Adele Archer's Blog, page 13

Unaccustomed As I Am To Public Speaking…

What is wrong with me? It’s okay, that’s a rhetorical question so you don’t have to provide answers in your comments below. Although you are more than welcome to if you’ve a spare half hour, I can peruse your list of faults at a later date for another blog, perhaps. I sure do need the blog-fodder. But really, what’s wrong with me? I’m a sensible, for-the-most-part-educated, adult with an acceptable command of the English language, but I‘ve always been vaguely uncomfortable when speaking to people. Face-to-face, anyway. I suppose it’s all going to boil down to some inferiority complex (doesn’t it always?), but I just want to explore the minutiae of why I have such an issue with…well…talking.

The technological age couldn’t come fast enough for me. I am lucky enough to be living in a time where I’ve been able to successfully disguise my actual persona behind the wonders of text messages and emails. Man, can you image a life without texts and emails? I can’t. I’d have to go live under a rock if you took those away from me. I’m frikkin’ awesome on cyberspace. No really, I am the cat’s pyjamas. The dog’s b*llocks. I’m the shizzle. I challenge anyone to write a better email than me. No need for spontaneity; everything can be prepped, pre-planned, edited and revised. I can converse at my leisure because nothing can be accidentally said without due thought until you press the ‘send’ button. My husband despairs of me sometimes; the countless texts that go back and forward just to make an ordinary arrangement. ‘Just bloody ring them!’ he’ll growl. Ring them? What, actually SPEAK to them? Why would I do that when I can hide behind the written word? D’uh! But physical, in the flesh, no gadgets required life – that poses the problem for me. My daughter, who is a keen Vlogger, insists that I ought to start one, but she doesn’t understand how monumental a mistake that would be for me…

You see, I’m awkward in real life. I have this vaguely grating cockney accent, veneered over with a decent vocabulary (but said vocabulary also lets me down when I am nervous and the only words in my armoury are ‘right’ and ‘yeah’ and ‘um’ and ‘err’). What’s more, if I don’t know you or I’m uncomfortable in what I’m talking about, that voice comes out as a strangulated, nasal whine. I’m alright over the phone; there I can hide behind the cloak of distance and invisibility. It’s when life gets ‘corporal’ that things go awry. If I were to start a vlog (and I have thought about it, people really do tend to respond to visuals better than words), you’d be sorely disappointed. Really, if I’ve in any way managed to build up an image of esteem in your eyes, that would be speedily demolished by the diffident and uncomfortable person that is me.

I’ve said on a number of occasions that I work in healthcare, it’s a subject that I don’t really like to talk about here because that’s another me – a me you don’t need to know. But my job (obviously) demands that I have contact with patients. And I’ve learned over the last 20 years to compensate for my failings. Put me in a uniform talking about a subject that I’m familiar with to a singular client, then I’m good-to-go. I could win a BAFTA. It’s when you take me out of my comfort zone that the problems start. I was once asked to speak in front of a room-full of strangers (a patient focus group, if you will), and explain my role in my place of work. Well, you’d have thought I’d been asked to sing at the opening ceremony of the Olympics (in fact, I honestly would far rather have done that. I have a decent singing voice and I’d rather sing a recited tune than talk ad-lib). I put in weeks of preparation into what should have been a five minute spiel. I wrote out exactly what I intended to say, made cue-cards so the speech didn’t look forced or, well, scripted. After the ordeal was over, my colleagues assured me of how well I’d spoken and how informative my talk was. But I’m quite certain they were trying to make me feel better. I’m almost positive I came across as some kind of simpleton. I forgot everything I was supposed to say, my accent was at its MOST pronounced (I sounded like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins) and my throat seemed to be swelling up so that words were coming out in fits and starts. Seriously, I hope never to be asked to do that again.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a gibbering wreck on social occasions. I can talk to friends, talk to clients, converse in shops and even direct strangers or tell someone the time in the street – all the things that you other grown-ups can do. But don’t push me beyond my rehearsed limits and expect me to function adequately. Of course, you and I know what the problem is; I’m insecure just like everybody else. Perhaps I’m ashamed of my background or my accent or my limited education or my appearance, perhaps all of those things rolled into one. Am I confident and happy within my own skin? No, not entirely – but I’m getting better at faking it.

Anyway, tell me about your experiences or your inferiorities. Are you super-confident and at ease with yourself? Or are you a little bit of an introvert like me? Seriously, do tell. But put it down there in the comments, or send me an email or text it to me. And if you’re dead set on telling me in person, alright, but I’ll need a couple of weeks to prep and psyche myself up for your visit.

PS: I was joking in that last line. I’m not that bad. Well, y’know, err….um…yeah…right…

‘Couldn’t you just email it to me..?’

