The other stunning feature of this episode is the brilliant use of dialogue. A lot of the scenes described could be really clunky. But the strongest emotional moments - Abby speaking to her patient about her husband, Luka telling the children about their parents, Abby and Carter talking about death - are pitched just right, so it never sinks to melodrama. When Elizabeth's mother sees her actually work on an operation, she is stunned, and all she says is "I never knew", but we know that for her, this is high praise indeed. Such poignancy is nicely contrasted with the comedy of Elizabeth preparing for surgery whilst Romano describes the symptoms of her patient. He rushes her to the table where she's shocked by what she sees - "Robert this is a dog" / "Correction Lizzie, this is my dog" - you can see the whole story condensed here.

There are many references to hearts, the "Be Still My Heart", heart attacks, hearts stopping beating, Robert's dog is a hearty dog. And there are other lines that link stories for example after the parents die in the car crash, another character says that two squabbling medical students, are like children arguing in the back of the car, an image that now has a huge jolt for the audience. Visual images are used to link scenes as well, thus one scene ends with a character giving an injection, as we move to the operating theatre where someone is injecting Romano's dog. And of course, there is the vital moment when someone mentions a missing knife...

Complex characterisation.

Another thing that I love about this episode is that none of the characters are black and white. We have seen Lucy be an irritant to Carter, but here she is simply trying to do the best for her patient. He really is intolerant of her, and all our sympathies are with her, particularly when he is so nice to Abby. Seeing Carter at his worst like this is quite shocking, because we've invested so many episodes in rooting for him.

Equally, Robert Romano is a consistently vile character. He's a brilliant surgeon but dismissive of patients and staff alike. He is sexist, racist, homophobic, says the most outrageous things to people and frequently belittles them. So to see him have such strong feelings for his dog, is a complete eye-opener and helps us all see another side of him.

Part 2 - All in the Family - by Jack Orman.

It would be hard to top that, you'd think, but Jack Orman's concluding episode at least equals the power of the first. If the theme of the first episode is love, life and death in the ER, the theme of the second is work as family, as we switch from the complexity of stories in the first, to the aftermath of the stabbings in the second. This is all about Lucy and Carter now, will they survive, and how does this affect their colleagues?

Single Story.

Now the story is a single one, how the ER treats two of their own. As Dr Carrie Weaver, Head of ER arrives and winds down the party, she notices some blood and discovers what happens. Everyone is into over-drive and we are into a typical 20 minutes of ER's high adrenaline. The two of them are rushed into the treatment rooms as their colleagues run around to help. Luka, Carrie, Abby, and two other doctors Chen and Malucci are on the scene. Elizabeth and Mark are simultaneously paged from the bar where they have enthusiastically joined in the open mic and are singing badly. Peter Benton, Carter's old mentor rushes down from surgery and is visibly shocked to see Carter on the trolley. As Mark arrives, Carrie is unable to continue with the procedure she is attempting on Lucy and Mark takes over, but not before she has berated everyone for being in a party.

Here the story-telling does something quite common in ER, shifting between patients, as things go wrong, heart rates rise, breathing is awkward, there are problems with kidneys. We've often seen it before, and regular viewers know that it is likely that one of the two will die, and possibly the one with whom we have most sympathy. This has much more of an impact than in a normal episode, because we know and love both characters and therefore the audience's sympathies are much more engaged than normal. Meanwhile the assailant has disappeared, and the police have arrived. As a shaken Abby rushes out to get some equipment, she discovers the bloodstained knife. She has no time do anymore than give it to the police before she hurries back. The assailant's wife arrives at the ER, confused and unable to believe her husband has done that. Both Lucy and Carter suffer blood loss and life threatening situations. The team have to crack Lucy's chest open but she comes round enough to speak briefly to the police, and it is the injury to Carter's kidney that seems more serious.As this section ends with them they are both taken off to surgery.

Again this is a typical ER scenario, the doctors treat as far as they can, then the surgeons take over. It allows the pace to slow a bit, but whereas usually, other patients arrive, in this situation, the ER doctors and nurses are left wondering what's happened. Carrie rages at Mark for not supervising Carter and Lucy adequately, he rages back, possibly from guilt. Staff gradually drift off duty and gather at Doc Magoo's the cafe across the way, as the surgeons begin to operate. The assailant is brought in after being hit by a car, and the ER staff have to treat him and get him the psychiatric evaluation. His wife is devastated.

Meanwhile Benton is helping Dr Anspaugh (former Chief of Staff) operate on Carter. Benton has promised Carter he'll take care of him, and like Abby is visibly upset. As the surgery develops there is a lot of blood, Benton panics and wants to whisk out Carter's kidney, but Anspaugh persuades him to wait. Anspaugh proves to be right and Carter's kidney is saved. But next door, a new surgical case requires Benton's skills. Benton is reluctant to leave Carter till Anspaugh sends him out. He visits the other person judges it can wait, and leaves his junior, Cleo, to hold on to the situation till Carter's surgery is complete. Complications ensue, Cleo is forced to take drastic measures, and when Benton returns he berates her.

Next door, Lucy has come round but she needs surgery as she has a clot in her blood system that is potentially dangerous (a pulmonary embolism). Elizabeth and Romano are going to operate and are able to speak and joke to her. Lucy whispers her thanks to Elizabeth. Just as Elizabeth is reassuring her all is well, she begins to shake, and they discover multiple clots. We see the terror on Lucy's face as she realises what is happening, and watch as Elizabeth and Romano are unable to save her.

After the dramatic beginning, the episode becomes a slow lament, as one by one, characters discover Lucy's fate. First, Elizabeth and Romano, then Benton, as he apologises to Cleo for his behaviour, then the collected staff sitting in Dr Magoo's as they have been telling stories about Carter and Lucy. Till finally, Carter, as he wakes up from surgery. Elizabeth staggers home where she can't speak to her mother. Mark stays on duty as Carol returns to work, shocked by what she's heard.

The episode ends with with Romano and Carrie tidying Lucy's body, a tender moment from two of the hardest characters and a nice echo of Romano's love for his dog. It seems that in the end, he really does care, something we've never seen from him before.

Dramatic irony.

The episode starts with the party which is soaked in dramatic irony for the viewers. We know Carter and Lucy are bleeding to death, while their friends have the music up loud and are having fun. It is inevitable they will be found, but every time someone mentions their names we wince.Carrie Weaver, the strict Head of ER arrives, and everyone is quick to say it is quiet and they'll finish soon. She tells them to wind down in 5 minutes & asks where Dr Carter is. The party begins to wind down and people start getting on with their jobs. Carrie picks up a chart and gets to work, and then she sees the blood trail and the victims are discovered.

The other key moment of dramatic irony is Lucy waking up only to recognise the peril she is in. The moment she whispers "PE?" to Elizabeth, and Elizabeth nods, is one of the most charged of the episode. Lucy is an intelligent medical student, she has been around long enough to know exactly what this means. It is rapidly followed by the realisation by both of them that she has multiple clots and her chances are pretty slim.

Dialogue and visuals.

As with the first part, the dialogue is very understated. As Lucy and Carter are rushed into the ER, a doctor barks an order that doesn't need finishing, the nurse understands completely. Carrie's accusation to her staff, this happened while you were partying, bites. The moment Carrie can't cope with what's going on, she nods to Mark who takes over. When Lucy dies, the look between Mark and Carrie is unbearable. Elizabeth arrives home and her mother asks "Do you want to talk about it?" and Elizabeth simply says "No".
Everyone is laughing at a hilarious story about Lucy at Doc Magoo's when Chuny walks in says "Lucy" and they all fall silent. Carter asks Benton about Lucy and realises what has happened by Benton's silence. As Carol arrives for work she asks Mark how he is doing. He says "later" and we watch him swallow, gather himself together and go off to treat the next patient.