Ten Things I Can No Longer Do

Do you remember those heady days when you could do whatever you damn well pleased? Eat what you want whenever you want, drink whatever you felt like drinking, sleep for however long or in which ever way you desired? How I envy those who can do whatever they like in life. Ahh, to be free of all these restrictions and limitations that age and questionable health place on you. And my restrictions seem to be mounting up with each passing day.

1) Eat Pies

I want to be clear from the get-go, I like pies. Not sweet appley or fruity things; proper savoury meat pies. With a base. And a lid. Don’t give me that poor substitution of a mass of meat and gravy in a dish covered with a poofy, airy bit of puff pastry that disintegrates at the mere mention of saliva; I’m talking full-on, honest-to-goodness pies. However, love them as I might, for the last five years or so, I haven’t been able to eat them. You see I suffer with gastritis, which is inflammation of the stomach mucosa (mine is of the erosive form which affects part of the stomach lining. Yay!). I’ve been taking PPI’s (Proton Pump Inhibitors) for years – medication which reduces the production of stomach acid to alleviate this. And I’ve had to learn to eat differently too; learn which foods upset me the most. One of those foods is pies. Yes that delicious pastry we all love can keep me awake all night in great discomfort. So pies have had to go. Goodbye pies, I’ll never forget you.

2) Leave House Without Glasses

Even though I received my first fairly unnecessary pair of glasses at around the age of 15, it was only when I started taking driving lessons in my early twenties that the fact I couldn’t see number plates made glasses officially a part of my life. But up until the last few years or so, I still didn’t consider myself a glasses-wearer. They were kept in the car and used only for driving. Now I’m 44, I wouldn’t leave the house without them.Without glasses, I can’t see our TV (and it’s a big TV), and I can’t go to cafés or restaurants or anywhere that would require me to look up at a board to make a menu choice. I’d be like a foreigner in a non-English-speaking country because I’d feel helpless and simply not know what was on offer. Without glasses, I couldn’t do the school run because mum-friends would virtually need to be on top of me before I recognised them, and I’d just walk by without a wave or smile, ignoring everyone and be universally hated (more than I am already). I still don’t wear glasses all the time even now (but they’re always in my pocket or up in my hair), but that’s more out of vanity than anything. The optician says I’ll need them full-time when I reach fifty (in five-and-a-half-years). Bring on the lasers!!

3) Take Nurofen

Nurofen/Ibuprofen/Non-Steroidal-Anti-Inflammatories, call them what you like, I can’t have ’em any more. This comes back to the gastritis thing again; they affect my already-damaged stomach lining and make me feel unwell. So I’m pretty much left with plain old Paracetamol (Tylenol) for pain relief; which in some instances, just isn’t strong enough. I can’t take codeine either as it makes my head spin. Unfortunately, Ibuprofen is just top of my medicine-kit-list for some ailments; I don’t think anything lowers your temperature quite so well. One year I had terrible flu – completely burning up; Paracetamol just wouldn’t touch it. So out of desperation, I took some Nurofen. Flu-wise, I felt infinitely better. Stomach-wise, not so much. But it was a one-off. Ibuprofen, I love you, but you’re dead to me.

4) Sleep Through Night Without  Needing a Wee

I’m hugely miffed about this one. I wouldn’t say I’m at the point of having a peanut bladder, but it’s fifty-fifty whether I’ll have an entire night of uninterrupted sleep. And I know that will only get worse with time. I’ve already limited how much I can drink after a certain point in the day. I go for a wee just before I go to bed, read for about half an hour, have another wee (just to be on the safe side) and turn off the light. Fingers crossed I won’t wake up until morning.

5) Drink Wine

It makes me throw up. It didn’t used to, but it does now. It’s a pisser.

6) Eat More Than 1700 Calories

I’m not going to labour the point as I’ve talked about diets FAR too many times in the past. I’ve lost weight and now I’m in the process of maintaining that weight loss. I’m 44 and I’m short – so this (bar the occasional splurge), is how much I get to eat on a daily basis or, without a shadow of a doubt, I will gain weight again. It sucks a little bit.

7) Sleep Without Earplugs

I’m going to keep this brief and attempt to be diplomatic. My husband snores. I’ve never heard worse. He didn’t snore when we met. He does now. He’s getting older too, so it’s not his fault. But without a pair of nightly silicone earplugs stuffed in my ears, I would be awake for the entire night. Or he would dead.

8) Sleep Without Gum Shield

Another ailment I have picked up along the way (they’re mounting up, aren’t they?), is bruxism. That’s teeth-grinding to you and me. It started after a bereavement five years ago and it’s never gone away. I grind my teeth all night long (and some of the day if I don’t catch myself). The dentist says it’s already wearing down and cracking some of my molars (and it’s caused a delightful clicking of my jaw whenever I eat. Yay!). So now I wear a gum shield at night. All I need now is to put curlers in my hair before bed too, just to add to my already highly attractive night-time paraphernalia.

9) Chew Gum

Because of number 8, I have a disorder of the TMJ (temporomandibular joint) too, caused by the teeth-grinding. This has caused clicking, pain and I can’t open my mouth fully. Chewing gum makes this considerably worse. I love chewing gum (apart from the slight drawback that I often used to bite the inside of my mouth, causing mouth ulcers) but I did love that minty taste. And a packet could always be found in my bag. However, that love can no longer be. No more gum for me.

10) Wear Natural, Undyed Hair

I don’t even want to put a guess on how long I’ve been dying my hair. Oh alright then, I’ll take a stab at it. I’d say I was 12 or 13. Of course I didn’t need to dye my hair back then. It’s just I’ve always had dull and boring mid-brown hair. Or at least I think I have; I haven’t seen my natural colour in decades. But I do see the roots. Ah, the roots. The bane of my bloody life. And those roots are definitely more grey than brown now. Damn it, I’d kill for dull and boring mid-brown hair that needed zero intervention right now. But no, every six weeks, out comes the hair dye – wiping out a quarter of a day with a head covered in cold, purplish gunk just so I’m not greying any more. It makes me so frustrated when dyeing-day comes around, I could spit. I could spit, I tell you!

11) Go ANYWHERE Without Lip Salve 

Sorry, had to add an 11th. After years of lip-salve-overuse, my lips just cannot produce their own moisture any more. What’s that about?

So consequently, I’ve pretty much just spent the last few hundred words moaning about how I can no longer eat or sleep the way I want. Your beefs may be completely different, if you’d like to tell me about them. But my daily life takes a lot more thought and consideration than it once did. That overnight bag I would once pack with gay abandon, is now packed with far more consideration. I painstakingly tick off each necessary item before I leave my house; money, keys, phone, glasses, ear plugs, gum shield, Paracetamol, PPI’s, antacids, lip salve, nail file (oh, and clothes). Ready! What do you mean we missed the plane? I mean, I know things could be infinitely worse and I should count myself lucky, it’s not like I’m having to carry around a 10kg oxygen cylinder or anything. But I’m no longer footloose and fancy free either. I can’t jet off at a moment’s notice, live on a commune or a desert island. I am tied to the trappings of the western world, because of the stresses of the western world. Life needs a little more planning than it did when I was in my 20’s. I’m very healthy really, as long as I don’t ignore the restrictions. The general day-to-day upkeep of me has become more complex. It’s the same with all of us and the list of things we need to do for self-maintenance will grow and grow, I expect. It’s true, that old saying, ‘age doesn’t come alone’. No it bloody well brings along with it countless, uninvited and annoying friends. Thanks for that.

No commune or desert island for you, Archer!

 

Something’s Gotta Give

“I am old, Gandalf. I don’t look it, but I am beginning to feel it in my heart of hearts. Why, I feel all thin, sort of stretched, if you know what I mean: like butter that has been scraped over too much bread. That can’t be right. I need a change, or something.” Bilbo Baggins, The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R.Tolkien.

I’m tired. I might just be having one of those lulls in mood but all I know is, I’m tired. I feel as if, like Bilbo Baggins, I’m being stretched too thin. Too many self-imposed commitments that I don’t know how I’m going to manage to meet. I feel like I’ve been photocopied one too many times just so I can duplicate myself to juggle everything; the image getting poorer and more grainy on every copy (how d’you like that analogy, ey? I ought to be an author…oh…wait). And because I’ve too many fingers in too many different pies, I feel as though I can’t entirely focus on any of those…pies. Perhaps I ought to be writing a food blog. All this talk of pies is making me hungry. At least my appetite isn’t being affected by this weariness. So that’s something.

As you know, in my free time (free time? What’s that when it’s at home?), I’ve been on the final stretch of editing my second novel. People ask me all the time, ‘where did you find the time to write three books?’ And to be honest, I just don’t know. I must have stolen the time from other more deserving tasks. Or maybe I had more freedom some years back that I just don’t have now. Because I am really struggling to fit everything in at present. And I can’t help but feel something is about to go ‘ping‘ and snap. Perhaps I should feel pleased that an end is in sight as far as the book goes. But actually, I feel as though I’m stumbling at the final hurdle (and it isn’t even the final hurdle as there is a third book to edit after this). There’s this little voice in my brain which just won’t be quieted, ‘Why are you doing all this? Why are you working so hard to produce something that very few people are actually asking for? What are you getting out of this other than angst and a sense of burden?’. Shut up, little voice! Stop asking me searching and personal questions!