The final scene is beautifully paced. Carrie enters as Romano is finishing stitching Lucy's body, and cuts the thread. As she pulls the cover up, he tells her it is a nurse's job.All she says is "I know" .What she really knows is that, as the Chief of ER, this job is hers.

That's a bit of a gallop through two amazing episodes. All credit to the actors and Laura Innes' direction (she also plays Carrie Weaver) for making the most of the material. But without Lydia Woodward and Jack Orman, they'd have nothing. So thanks to both, for 2 hours brilliant, brilliant drama that stayed with me for 9 years and was well worth seeing again. I can't recommend this enough.

FlashFriday - Alive, alive-o

2010-01-08T01:07:00.000-08:00

Hope this is not cheating - it came out of the fabulous Faber Academy weekend I attended in October, from one of Sarah Hall's great workshops. I think it stands alone, but am aware the character belongs to my second novel. If I ever finish the current one I may well use this as part of something bigger.

Tell yourself. You're pleased Cassie got the promotion. Really. Now you can live in the white house on the hill. The one you both dreamed of when you were kids on the beach. Large. Clean. Warm. Not like the fucking boxes the army gave you. The walls so thin,you heard every word of the neighbour's domestics. As they heard yours.

Tell yourself. You're fucking lucky mate. She took you back didn't she? Again. After everything you've done. You didn't deserve a second chance, and she's given you a fifth. Anyone else would have walked away long ago. Not Cassie. She's a diamond. One in a million. You're lucky, mate, you really are.

Tell yourself. You don't care about the way the girls look at you. That they don't speak to you. Or mind you, unless their mother says. Whose fucking fault is that? Besides, teenage girls never speak to their fathers. Somewhere, under the piles of mascara and eyeshadow, they still love you. They'll come round. Eventually.

Tell yourself. It doesn't matter that the job stinks. That you stink. Of cockles and mussels alive-a-fucking-o. It's a start isn't it? At least you have money of your own again. Don't have to rely on Cassie's wage. With your track record, it's a miracle anyone would ever employ you. It'll do for now. Till something better comes along.

Tell yourself. As you pass the tourists packing out the pubs and avoid the offie on the way home from work. As you sit in the evening watching crap on TV. As you lie awake, in the middle of the night, wondering what the fuck happened to your life. Tell yourself. Like they told you in the clinic: I don't need a drink.

Perhaps, one day, it will be true.

Copyright c Virginia Moffatt 2009

Thanks be to... Russell T Davies

2010-01-05T15:02:00.000-08:00

Russell T Davies is the man hardcore Dr Who fans love to hate. I'm not quite sure why. After all, Dr Who was consigned to the BBC archives in 1989, after a sad, slow decline from the glory Pertwee/Baker years (OK - yes - that's my era, but dammit they were good) to the awfulness of Sylvester McCoy and Bonnie Langford. Then came the 1996 TV movie which I found unwatchable, and the show was kept alive by the kind of person who is never more happy than dressing up as a cyberman at a convention (in other words any character from The Big Bang Theory). So when the Beeb announced it was coming back in 2005 with Christopher Eccleston and RTD writing, it seemed likely to be another doomed failure.

Except that it wasn't. And despite the many, many complaints I read on the internet about RTD being "silly", "unable to write", "derivative", "using deus ex machina all the time" etc, he has turned a show that had become a laughing stock into event television. And now, he's left us. So here, on my blog, I pay tribute to a great screenwriter, a great TV producer who gave us 2 wonderful doctors, a whole host of companions, added emotional depth to the format, and wrote some fine episodes. RTD - we'll miss you.

I was slow to get into New Who, mainly because it arrived when the kids were too little. I love Christopher Eccleston, so I enjoyed his arrival in "Rose" which was a lot of fun. Billie Piper was a revelation in that she could act, and it was great that here was a companion who kicked ass and didn't run around screaming all the time. But we missed the next episode, and catching "The Unquiet Dead" convinced us the children would be too scared. This was confirmed by watching "Father's Day" at my sister's house which caused our then 4 year old to have nightmares. So it wasn't till about half way through Series 2 that I started following it properly. The 4 year old was nearly 6 by then, and to my surprise sat with me through a couple of episodes and quite enjoyed it. It was when I watched "Army of Ghosts", that I was truly hooked. In my innocent pre-spoiler days, I had no idea what was coming. The sight of the Daleks emerging from the mysterious globe was the most fantastic surprise. And right until the moment Rose was grabbed by her Dad at the end of "Doomsday", I really did think they might kill her off, so I found the bitter-sweet farewell with the Doctor just lovely. From that moment, I was enthralled and when Series 3 came along, the children gradually joined in watching with me (though the youngest still gets too scared and spends most of his time behind the sofa).

I'll be the first to admit that RTD doesn't always get it right. Sometimes, the aliens are just downright silly - like the farting Slitheen 7 the Adipose (though I wonder if that is deliberate because the idea behind them are pretty nasty). His grand finales are often overblown and he does lay it on with a trowel. This is particularly true of "Journey's End", which gushes sentiment and where Rose's original ending is totally ruined. And even though I love "Last of the Time Lords", the return of the Doctor from his "Dobby " phase looked daft, though the concept behind it - tyranny is overcome by people thinking independently- is a great one. But, I'll forgive all that for what he has done well.

The character.

One of the great strengths of New Who is the complexity of the Doctor's character. I'm sure it was probably there in Old Who - particularly in the Tom Baker era - but my memories of the Doctor was that he was never wrong. RTD has created a Doctor who is phenomenally clever, charismatic, dark, tortured, funny and fallible. I like that, because it makes him much more real. From the moment we realise that Christopher Eccleston's Doctor has had to kill off his own people to end the Time War, we know we are in the company of someone with a huge amount of baggage. I think this is a brilliant stroke. The Doctor was probably always a bit lonely, but now he is on his own for ever. He carries the burden of his own guilt, a certain hardness because of what he has done, and a greater than ever determination to try and stop such horrors again. I particularly liked that we had to wait for David Tennant's final episodes to understand just how corrupt and evil the Time Lords had become, which explained just why he had done something so terrible.

RTD's version of The Doctor can be incredibly hard and unforgiving. Adam in "The Long Game" is unceremoniously kicked out of the TARDIS for trying to change the future. Harriet Jones in "The Christmas Invasion" gets removed from office because she blows up the Sycorax ship. The Empress of the Racnoss in "The Runaway Bride" has all her children drowned ,until Donna makes him stop. The Family of Blood are all trapped for eternity in terrible situations in "The Family of Blood." It's a great character trait because it makes us question him and wonder whether he's always done the right thing. The Doctor can also be very arrogant. Sometimes this is a good attribute. When he orders Yvonne to stop the "ghost shift" in "Army of Ghosts", when he takes over in the hospital on the Moon in "Smith and Jones", when he takes control of the failing Titanic in "The Voyage of the Damned", his decisiveness is what's needed to put things right. But when he over-reaches himself, as in "Midnight" (one of my favourite episodes) he puts himself in real jeopardy. And in "The Waters of Mars" he gets it really wrong and makes everything much worse. Such attributes make for great story-telling and make sure you're thinking about it long after the credits roll.