Actually, I think I do know why I carry on with this nonsense. I think I have this overwhelming need that just once in my life, I will actually complete something. If I got run over by a bus next week and I hadn’t put out all three books in my saga, then something would have been left undone. I mean, of course there are other reasons to fear being run over by a bus, I expect it isn’t a very pleasant way to go for one thing. And there would be a lot more at stake than a few silly, made-up books not being available on the virtual shelves of Amazon. Oh, the horror! There are loving family and friends and a mostly fulfilling life to consider. But however silly and pointless the dastardly ‘books’ may be to everybody else, they are important to me; they are my legacy. I have nothing else to leave behind, nothing else to be remembered for during my little stint on earth.

Maybe I’m just being a misery again (who, moi? Never!). It’s just, not being around anymore is a fear that is ever present in my mind – if only nestling discreetly right near the back. If you know me at all or have read this blog for long enough (I pity you, dear reader), you’ll understand why I worry more about my non-existence than perhaps is healthy or necessary. You know when you greet an old friend in the street and they ask how you are, and you answer, ‘I have my health’ (actually, you probably wouldn’t because nobody says that anymore)? Well, what if you didn’t have your health? What if all those tasks that you currently take for granted were simply too hard to undertake and you just didn’t have the energy to get things done? I do have my health right now – and whilst I do, I keep reminding myself that I need to make use of it.

Do you know what? If I could just complete my stupid little trilogy, I wouldn’t be all that bothered if I never wrote another thing. I’m not intending to or anything, but if I ground to a natural halt, there’d be nothing to be ashamed of. If I never came up with another idea, if I never wrote another book again – it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I’d have done what I set out to do. I might carry on blogging; how else would I get the opportunity to annoy you on a weekly basis? And really, annoying you is what I live for! But at least one job would be ticked off the bucket list. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there are other goals (nothing springs to mind right now, but I’m sure there are), but this is the big one for me. I’ve invested too much time and energy to give up on this. I just wish I wasn’t so weary of it all.

In spite of all the pessimistic stuff that has preceded this paragraph, I’ve always felt I’m just on the verge of something. I’ve absolutely zero evidence to base this on, but I have this feeling that something is just around the corner. Right now, it feels like a bloody big corner and maybe I’ve been entirely mistaken all this time, but what if that unattainable thing really is around the bend? I can’t stop now. I have to finish this thing I’ve started, even if it kills me. I’m certain I’m not the only one who feels like this, you may be going through something similar right now. You don’t need to be a writer to feel pulled in too many different directions. Life just asks too much of us sometimes, and we are precariously balancing everything; spinning plates, just trying to avoid fracturing the very fragile thing that is holding everything up. But some things must be wrapped up and concluded. They simply must come to an end. And I aim to get this done; and then maybe another dream on the bucket list will get a little bit of attention at last. I’ll just be careful to avoid wayward buses until then.

PS: Apologies for the bellyaching, I’m feeling much happier since writing this. I think I was a bit miffed as my one and only day off in the week (the only day I can write) was being dashed as I had to take my daughter to a gymnastics competition. I mean, it was worth it because the little star had a podium finish, but I spent many hours standing around a sweaty gym that smelled like feet (with nowhere to sit and no café). And my day of writing was wiped out, putting me behind. But I’m trying to see all that I have yet to do as a challenge rather than a chore. It’s a case of having to really…

 

Don’t Believe The Hype

A couple of weeks ago, whist gorging on a huge chocolate Easter-bunny entirely to myself, I was quietly eavesdropping on my husband and his best friend. He had come over with his family to spend the Easter weekend with us. My husband and his friend are, I think it would be fair to say, very heavily into music. They were discussing the new Kanye West album and how appalling they felt it was. Now Kanye West gets his fair share of negative press these days and, love him or hate him, he kind of brings this general dislike upon himself because of his infamous arrogance. Always looking for an opportunity to put my oar in and give my two-pennies-worth, I pointed out that Kanye West had once been undoubtedly a very talented man and how it was a shame that he had fallen from grace. In the past he had put out some great tracks; Lost In The World, Love Lockdown and Gold-digger (well I think they were great tracks, anyway). Whilst being no muso, this didn’t stop me waving my now-earless bunny about in the air (to emphasise my point), and remarking how I felt it was very sad that a once gifted man had lost his way. Even though I was partially ignored by the two men, it made me think…can I spin this into a blog? And do you know what? I think I can.