But the Doctor still has the counterbalance of the zaniness that I remember from Tom Baker and Patrick Troughton (Jon Pertwee always seemed a bit dour to me). I love the humour, "we meet up every year - Hermits United", "worst escape EVER", the running, the jumping about with excitement. It all adds to the idea of someone we'd all be inspired to travel with. And we get to see a lot of his compassion too. I know it's a lot in the acting, but when RTD put David Tennant in a situation where he has to abandon people in "The Waters of Mars"the look on The Doctor's face as he hears them dying is just, just wonderful. Equally brilliant is his response to Adelaide saying "Why are you telling me this?" - "Consolation". Similarly, the strongest parts of "The End of Time" are his conversations with Wilf and The Master. I particularly loved him telling The Master he could be so wonderful, and seeing The Master moved almost to tears, till he snaps out of it.

Narrative Drive

Davies is a master storyteller. He can get it wrong, as I've said before - several of the specials don't quite work for me, and "Journey's End" was a disappointment after "The Stolen Earth". He can be schmaltzy, promise more than he delivers and pile on too much. But I think he gets it right more often than not, and it is because he knows how to maintain our interest.

His particular strength is cliffhangers. A tribute to quite how good he is at this, is a very early RTD vehicle "Revelations". I am probably one of the few people in the country who watched this. A soap opera about a Bishop's family it was unbelievably bad, but what gripped me was the superb cliff-hangers, the constant need to know what happened next. And he's used this to great effect in Doctor Who 2 parters. I've mentioned "Army of Ghosts"but others are equally good. "Bad Wolf" ends with the Daleks invading Earth"Utopia" with The Master nicking the TARDIS and leaving The Doctor and co at the end of the Universe; "The Sound of the Drums" with The Master sending down the Toclafane to decimate the people of Earth; "The Stolen Earth" with The Doctor apparently regenerating and "The End of Time Pt 1" with the return of the Timelords. Whilst, it's true, that he doesn't always deliver on the cliffhanger - I still think he's a genius at making you want to find out what next.

He's also great at plotting story arcs. There are the big obvious series arcs such as "Bad Wolf", "Torchwood" and my personal favourite "Mr Saxon" (because I love The Master!). But, he is much more subtle too. Thus, (and thanks to my sis Jane Henry aka Julia Williams for this) in Series 2, Rose and The Doctor keep getting separated - possessed by Cassandra, trapped in the devil's pit, captured by the Wire etc, a foreshadowing of what eventually happens to them. In Series 4, Donna, like Rose, wants to travel with The Doctor for ever. Yet there are warnings scattered throughout the series that this isn't going to happen - Martha tells her being around The Doctor is dangerous, River Song looks horrified when she meets her, someone in the Shadow Proclamation says she's sorry for her loss. And when The Doctor ensures Donna loses her memories to save her, it's one of the most poignant scenes of the whole series.

RTD's big episodes are the ones people often remember, and he is great at increasing jeopardy ("The Sound of the Drums" and "The Last of the Timelords" are particularly good at this), I think his smaller, quieter episodes are better demonstrations of his writing talent. "The Long Game" and "Boom Town" are two of my favourite episodes from Series 1 - because they explore interesting and difficult ideas - the power of the media to control minds in the first, and whether we should save someone unpleasant from the death penalty in the second. I love "Love & Monsters" from Series 2, because it seems to capture something of the nature of celebrity chasing. And "Utopia" has got to be up there just because of the fantastic revelation that kindly Professor Yana is in fact The Master. Finally - "Midnight" is a stand-out episode for me for three reasons. Firstly, it's very tightly scripted and paced, so the build up to The Doctor being in such peril is just right. Second, it gives us a new angle on the people trapped with an alien threat. Thirdly, the alien itself was so clever, so scary & the fact that it could turn The Doctor's strongest weapon -his power of speech - against him was a very clever twist.

Modern family TV.

The moment Christopher Eccleston picks up a Heat Magazine in "Rose" and says, "That'll never work, she's an alien and he's gay", we knew this was a Doctor for our times. Sometimes this is a negative. I think people are right to criticise the focus on "Eastenders" type family situations and does everyone have to come from London? But part of the fun of the show is that it has something for everyone. The kids all love the silly gags, the fart jokes, the Titanic nearly crashing on the Queen; the explosions, The Doctor saving the day. But, there's a lot for us parents too. We can enjoy the story but we also get treats like the wonderful parodies of Big Brother/The Weakest Link/Trinny and Susannah in "Bad Wolf"; The Master's comment on Jack and Martha -"nice to see you ticking all the demographics"; the use of SatNav as a murder weapon in "The Sontaran Stratagem". And I really enjoyed Davies' two fingers to the people who moan about his "gay agenda" when he got The Doc to set Captain Jack up with Alonso just before he regenerated...

Finally - I love the fact that a show for kids also has a strong anti-violence message. Violence does get used to save the day, but it's usually the last, rather than the first solution. The Doctor consistently chooses not to use weapons which is refreshing in a world where guns are often seen as the only option. The fact that this sometimes leads to other problems is also a strength, because it helps kids see that such questions are complex and every choice we make has consequences.

I could go on about the nature of choice, consequences, how hard it is to be a hero, the companions etc. But this is enough I think.

So, I embrace RTD warts and all. and am grateful to him for bringing Dr Who back, for making it work, and for leaving it in such good health. I'm sure the new team of Moffat and Smith will be equally good, but I'm sorry to see the old guard leave.

And, whatever you write next, Mr Davies, I'm sure I'll be watching.

.

#FlashFriday - Happy New Year

2010-01-01T04:12:00.000-08:00

OK - so this is my first proper attempt at this - a brief story that came to me this week; I have no time to properly edit,so not sure if I have quite got the interior voice right, but here goes.

9pm

The woman in the red dress is a nasty surprise. She stands at the doorway, the silk of the dress cut so perfectly it clings to the curves on her body like skin. It's lush, she's lush. Suddenly, the sexy outfit Suzy and I spent hours choosing, feels tacky.

I teeter on the brink of the doorstep.

"Hi" she says, "You must be Kayleigh. Jack never stops talking about you."

Does he? Does he?

"Hi, and you are?"

"Alex, Jack's sister. Didn't he mention we shared a house?"

Fabtastic. Dreams of a New Year kiss still intact, I totter over the doorstep into the small hallway.

"Can I take your coat? Jacket?"

I give her my coat, leaving the bolero jacket on. Suzy and I spent ages taping my boobs to the lime-green halterneck I'm wearing, but I'm still a bit nervous of something going wrong. Alex waves me to the kitchen. Jack is standing with a group of friends, by a table of drinks and a big bowl of, what looks like raspberry juice.

"Kayleigh! You came!" He gives me a hug. "Everybody, this is the woman who saves my life on a regular basis."

I try not to blush. This is much better. The group nod and smile, a couple introduce themselves as Dan and Rowan. A man I recognise from the office, looks across, "How come you get the sexy secretary?"

Jack smiles, "Hands off," and then to me, "Punch?" I look round startled, until he hands me a drink of the raspberry juice. "Go easy on it - it's got quite a kick."
I gulp it down to cover my confusion. He's right, it is strong, but tastes delicious. I settle in for the evening.

10pm

I'm in the lounge dancing on the laminate floor. It's just like Mum and Dad's but the walls are white, there is a single divan, silver lamp and a wall to wall sound system. I feel loose with the music and the drink. "I'm too sexy for my clothes... I'm sexy" . It's only a matter of time before Jack finds me - tonight's got to be the night. Dan and Rowan are beside me shifting to the music with stiff, awkward movements. Rowan says she needs the loo and they leave. It's hot, so I take off my jacket, close my eyes and sway. A voice interrupts me. "Dance?" It's Whatshisname, the one from the kitchen. I'd rather it was Jack, but I don't know where he is, and I'm not sure how to say no. We gyrate together. Whatshisname steps on my toes and bangs into me. I'm beginning to feel a little dizzy. He falls against me, grabbing my boob. I make an excuse and run out to the kitchen.

11pm.

I've been sitting in the kitchen telling jokes. There's not much left in the punchbowl but everyone is laughing at me, so I must be funny, right? Someone turns the music off in the lounge. Jack enters. Jack - I gaze at him. He's so beautiful. Those brown eyes. The dimple on his chin. I can't wait to kiss him. He's grabbing me by the hand. He's grabbing me by the hand.

"Come on," he says, "We're playing truth or dare." It takes me a minute or two to get off the chair. Must be my shoes, I kick them off and leave them there. I knew I should have worn flats.

I stand against the wall, to steady myself. Someone spins a bottle. It points to Alex. She dares her friend to kiss a man with a ginger beard. They take a long one to great amusement. The bottle spins again, and again. People show a bit of flesh, kiss, share the odd secret. I'm waiting for my turn, my snog. The bottle spins to Dan. He looks across at Rowan.

"Truth," he says, his voice sounding brittle. "Who were you with last night."
"Jools."
"Lying bitch," he spits at her and walks out of the house.
"I'm telling the truth." She's crying. Jack walks over and gives her a hug.
"Don't worry," he says. He's so kind. He's lovely. Surely, it will be our turn soon.

The bottle spins to whatshisname. He looks across at me and smiles.
"Kayleigh. Show us your suspenders." The room roars with appreciation.

"You don't have to," says Jack. But everyone else is doing it. And I've got to the point I don't care. I stagger to the centre of the room, and hitch my skirt above the top of my stockings, exposing my suspenders. There are catcalls and whistles as I let my skirt down. Pleased with myself, I turn round, only to trip over someone's leg. I fall in whatshisname's lap. "Thanks for dropping in" he says.

I pull myself up as fast as I can. Something tears. Oh God no. I'm doing a Janet Jackson right in front of Jack. Alex takes me by the arm.

"Come on Kayleigh." She brings me upstairs to the bedroom, sorts out my top. "I think you've had a bit too much. Why don't you lie down for a bit?" She lies me on the bed. I struggle.

"I'm fine. Honestly. I'm fine." It's not true, the room is moving round and round and my head is hurting. But I can't end the night up here without Jack. "Jack..." I say, "What about Jack?"

"Don't worry. I'll explain." She switches off the light and leaves me alone in the dizzy darkness.

11.55pm.

I glance at the digital clock. Nearly midnight. I've got to get up. I heave myself off the bed. My hair is all over the place, but I can't find a brush. I feel sick. I've got to find Jack before midnight. I've got to.

Downstairs the lounge is crowded. 5,4,3,2,1 HAPPY NEW YEAR. There is a cheer. People snog. Poppers go off. Outside fireworks explode. Where's Jack? He doesn't seem to be in here. I push my way out into the hall. The kitchen is empty, but the back door is open. I can see two people standing by the fence. They have the look of long-term lovers. The man turns round as I come out into the garden. It's Jack. Jack. And the woman? Bloody Rowan. Dan was right. She is a lying bitch.

I run back inside so they can't see my tears and bump into whatsisname.

"Kayleigh. Where's my New Year kiss?" He pulls me towards him, and his tongue is in my mouth before I can respond. He pushes me against the kitchen wall, and his hand is up my skirt. The feeling is not unpleasant. And it does seem a shame to waste the suspenders.

I move into his body and kiss him back.

Happy Christmas.

2009-12-24T05:13:00.000-08:00

It's a repeat post - but seasonal - & if you are new to this blog, you might not have seen it last time. A homage to my very happy childhood in Southgate, North London which occasionally looked like this at Christmas time. Merry Christmas everyone!

Midwinter.

Snow falling, snow on snow - almost forty years ago. On a warm winter night, at a blanketed bus-stop, four year old hands clutch a calendar of lions - a prize for attending mother’s Old Girls. A glimpse into the impossibility of life before us, a chorus of “aahs” and “how sweet”, and this gift of shiny yellow baring teeth, a talisman to wave at older siblings who visited, instead, exotic aunts in their exotic flats in Petty France, and got tea and several kinds of cakes. And the snow falls on other midwinters, when the dining room is dark and cold, inhabited by the ghosts of exotic dead aunts. Dead aunts who spent their remaining days under our curious gazes, in the neat white double bed, presided over by the cold, gold crucifix, and the visiting priest giving last rites, a blessing on the way out of life to – where exactly? Heaven, mother says, and leaving behind the cold, white bed.

Snow falls on snow, on the way to catch a glimpse of father’s life, seated in the front row, while boys dressed in perplexing drag, sing of pirates or fairies and we are all examined by many eyes, specimens of teacher’s children – his life outside school grounds.

And the evenings of Blue Peter and Jackanory and the nights of childish fights and games, and stories round grandmother’s bed in the candlelit, power-cutted dining room. Grandmother, whose eyes and teeth and voice are just the right size (no wolves here), and whose presence banishes dead aunts into the night. Grandmother, who nonetheless, spots hidden grape-stealing fingers, once the light returns and banishes seven year-old naughtiness from her sight.

Snow falls on snow as Christmas comes around, And the lights of the hand-picked, hand-painted Christmas tree colour the dining room; the milk bottles freeze and the bluetits steal the cream;and all through the house there is more than one mouse awake. There are muffled giggles through the night and Father Christmas cannot come till we sleep but sleep is not possible tonight and there are rustles and chuckles and the waiting is impossible, and no sign of coal-dusty appearances, and we are waiting and we are waiting and we are waiting…

… and suddenly we are awake and he has been and left in his wake treasures to share:

between three - a father-made dolls house, complete with working lights

for two - a pink plastic pram, to mimic mother, and push through snow and ice.

for all of us - a collection of slightly singed books, rescued from the flames of a rather unfortunate bonfire (how that happened, no-one knows).

. Snow falls on snow, and a houseful of children are thrown out into the back garden and the recreation ground, booted, scarved and gloved, sliding down the slippery slope, again, and again and again, till at last the joy of snowball fights pall and we return to the hot-chocolated kitchen and the iron-boarded mother who steams away the cold. And in the dining room at night time dead grandmothers meet with dead exotic aunts, and the journey from living room to bed, becomes in the darkness, an epic voyage, with brave advances and cowardly withdrawals and stairs taken three at a time to avoid the open, black dining room door where dead aunts and dead exotic grandmothers expose their groping dead fingers to grab us in the dark (no matter what mother says) until we reach the safety of the landing and at last to bed and pillow fights. And only the Christmas tree lights are bright enough to banish such ghosts from sight. Father Christmas comes again and again and again, until he is one day exposed as a big brother wrapped in a counterpane from top to toes.

Snow falls on snow and there are carol singers in the night, and sometimes we join them in the orange sodium light to sing of snow and bright angels. And now we are old enough to tramp to church for Midnight Mass where we listen to long sermons, breathe in the incense, and experience the miraculous birth - shepherds, kings, and angels, peace on earth. And the twelve-year old night when snow freezes traffic so that we abandon the bus on the way home from school (or it abandons us) at frozen traffic lights, with walking the only option, a slipping, and a sliding that very soon palls, so snowfall is cursed, and at last after two hours of icy travelling we arrive home to a tomato-souped kitchen and a threadbare holey-jumpered father who steams away the cold.

Snow falls on snow and life expands beyond the house and the fights and noise of all these girls and boys, and friends extend our experiences beyond the bounds of the local recreation ground. Now boyfriends banish the ghosts of dead aunts and grandmothers from the dining room as we sit in the cuddling armchairs springing apart at the inopportune opening of the door by mothers, fathers, sisters or brothers. Then boyfriends leave and we grieve for a while, and the home-worked dining room becomes haunted by the ghosts of kisses past, till Christmas comes again and we realise we are surrounded by friends who laugh in passing at the tiny hand-picked, hand-painted tree that colours the room. And how fast our childhood has gone and it is time for us to take our leave, but before we do we celebrate the twenty five years that have passed since our parents made their vows in the impossibility of life before us. And so we go to church and sing a chorus of snow falling on snow.