I’m not actually here to talk about how good/terrible Mr West is (he’s just an example), but the conversation made me wonder how a loss of talent comes about. I think it happens when we’re remarkably good at something, people keep telling us we’re remarkably good at said thing, and suddenly our heads are turned – and we start to believe we are remarkably good at said thing too. Because people say so. That’s what I believe was Kanye’s downfall – his entourage or the people he surrounded himself with raised his opinion of himself; gave him a God-complex, bolstered and massaged his ego. And once that happens, whatever it was that made you gifted is suddenly suffocated and all you have to rely on is your conceit and belief that you are indeed wonderful. Which is why I’ve always adhered to the motto, ‘don’t believe the hype’. Because although arrogant people are often driven and sometimes (unfortunately for the rest of us) successful, remaining grounded is the only way you can maintain any real integrity. Once you believe you’ve reached your absolute peak, the top of your game, what is there left to strive for?

If we are now applying this principal to me (and let’s face it, it’s my blog and I usually do), I’d have to say I have always suffered with a fairly crippling lack of self-belief. I wouldn’t recommend this self-deprecating nature that I have, exactly, because it can be a bit of a barrier to achieving what you want to achieve. I’ve obviously always wanted to be a writer of some description, but the actual decision to share my work with the world came very late in life. I’d just turned 40 when I realised I couldn’t put it off anymore and that the fear of failure was just something that I was going to need to learn to overcome. Once you’re 40, you’ve already lived approximately half your life. You know your strengths and you certainly know your limitations. If I’m completely honest, I think I’m an ‘okay’ writer; nothing out of the ordinary, certainly not top of my game, but just about eloquent enough to get my point across. My main attribute is my sense of humour. I’m not the only writer in the world with a sense of humour, sure, but I try to use my quirkiness in everything that I do and as uniquely as I can. I’ve stopped trying to be something I’m not and use what I do have to my advantage. Because all I have to sell is myself (in a totally non-prostitute-type-way).

Now that my work is out there for pretty much anybody who cares in the world to view and judge, I have to say the response has been surprisingly positive. I felt quite sure I’d be torn to shreds by writers who are far better than me, but I guess the writing community isn’t actually like that. People tend to be supportive and give positive praise and feedback instead of negative; even offering badly needed technical tips (to my constant shame, I’m just not that tech-savy). I get my fair share of criticism too, but that tends to come from closer to home (and I’m the one who chooses to place too much emphasis on my bad press, so that’s my failing). But mostly the reaction has been good. And I assure you, I truly appreciate it. However,  like I say -I’m in my 40’s and am quite familiar with all my faults, so I refuse to let it go to my head. I never allow my head to be turned. I’ve still a lot to learn and certainly a lot to prove.

I’m so glad I didn’t attempt to put my creative efforts out there to be seen when I was young. Even though I think I had potential, I certainly didn’t have the tools or the maturity to write anything of any great worth. I’m not saying that would be the same for anybody who happens to be young; some people are naturally gifted from a very early age – much more gifted than I am now. But it was certainly not the case for me. I’ve read back some of the stuff I wrote in my younger days and it was pretentious, self-indulgent sh*te (pardon my French). Perhaps it still is…eek. But that’s why I believe it’s sometimes dangerous to have too much success too early in life. When you’re young, you’re still learning your craft and if you are given too much too soon, then it’s easy, if you’re surrounded by the wrong people, to get too big for your boots. Having said that, Kanye isn’t that young anymore, so perhaps none of us are safe.

Anyway, I’m not here to Kanye-bash. I feel a bit sorry for him in some ways. In my eyes, if you once had talent, surely it can’t be completely obscured by your overly-inflated ego forever? Age and wisdom are going to have to prevail one day, right? I’m just saying, at least a modicum of modesty never did anybody any harm. It’s no good letting your self-doubt completely stifle your creativity either; I’ve definitely been very guilty of that. But sometimes it’s good to criticise yourself and take some of that praise with a pinch of salt. Are you really ‘all that’? Or are you just ‘that’? I try not to worry about it, as I intend on making a lucrative career out of mediocrity! Mind you, I have found that having a complete lack of any literary success whatsoever has always been extremely helpful in keeping me grounded. So you needn’t worry yourself about my massively out-of-control ego just yet.

Cheer Up, It Might Never ‘Appen!

 

The other day, I was out prom dress shopping with my eldest daughter (yep, somewhere along the line, England turned into America and now we have proms for 16-year-olds. But we certainly didn’t in my day). Anyway, we were taking photographs of the various dresses in the changing rooms because for some reason it’s always easier to get a better impression of a dress via a photo than your own eyes (I don’t know why that is, but it is). Now because there were a myriad of mirrors in the changing room, I inadvertently kept being caught on the mobile phone camera. And as always when I am caught on camera whilst not expecting it, I looked bored to death – as miserable as sin. Yet when I smile, my appearance improves remarkably. People have even remarked that I’m photogenic, which I suppose I can be if I ‘switch on’ the fun me. But photogenic really only means you take a decent photo, it says nothing about your actual appearance. However, I don’t smile a great deal in real life. So that is the crux of this blog really, I just don’t particularly like the natural set of my face.