Midwinter:long, ago.

Picture Perfect (1) - The Gruffalo

2009-12-22T13:20:00.000-08:00

In honour of the 10th anniversary of the classic picture book, The Gruffalo, by Julia Donaldson, illustrated by Axel Scheffler, I thought I'd start a whole new series of articles on picture books. I am an unashamed fan of children's fiction. Loved it growing up, loved it as a grown up re-reading (well before Harry Potter made it OK for adults to read kid's books), and love sharing my favourites with my children. But, I have to admit, it is only since having nieces and nephews, and then children of my own that I have really been struck by the brilliant art of picture books. With great picture books, the wonderful interplay between the image and the words on the page are a joy to read to toddlers, and their reactions are even better. Since Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler are the dream team in terms of writing and pictures coming together - The Gruffalo is a great place to start.

I first came across The Gruffalo at my godson's 2nd birthday party. He'd been given it as a present, and at some point in the proceedings when the toddlers were getting restive, I picked it up and started reading it to them. It was an instant hit, and I was so entranced I rushed out and bought a copy for my family. I've lost count of how many times I've read it over the last 8 years, but it's one I never tire of. So what is it about this particular book that still draws my children back and gives it an unheard of 25 five star ratings on Amazon ?

As a writer, of course, I've got to say it starts with the writing (though I promise to come back to the pictures later). Like many a good young children's writer, Donaldson opts for the rhyming story. Rhymes are of course perfect for pre-schoolers, they're easy to read out loud, easy to remember, and ideal for the inevitable "again,again" moment, but Donaldson's rhyming is superlative. She doesn't ever fall into the trap of the simple and obvious - she does what grown up poets do, and goes for the rhyming sound rather than the look, "good" with "wood", "said" with "sped", "gruffalo", with "know". And, if I'm not mistaken, the main rhythm of the piece is good old iambic pentameter. Hard to pull off at the best of times, but she does it lightly, so the words really trip off the tongue and the conversations seem very natural:

"It's terribly kind of you, Fox, but no-
I'm going to have lunch with a gruffalo."

The other brilliant thing she does is to use the rhyming to build up to the central climax. The mouse meets the fox, the owl and the snake and has the same conversation 3 times. He can't go with them because he's about to meet the mythical Gruffalo, who he describes in ever more lurid detail. As they disappear off in fear, he laughs "there's no such thing as a Gruffalo" until the third occasion, brings him face to face with the monster, and "Gruffalo" becomes "Gruffal-Oh". It's a magic moment, aided by the fact you have to turn the page to get that punch-line. And, the rhymes are then repeated slightly differently as the Gruffalo and the mouse meet the three animals again and the story works to its resolution.

Of course, the book wouldn't work if it was just clever rhyming. The narrative at the heart of the tale is wonderful. A quick witted mouse uses his brains to avoid being eaten by three predators by making up a story about a terrible monster. Just as he is congratulating himself on his brilliance, he discovers the monster is real, and has to talk himself out of trouble, by tricking the Gruffalo into thinking he is more dangerous than he looks. It's a classic simple tale of the hero winning against all odds, and Donaldson pulls it off brilliantly.

But if the writing powers the book forward, it is Axel Scheffler's wonderful pictures that give it life and energy. Look at the front cover above, doesn't it just say open me up? The mouse's eyes seem bright, and he is always drawn in action with a smile on his face - reflecting his clever, witty character. The Gruffalo, is a great mix of menace and stupidity. He has the orange eyes, the purple spines down his back, the tusks, the jaws that the mouse describes, and he's enormous. He could squash the mouse with his foot, and yet, there is something aout the way his jaw is drawn so low down, and his eyes seem so incredulous, that suggests he has half the brain the mouse has. The other characters are equally well drawn, as are the tiny background details, bugs and butterflies with smily faces and open-eyed wonder. It's a perfect marriage with the text, and is one reason why this book will sell for ever.

So Happy Birthday to The Gruffalo! Many thanks to Julia Donaldson and Axel Scheffler for the years of pleasure. I'm sure (if I'm that lucky) I'll be reading it to my grandchildren.

Strike Up The Band

2009-12-16T13:46:00.000-08:00

OK - time for another short story I feel. This little piece came out of a writing class with the wonderful Dennis Hamley. He gave us two postcards and we had to find a way to incorporate them in a piece. My postcards were of three men with no faces in colourful suits and a man taking his head off. This story was the result. It's been rejected by a magazine (not their kind of thing they said) and has yet to make it on a longlist anywhere,(one day, sigh) but I rather like it, even if it is a bit on the dark side....

I see him every morning, when I step out of the house to get the milk. Every morning at seven o’clock. Sometimes it’s ten past, I don’t always get out of bed on time these days. Every day he smiles, “Good morning,” before taking his head off with his bare hands, whilst behind him the fiery sun explodes through the clouds. His mouth is open in, laughter? Rage? I’m never quite sure. He does it long enough to know I have seen him, the neckless head, the headless neck. Then he places it back, says “I’m feeling light headed today.” or some other smart alec remark and walks away. It is no use trying to trick him, to stay in bed, to refuse to go out. If I don’t make it to the door, he enters the house, does his little turn and leaves me to face up to the day ahead.

The faceless men are always there to observe our morning encounters. They stand grey-headed on the opposite side of the street. Their featureless bodies not entirely dreary, on account of the colour of their suits. I’ve been seeing them every day for weeks now, but it still never ceases to intrigue me, why, when everything else is uniform, they choose to dress this way. There’s Mr Tartan, with his red and black squares. Next to him, Mr Flower Power, in his mustard-suit adorned in bold florals - pink, blue, red and white. Last of all, Mr Stripes dressed in irregular diagonals - greens, reds, yellows, oranges, a surprise of purple.They never speak, but sing an early morning chorus:

Let the drums roll out,
Let the trumpet call,
While the people shout, “Strike up the band."

I have stopped shouting at them to shut up, it upsets the neighbours. It upsets my wife, who asks me why in God’s name I am standing on the doorstep yelling nonsense again.So I go back inside, the song ringing in my head. I take the milk to the fridge as my wife doles out the assignments necessary for the smooth running of Operation Schoolrun. When all are fed and watered; have lunchtime provisions; all teeth are clean; shoes polished fit for a sergeant-major - I dispatch my family in the four by four, and I can leave the house to go to the job I am supposed to attend each day.

The job I am supposed to attend each day, but have ceased to attend for several weeks now. My wife doesn’t know. She must never find out. Every morning as she takes the children off, I dutifully walk down the road to the train station. I am always pursued by my grey-faced, colourfully-suited choir.

There is work to be done, to be done,
Let’s have fun, fun, fun,
Come on son of a gun, gun, gun, take your stand.

I take the train as I am supposed to, but only for two stops. At Southend Central, I get out and walk through the back streets, coming down the hill by Never Never Land in the cliff gardens. I used to play there once, before the cliff falls and the vandals, in a time when every nook and cranny spelt adventure. Now there are keep out signs, the paint is peeling off the play-houses and I don’t want an adventure ever again. As I reach the pier, my grey men are singing from their mouthless faces with gusto,

Form a line oh,oh,
Come on, let’s go.
Hey leader, strike up the band.

I suppose I don’t mind them really. Some days I even quite like their singing. It gives me something to hum along to, so I don’t have to worry about anything else. About the fact that I am not at work. About the fact that I stopped going sometime ago, around the time my friend with the detachable head arrived. Around the time my personal choir started following me around. So I sing along as I start out down the pier, the tune beating my path over the creaking boards out to sea. Through the cracks between the wood, I can see the water deepening from the brown, muddy shallows, to the green swirly depths where the motorboats launch. The wind strengthens its grip on me. By the time I reach the end of the railway line, the water is grey-green, the air sea-fresh. Of course, since the fire, there’s not much to see out here: the burnt out buildings of 2005, adding to the blackened timbers of the previous fires further on out to sea. Only the lifeboat station has survived the latest conflagration intact – still on hand to rescue those in need. I’m not sure there’s any salvation for someone as lost at me, but I like to sit here, tucked in a corner, out of the wind. I like watching the fishermen and the large ships going up and down the estuary. Sometimes, I pretend I’m on board a ship, far out to sea, a long way from home. It’s better than staying at home, at any rate, sitting with my memories.

It doesn’t do any good to remember. It leads me to places I’d rather not be. Places where I was sent by the grey faceless men. The men who make all the decisions without ever living through the consequences. The faceless men who send others into war zones, they would never dare enter themselves. Like the convoy on the way to the Christmas Panto. Andy, Pat and Dean dressed as clowns in their tartan, floral, stripy suits, wearing silly noses and making daft jokes. Alec, smart Alec, not so smart that day, poking his head out of the side of the humvee we borrowed from the Yanks. Alec, smart Alec, not so smart that day, whose head was lifted right of his neck. A headless neck, a neckless head, as the roadside bomb exploded beside our truck and we were sent helter skelter, and all the while on the radio I could hear the sound of singing:

Form a line, oh, oh.
Come on, let's go.
Hey, Mr. Leader,
Hey, Mr. Leader,
Please strike up the band!

What should women write about?

2009-12-12T11:20:00.000-08:00

Here's an interesting discussion about women writers by Rachel Cusk in today's Guardian. It is eighty years apparently since Virginia Woolf wrote "A Room of One's Own" and fifty since Simone de Beauvoir wrote "The Second Sex." Cusk takes the time to consider whether anything has changed since these two greats wrote their seminal works. She concludes, rather sadly, that no it hasn't. Women still have to write about war rather than domesticity to be taken seriously.

I can see where Rachel Cusk is coming from. Male writers still do seem to get lauded in a way women don't, and domestic novels are sometimes given less credibility than they should - but I'm not sure I entirely agree. Domestic novels are challenging in that the repetitive nature of housework itself doesn't make for interesting reading(it's bad enough having to do it). But, a really good writer, of any sex, can make us interested in a person living an apparently quiet life, by the way they make us engage with their situation. Look at what Marilynne Robinson does in Housekeeping, Gilead and Home, and you'll see what I mean. Because she makes the characters so believable and their ordinary lives absorbing, and she writes so well, she is quite rightly lauded. The Best 100 books of all time; the Pullitzer Prize; and the Orange Prize aren't bad for "domestic novels". And it's not only women who write well about domesticity. Raymond Carver's wonderful short stories collection, "Elephant" is full of careful crafted tiny snippets of ordinary lives, which make sense to us because of their very ordinariness.

As a writer, who happens to be a woman, I'd be the first to acknowledge my gratitude to Woolf and de Beauvoir for challenging the status quo of their time and clearing the way for us to follow. I was lucky enough to go to the kind of girl's school that built on their formative work, and to grow up in a household where it was a given that women were as good as men. It's never been my gender that's stopped me writing - but my busy life. In recent years that's included family, but before that it was the demands of my job. Needing to pay the bills rather than being female has been the major disincentive to my writing (something that Woolf never had to worry about!) In fact, it was only when I stopped paid work for a while to look after the children that I cleared the head-space to allow myself the thinking time I need to write.

As for subject matter, I believe I should write about things that matter to me. Sometimes this will touch on domestic, sometimes on politics or philosophy. Often it's a combination of both. If people don't like it or choose to label my writing in a particular way - that's their problem not mine.

Besides, isn't it time we learnt to transcend gender altogether? After all, isn't that what Woolf was saying in "A Room of One's Own"? When a female writer becomes as great as Shakespeare, we won't care that she's a woman, all we'll care about is what she has to say.

Sublime Screenplay (1) The Sopranos

2009-12-06T13:32:00.000-08:00

From the very first episode, my husband and I loved The Sopranos. We never fell by the wayside, as we did with Lost, Heroes and the like, loving it so much that we were prepared to follow it into the inexplicably late BBC2 scheduling, put up with the gaps in transmission and gradually fill our shelves with the box sets as each series was complete. When it came to an end, we were desolate (until we discovered The Wire that is). But now, two years after the series finished, we find ourselves dipping into the box sets and still being entranced by the stories, no matter how familiar they are. So what is it about this particular TV Series, that always draws us back in (no matter how many times we think we are out)?

Like all good TV it starts with the screenplay. David Chase and his team of fine writers have created a world, a set of characters, a story that we can believe in. The directors, actors and producers, put flesh on it - and in this case, the cast are all terrific, and the direction superb -but they'd be nothing without the words.

There are several features of the Sopranos that make it stand out above the crowd and I'd like to take a moment to highlight a few of them.

1.The situation.

The genius of the Sopranos lies in its premise. Tony Soprano (the wonderful James Gandolfini) is your average working class American made good. He has a wife, two teenage children who drive him crazy, an elderly mother, and as we open the show, he is suffering from panic attacks due to an apparent mid-life crisis. A man who wonders what happened to the "strong silent type" is forced to face up to his emotions by going to therapy. So far, so normal, except that of course, Tony Soprano is anything but. He has another family - the Mafia - his whole existence is based on a life of violence and crime. It is this that makes the show stand out. We are naturally drawn to Tony - we sympathise with his problems, we admire his struggle to be a good father, we are concerned by the state of his marriage, and yet he does unspeakable things, again and again and again. The duality of good and evil in one person, the question of whether he will be redeemed, the fact that Tony is like us in so many ways, makes for absolutely compelling TV, and from episode 1, we are hooked.

2. Recurring stories.

The Sopranos is very strong on narrative, and not only that, on repeated narratives. Time and time again, we see the same story, but told in a different way to keep it fresh. Here's a sample:

Young Turk Rising - In Series 1, this is all about Tony and his nephew, Christopher Moltisanti (Michael Imperioli - a standout performance). Tony is constantly frustrated with Christopher's unreliability, Christopher with Tony's lack of trust. Christopher wants more responsibility, but Tony (rightly) feels he lacks commitment and focus. This one never completely goes away - and the Tony/Christopher relationship is pivotal to the whole show - but by Series 2, Christopher has settled down and is rising up the organisation and has people under him. Ironically, now it is Christopher who feels the burden of mentoring two young men. They too are impatient for power and glory and gradually spiral out of control, with tragic results. By Series 3, another young man comes into the frame, the son of Tony's oldest friend, the deceased mob boss Jackie Aprile. The twist on this version is that Tony promised his friend to keep young Jackie out of the business, but is powerless to stop him, and when he comes under the wing of the slimy Ralph Cifaretto, we know there's a disaster waiting to happen. The final version of the story is Antony Junior, Tony's son. Unlike the other young men, AJ is not reckless, aggressive or bold, yet his inability to stay at college, or hold down a job, leads him to drift. There is always a risk he will end up in Tony's world, though Tony continues to make efforts to prevent this right to the very end.