This isn’t a news to me. The title of this post is something that random men would shout out at me in the street from a very early age (I don’t know if it’s a saying in regular use, but they used to say it in East London when I was growing up anyway). ‘Cheer up, it might never ‘appen!’. I don’t think I’d mind if those random gentlemen were honestly concerned for my welfare and just trying to advise me that the thing which I so obviously dread may never come to pass. But I think they were just taking the piss, if I’m honest. So basically, I look and always have looked so thoroughly miserable that people feel the need to point it out in the street. Well, not so much nowadays as I don’t live in London anymore and now I am in my forties, these random people realise they are more likely to get a punch in the face than the half-hearted smile they would receive when I was young.

I don’t particularly like to emblazon my blog with copious images of myself because I like to maintain an element of mystery. Well, there’s one photo there in the sidebar but that’s because I read somewhere that readers would like to get a rough idea of what you look like. So I got a my dear husband to take a few head-shots when I was on my way out to a party and plastered in make-up. Luckily for me, he’s a semi-professional photographer (available for weddings and family gatherings at a very reasonable fee), so he’s good enough to make even me look halfway decent. But I am forced to use a couple of photos of me in this post to illustrate the point I am trying to make. Here are two pictures, one of me caught accidentally in the background of a photo whilst dress shopping, and me having a camera pointed directly at me and choosing to smile:-

‘Somebody Kill Me…’

Or, adversely…

‘Let’s Have A Party!’

Now unfortunately, the first picture is more the norm than the second. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, I suppose the obvious solution would be to ‘smile’ more often (but if you know me even slightly, you’ll know that’s a pretty big ask). I remember I had a part-time job whilst I was a teenager, at some God-awful time of the morning, I handed out those free magazines to commuters arriving at various London Underground stations (you know the ones, they advertise jobs and little else). And on the days when I made and effort (i.e. smiled at the train passengers and wore a bit of make-up), I always managed to shift a sh*t-load more magazines than on the days I was my usual surly, just-dragged-myself-out-of-bed self). I mean, that’s not rocket science, people are far more likely to take a magazine from a cheery girl thrusting one into their hands than some bored teenager who’d rather be dead than at some  freezing cold tube station. I would. But let’s face it, I can’t walk around the street smiling all the bloody time, people would think I was certifiable!

So you see, it’s not my fault. I cannot help the natural fall of my face and I can’t go around grinning like a Cheshire cat either. It’s just another cross I have to bear, it really is. But within reason, I will try to smile a bit more often, or at least perfect an impassive face (whatever that looks like), rather than the, ‘let me die’ face I inadvertently tend to wear. So if you see me walking around the street looking so miserable that stringing myself up from the rafters seems like a better option, do forgive me; I’m probably as happy as Larry. My face just hasn’t realised it yet. And whatever you do, don’t shout out, ‘cheer up, it might never ‘appen!’.  A) You’re probably not a Cockney and that’s just terrible grammar, and B) it might have happened already, for all you know. I might have won millions of pounds on the lottery and lost my ticket. I might have recently fallen down a ravine and badly twisted my ankle but am managing to walk normally whilst gritting my teeth through the pain. Or I may just be bored to within an inch of my life. Either way, it would probably be best just to ignore me and say nothing, I’m a pacifist really and I don’t especially enjoy punching people in the face.

 

 

Crazy Cat Lady

It’s finally happened. I am 44 years old and I have become obsessed with cats. As I’ve mentioned in an older post, ‘Meow‘, I never really wanted a cat. I grew up with our furry, feline friends during my childhood but did not feel that I missed them in my adult life. But last summer, a pregnant stray came along, broke into the house on numerous occasions and gave us no choice but to adopt her. 7 months later we have gone from a 0 cat family to a 2 cat family (2 kittens were rehomed with friends). And now I wouldn’t be able to part with them.