Respect Your Elders - Series 1 centres on Tony's relationships with his mother, Livia, and his uncle, Junior (Dominic Chianese). Tony is a good son, but his mother is a mean, manipulative, depressive (a brilliant turn by the late, lamented Nancy Marchand) who drives everyone away but Tony whom she treats abysmally. She's the only person who can do this without being killed, because she's his mother and has his utter respect, whatever she does. Junior was one of Tony's mentors when young ( a mirror of the Christopher/Tony relationship), but in old age he is fractious and petty, with a tendency to see slights where none are intended. He is both a liability and a danger to Tony's business and their relationship is fraught. Tony is torn between his desire to look after his elders, and his struggle to deal with their daily irritations. By the end of the Series he has learnt the truth about his mother, and rejected her, and found a way to control his uncle. In Series 2, Bobby Baccalara, Junior's driver is worried about his sick father, a hitman. Bobby's father has the opportunity for one more hit, which he seizes with relish, but Bobby is desperate for him not to do it, because of the state he is in. A rather extreme version of most people's worries about sick parents. As we move through each Series, Junior and Tony reach an understanding till Junior develops Alzheimers with terrible consequences for Tony. And in Series 6 this story is developed in a different way through Tony's friend Paulie, whose discovery of a family secret causes him to reject the mother who has only ever been loving and kind.

Who Can You Trust? Trust is at the heart of all Tony's work relationships. Doing business with mafia colleagues, all out for themselves, he has to constantly check he is not being shafted. Protecting himself from the FBI, he has to watch for the friend who has been turned. Being the head of the operation, there is always the risk of rebellion in the ranks. In Series 1, this is played out with the story of Livia and Junior, plotting against Tony. In Series 2, Tony's friend Pussy returns after a brief disappearance, raising questions about whether he is working for the FBI. Richie Aprile, Jackie's brother, comes out of jail, to manage the Aprile crew. He feels passed over in the system, and has a short fuse, but is a great earner - how far can he be relied on? Series 3 and 4 introduce us to Ralphie Cifaretto, who becomes captain of the Aprile crew, another brilliant earner for Tony, but also the most unpleasant character of the whole show. Tony detests him, but needs him, and the question is for how long? In Series 3, Adriana (Drea de Matteo), Christopher's long-suffering girlfriend, is approached by the FBI, will she turn and can she now be trusted? Series 5, sees Tony's cousin, Tony Blundetto return from prison, and try to go straight. The pivot of this story is that he and Tony are very close, and would do anything for each other. But he, too, has a strong temper - can he be relied on to stay out of the business and not cause Tony any trouble? Finally, in Series 6, yet another captain of the Aprile crew, Vito Spatafore, causes Tony anxiety when it is discovered he is gay. In such an intensely homophobic culture, can Tony give him a pass?

Each of these stories makes sense for the characters involved, and are entrhalling in their own right. But the added beauty of them (except perhaps the FBI stories) is that they could all happen to anyone. Isn't middle age in part about mentoring the next generation? About caring for the older generation? And managing difficult staff problems?

3. Multi-layering.

Another brilliant part of the show, is how multi-layered it is. It consistently works as straight drama but often there are a variety of meanings. For example, a Series 6 episode, The Ride, tells the story of Tony's men sorting out a local fair in celebration of an Italian saint. There are problems with the church paying enough to them for the event, and so Paulie, Tony's often unreliable colleague, cuts corners. As a result a ride breaks, people are hurt, and Tony is furious. But intercut with this story we see Tony and Christopher seizing on an opportunity to steal some wine, and that Tony enjoys the high he gets from taking this "ride", something that doesn't happen to him much these days. Christopher, who has been on the wagon for two series, falls off dramatically, after drinking some of the stolen wine which leads to him taking a "ride" of heroin.(With thanks to my dearest other half for pointing these connections out).

The series is always good at reflecting modern life subtly. A man trying to convert Tony wears a T shirt protesting about Terry Schiapo, whose life machine was turned off; Tony is confronted with the reality of health insurance when he is in hospital.Christopher works with some people of Arabic extraction, but are they really terrorists?

Another clever aspect of the show is the constant references to other mob stories - Jimmy Cagney movies, Goodfellas, The Godfather - which both remind us of the genre, but also reflect our attitudes to the Mafia. All the characters love to refer to key scenes in these movies, almost as if they are creating a heroic myth about themselves. Whilst the subsidiary characters - the doctors, lawyers, priests on the right side of the law - are all shown to have a ghoulish fascination with both Mafia on screen and in real life, a nice little dig at those Sopranos fans who relish the blood and guts.

Films are also often used to directly commentate on the action. Thus, when Tony's mother dies, he is watching a Cagney movie, where the son is selfish and the mother loving, a complete reversal of his relationship. When Christopher murders a bent cop, the TV is showing a cop show, where the cops are heroes. Tony likes to suggest he is a soldier, and is often seen watching war movies, as if to emphasise his role as a military leader.

4.Corruption and Complicity.

And then, there's complicity. Within minutes of being introduced to Tony and Christopher we watch them carry out an act of horrifying violence. Though quite tame by the time we reach the end,it is an indication of things to come. We are being invited to participate in the life of a man who commits violence on a regular basis, and as an audience we become complicit.

But it isn't just us. It's everyone who Tony touches. His wife, Carmella (Edie Falco), tries to lead a good life, raising their kids, going to church, doing charity work. But she knows it is built on the back of horrible crimes, which she tries not to think about most of the time. Jennifer Melfi (Lorraine Bracco), Tony's therapist, struggles to keep a professional distance with the "moral neverneverland" he inhabits, yet she too is drawn into his world, giving advice on situations, that in her heart of hearts she must know will lead to someone, somewhere being hurt, and in one episode becoming drunk and aggressive herself. Tony's kids don't escape either. Meadow (Jamie-Lynn Sigler), an intelligent (if somewhat brattish) teenager, seems to see things clearly at the beginning, though she is happy to use Tony's credit card. As she grows up Tony's behaviour impacts drastically on her life, and after one moment when she could perhaps confront him and walk away, she chooses to stay. From that point on, she like her mother, ignores the basis on which their family life is founded, and by the end is engaged to the son of another mob man. The chances of her staying uncorrupted in the future seem pretty unlikely, particularly when Tony has noted several times how like him she is, and she is developing a career as a lawyer. AJ (Robert Iler) is less forthright than Meadow, and has an ambivalence about the Mafia. It seems glamorous, but he hasn't really got the stomach for it, yet he too enjoys the comforts it brings, and it is hard to see him being able to break away.

Other pleasures include the wonderful range of characters (I haven't even mentioned Janice, Tony's sister, or Silvio, his right hand man) and the strong sense of humour that runs through it. Christopher's attempts to break into Hollywood are a joy as are the many blackly comic moments when various people are trying to dispose of corpses without attracting attention. And memorable one liners abound:

"Cunnilingus and psychiatry have bought us to this" (Tony on realising there's a hit on him because he mocked someone's sex life)
"Never mess with the Russians" (Tony to Janice who then goes and does exactly that)
"He killed sixteen Czechoslovakians, guy was an interior decorator" (Paulie mishearing Tony on the phone - he killed Chechnyans and was a Russian Green beret)
And of course, "You fat fuck" (everyone to everyone)

That's just a small taste - you can see more here.

Oh, and the ending was so bold that it infuriated and delighted fans in equal measure. So much so, that people are still talking about what it all means. I tend to side with this interpretation, but there are others. I just love the fact that we were made to think right up until the very last minute.
So there you have it, a show that doesn't hide the moral repugnancy of its main character. A show that isn't frightened to depict the true violence of the world it portrays. No matter how stomach churning the various beatings and murders are, there is always a point to them. And a show that isn't afraid to treat its audience as a group of intelligent human beings.

Salut - David Chase - you've created a masterpiece.