I’ve even taken to laughing out loud and sharing the copious cat memes and videos that you see on social media these days. I walk around the house talking in a funny voice that is only intended for use whilst conversing with the cats. I used to get up at 7am every morning but I’ve now adjusted that to 6:30 am so I can, ‘sort out the cats’. If we’re out of the house too long, I get super-anxious because I’m so ‘worried about the cats’. But I’m not sure how this has all come about when I was very firmly anti-cat not so long ago…

Slim Shady:

This is the mother ship cat; she’s the stray who is probably about 3 years old now. Slim isn’t your ideal cat if I’m completely honest as she’s a bit of a loner and is certainly not a lap-cat. All she wants from life is to be fed, watered and to have a warm bed. We don’t really blame her for her unfriendliness. She’d probably had a horrible life before she came to us and has developed a fear of humans. You can’t stroke her from above as she tends to cower away from you (I dread to think what has happened to her in her former life of living rough that she still has this fear). But on her own terms, she will let you pet her if she’s in the mood. Slim no longer loves her daughter, she hisses and growls whenever the playful kitten comes near. It’s funny how cats lose their maternal instinct so quickly. Slim Shady (which we christened her because she was thin and black when she arrived) turns out to be a completely ridiculous name for her now. She’s enormous. It’s our own fault; when she arrived she was pregnant and scrawny so we fed her whenever she asked (i.e. all the time). So now we don’t call her Slim anymore but, ‘Big Girl’, ‘Big Cat’, ‘Big Mumma’, ‘Mrs Boombastic’, ‘Chubs’, ‘Chunk’, ‘Chunka-Munka’ – and other derogatory names like that. I dread bringing her to the vet anytime soon as we will certainly be reprimanded for letting her get so big. But she’s ALWAYS hungry and is ALWAYS yowling for food. And we just, well, kind of have to…give in. If the vet calls her name out in the waiting room, “Slim Shady” (which is kind of embarrassing anyway. Why do we choose these silly names for cats which are funny at the time but humiliating later?), I’m going to be even more mortified now when I have to heave in this big lump of a cat across the room.

Kirby:

I try not to have favourites but Kirby is simply the perfect pet. She’s a little on the naughty side and has destroyed more furniture than I care to let myself think about, but she’s only 7 months old so she can’t help her mischievous nature. Kirby is just so loving and appreciative of us. We often think of cats as rather selfish and aloof creatures (like Slim), but Kirby is nothing like that. She greets you like a dog would when you get home from work, running to meet you with her tail bent at the end (a sign of cat-greeting, I looked it up). And if she could smile, she would be smiling. She purrs like an engine, arching her back as you stroke her, rubbing herself against your shins to show affection. And this isn’t just for food. Yes, Kirby likes to be fed but she isn’t a big eater (hence why Slim is so fat as she eats all of Kirby’s too).Kirby  nibbles, gets distracted and goes off to attack one of the kitchen chairs. This cat is happy to sit on my lap but only at the most inopportune times, like when I want to go to the toilet or just when I’ve already been sitting down for ages and am anxious to go do something. She will also sleep on the bed (if you let her), mostly across your face when you’re trying to sleep or on you chest so you can’t turn over. We don’t call Kirby Kirby either, really. We call her ‘Kitten’, or ‘Kitty’, or ‘Baby’, or Baby-Girl’, or ‘Little Cat’ (original, well-thought-out names like that). I don’t think it really matters what you name a cat; they never come running to that given name anyway – only by your tone of voice or the kissing your lips together sound that one makes to beckon a cat (you know the one). We treat Kirby very much like a baby. She has her own set of toys which we keep on a shelf for her, but her very favourite thing is brightly coloured hair-bands. She could chase them for hours; I particularly like when she walks away from a hair-band, pretending to have tired of it, only to run back and pounce on it again when it least suspects. Unfortunately, it’s about time that Kirby was taken to the vet to be neutered but the thought of putting her in for surgery makes me quite depressed. You see, she’s just so small and she’s my baby!

That’s just it. That’s the problem; the kids are growing up (nearly sixteen and ten) and they just don’t need me as much as they once did. And where I had no room in my life for furry little dependants, well, that space has just become available. I couldn’t have pets in the past because I had babies; kids who needed every waking minute of my time. And now that time has been freed up a little, like a lot of women (and maybe any gender of parent), I continue to need to be needed. My children still need me, of course, but not to the level that they once did. They have their studies and gymnastics and extra-curricular activities and YouTube and ‘Pretty Little Liars’ on Netflix. My children will continue to be number one in my life, my top priority. But it’s still comforting to have my kitties who can’t manage without me, and who never really grow up. Thank goodness.

 

Book ’em Danno!

“If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.” Stephen King.

 

The trouble with having pretensions of being a writer is a) you’ll probably starve if you give up the day job and b) you just don’t get time to read books. I love to read. Not in that irritating way that some people profess it, like they’re superior to all other beings because they read a lot (most of us can read, y’know). I love to read because I love to escape. My real life is fine, don’t get any funny ideas, but I like to be lost in other worlds too – and as much as I like TV and movies, you just can’t achieve the same feeling of escapism by watching it on a screen. But because I write myself (did I not mention that before? How remiss of me…), I don’t get to read as much as I’d like to. And I can’t help but think that Mr King’s citation above may have a point. I feel guilty about how little I read lately. And to this end, I now have three reading books simultaneously on the go.