Bada Bing!

Plug of the Month

2009-11-23T12:09:00.000-08:00

Last Christmas by Julia Williams

Not being a fan of carols in September, I have been avoiding the dreaded "C" word for weeks. But, since we are now only a month away, I realise it is time to divest myself of my Scrooge tendencies and start getting ready for the big day.

And what better way to begin the festive season then to give a shout for my lovely twin sister, Julia Williams? Her latest novel, Last Christmas, is a perfect holiday treat:

It's the most wonderful time of year. Isn't it? Discover the true spirit of Christmas with this seasonal treat for fans of Love, Actually and The Holiday. Discover the true spirit of Christmas...Catherine Tinsall is dreading Christmas. As the 'Happy Homemaker' she is an online sensation, but the reality couldn't be more different. With Catherine's marriage in tatters, her children running wild and her mother increasingly forgetful, seasonal cheer is running low. Husband Noel also hides a secret: he's facing the axe at work. Until he chances upon the village of Hope Christmas, deep in the Shropshire countryside, which could be the second chance he's searching for. If he can save it from the developers! In Hope Christmas itself, schoolteacher Marianne Moore is trying to heal her battered heart. But Christmas is a time for families, and memories of what she's lost haunt her at every turn. Meanwhile, Gabriel North faces a lonely Christmas but hides his sadness for the sake of his son. Will his wife ever come home? Or does love lie elsewhere? All four need a Christmas miracle. And it might just happen - courtesy of a mysterious guardian angel ! Forced to reassess their lives, will Catherine, Noel, Marianne and Gabriel discover what the meaning of Christmas really is? An irresistible gift of a tale that will warm the hearts of Christmas-lovers and Scrooges alike!

This is a light, funny read ("The Happy Homemaker" is particularly inspired) and is already selling like hot mince-pies. I'd love to see it rise even higher in the bestseller lists, so all you chick-lit lovers (or lovers of chick-lit lovers) go out and buy your copy today!

A Case of Mistaken Identity

2009-11-20T12:59:00.000-08:00

My lovely twin, Julia Williams, tweeted about this very common problem today. So I thought it apt to post this poem. It started life as a sonnet, and I'm inclined to agree with my tutor, probably should have stayed that way. But to meet the mad structure I set myself on assignment, it's become a villanelle, and I can't be bothered to turn it back...

Shall I forgive you? It happens quite a lot-
a stranger greets me in the street, or on a bus -
it causes confusion more often than not.

Did you suffer from such a delusion? What
were you thinking? That I wouldn't make a fuss?
Should I forgive you, since it happens a lot?

Perhaps you understood at first - but then forgot
alike was not the same - that there are two of us.
I know it's confusing, more often than not.

Suppose I tried again? Gave you another shot?
Perhaps, after all, I've been making too much fuss.
Could I forgive you, since it happens such a lot?

It’s not surprising, really, that you’ve lost the plot.
You're not the first to be bemused by two of us.
It can be confusing, more often than not.

Maybe, after all, I’ve been making too much fuss.
And...if I can absolve the person on the bus,
surely, I can forgive you? It happens such a lot -
causing confusion more often than not.

Coming soon on Plug of the Month - Julia Williams - Last Christmas - currently doing rather well in the bookshops.

London Launch of "How to Fall" and other fine poetry collections

2009-11-14T04:26:00.000-08:00

Karen Annesen, Anne Berkely and Carole Bromley invite you to the launch of their new collections (3 poets for the price of 1!)

How to Fall – Karen Annesen
The Men from Praga - Anne Berkeley,
Skylight – Carole Bromley

On Thursday 3rd December 7-10pm (short readings at 8pm)

At The London Irish Centre, 50-52 Camden Square, London, NW1 9XB 020 7916-2222

Compere Roisin Tierney as part of the London Irish Centre Reading Series.

Nearest tube Camden Town (Northern Line) Nearest train Camden Road Silverlink. Bus routes 29,253,274.Free parking after 6.30pm

This should be a great event. If you can't get to London, don't worry, there'll be events in Oxford and Wallingford in the New Year. Watch this space!.

This writing life.

2009-11-11T13:45:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week I contributed to a blog discussion on the She Writes website about where I write. I said, I write anywhere, because I have to. In a crowded life, competing with the demands of family, work and writing, with no room of my own, I have no choice. And generally, I think it works for me.

Yesterday, this theory was tested to the utmost, by a request from the Guardian to contribute an opinion piece to their Comment is Free blog. I'd submitted a response to their Question of the Week back in May on behalf of my good friends at Peace News and the editor had remembered me. I wasn't going to turn down a request from the Guardian, but the request came at 4 o'clock and the deadline was 6. I had tea to cook, washing up to do, a washing machine to empty, a work phone call to make, and my husband and I were going out at 6.30. I swallowed hard, said yes, and the clock started ticking.

Luckily, the subject was something that I feel passionately about - the death penalty, specifically focussing on the case of the John Allen Muhammed, the Washington Sniper who was executed at 2am this morning. The Guardian editor said he'd send me some links to the background, so I thought I'd do the washing up, while I waited, and start putting together some arguments in my mind. Ten minutes later, I checked my email, no message yet, and my son wanted the computer. That's OK, I said, I'll use the laptop in the back room. No problem, except, having to work with no mouse, an unfamiliar keyboard and Disney Channel blaring in the background. I began to type, intermittently flitting between googling websites about the case, death penalty laws in Virginia and Maryland, and murder rates around the world. Then a quick break to peel potatoes, put on the sausages, and back to it.

The piece began to take some shape, the Guardian emailed some useful links, then suddenly it was quarter to 5, and I hadn't made my work phone call. I jumped up, ran to the phone, was pretty relieved no-one was there and left a message. Passing the kitchen, I peeled some veg and went back to work. At quarter past five, my husband returned. Aha, he said, I've caught you. Ah, I replied cannily, But I am not frivolously wasting time on the net, I am earning us money by writing for a national newspaper. Besides, I have been super efficient and dinner is nearly done. He was suitably impressed, and left me to it. At half 5, I was beginning to sweat. I couldn't work out my conclusion and some of my thoughts still felt thin. I took a break to put tea on the table, which my beloved wonderfully supervised, and returned to the laptop. The disappearance of Hannah Montana at this point was greatly welcome, but by the time tea was over, at 5 to 6, I still hadn't got a last paragraph. My husband popped his head over my shoulder, It's very good, but you've quoted Tolkien? (he's no Lord of the Rings fan).

Still, I was in to the final strait. Slightly breathless and a bit sweaty, competing with the TV switched back on, and trying not to worry as the minutes ticked past 6, I finally reached the last word. It was 100 words over, but it would have to do. My husband did his last chivalrous task of the evening by saving it on the laptop's version of word, and the deed was done. Only quarter of an hour late as well. I gobbled down to tea and off we went for our night out. Later that evening, when we were able to look at the post, we were stunned to discover 93 comments had been left. They weren't all pleasant, but, what a reaction. The debate has raged all day, and finally closed after 400 comments. That's not bad for my first ever opinion piece.

I didn't speak to the children for two hours, and I never got the washing machine emptied, but something had to give. I was quite pleased with the final article,and amazed at the furore it provoked. With a bit more time, I'd have couched things slightly differently, had something to say about the victims, and been more careful with my use of statistics. I'm also acutely conscious, that whilst I was writing about some of my core beliefs and enjoying the experience, a man was being put to death, and thirteen families were still grieving for the people he killed. Nonetheless, I think it's important that those views are expressed and debated and it was wonderful to be given the chance to state my case.

I feel I gained my spurs as a writer today. And I'm immensely grateful for the opportunity.