Here’s why; it’s time to support my fellow authors. Not the best-sellers out there with their hundreds and thousands of gushing reviews, and their hundreds and thousands of pounds; they can sod right off because they sure as hell don’t need my patronage (actually I’m reading some of theirs too, but I’m just not writing a blog about it). No, I’m talking about my writing compatriots, the authors I converse with out on social media, the authors who are in the same boat as me; who write for the love of it, but can’t exactly give up the day job either. So instead of continually banging the drum and ringing the bell about my own book (didn’t I mention I had a book out? How remiss of me…), I’ve decided to put down the percussion instruments for a bit, put my hand in my pocket and pay real money (and I don’t have Amazon Prime, so I mean ‘real’) for real people’s books. Like I always say, most Kindle books cost less than a cup of coffee. And this is not about checking out the competition (well, yes it’s a bit about checking out the competition, although I’d say these books are in a different genre from my own), but to see what it is that other self-published authors out there on the scene are doing.

Love Line by David Hall 

 

I’ve always shied away from the novella. I couldn’t see how you could cram an entire story with a beginning, a middle and an end into a 30-60,000 word book. I also worried about character development; how could fully-rounded protagonists be painted in such a short space of time? Well this book taught me how it’s done. A fun, concise and clever read by a fellow witty Brit (I’m not saying I’m witty, but I am British), who even managed to add a twist and knock the book off its expected course. I could never hope to write a novella myself, I much prefer labouring the point, I haven’t even warmed up by 60,000 words, but I enjoyed learning how one was put together. And there’s something good to be said of a man who can write romantic fiction. I don’t exactly know what that thing is, but somehow it makes me feel comforted that the romantic novel (or novella) can be written by anyone.

Imogene in New Orleans by Hunter Murphy

 

I’ve only read about a third of this book due to my own writing commitments so I can’t give a accurate summary or succinct plot narrative (not that I’d give the game away), but suffice to say, I’m enjoying it. The novel is a murder-mystery set in the Deep South complete with realistic Alabama characters and accents. I like that the main protagonists aren’t your usual suspects; consisting of a shrewd and sprightly old lady, her homosexual son and his partner, not to mention their cool dog as a side-kick. To sum it up in my own very inept way, it’s a bit like a Miss Marple mystery set in the blistering heat of New Orleans. The book has also opened my mind up to the option of writing in other genres too. I’m thoroughly looking forward to seeing how the plot unfolds and, most of all, who dun it!

Passports: Atlantic Lives, 1994-1995 by R. J. Nello

 

It’s difficult to put this book into a genre as, although it has a romantic theme running throughout, I don’t think the author would particularly choose to put it in this category. The novel also covers a lot of history and politics; facts I wasn’t aware of. It’s slightly daunting for me as a writer to see the amount of research that has gone into this work (research? What’s that then?). So I’m actually learning something, and let’s face it, I’ve plenty of room in my little brain for some schooling! I’ve read about 50% of this book and I’m enjoying the storyline – the tale of two people from different parts of the world, with completely different backgrounds, fighting logistical obstacles and trying to find a way to be together. I’m not certain how this Americano-French (is that a thing? You can say Anglo-French, but…oh, never mind) relationship will pan out, but this educated author is going to teach me something along the way!

So the above accounts are not even pretending to be book reviews (I’ll do proper reviews through the proper channels when I’m done – i.e. on Amazon where they count), I’m just letting you in on what I happen to be reading right now. And the fact that all three authors are men in no way reflects my reading-leanings; their gender is circumstantial. Next on my to-read list will probably be a lady like C. J. “Country” James, or S. M. Dahman or Richard G. Stevens or Jack Volante (oh wait, those last couple were men too! I really need to start conversing with a few more female authors on social media…). And I know an awful lot of writers with a book in progress or in the planning stages as well, so there will be a lot more books out there for me to read (oh my God, I’ll never get any writing done!). These are not people I know face-to-face, but good people I’ve met in the virtual world, kind supporters of an amateur writer like me, selfless givers of sage advice, all talented authors in their own right. And I feel honoured to rub my virtual shoulders with theirs, and call them my compatriots.

I love to write, I wish I could write more, and writing books has to be my top priority. But I felt like it was time to stop harping on about me, me, me all the time and give something back to the writing community. I think it won’t be long before I’ve spent all my own royalties on other people’s books! Oh well, there are a lot worse ways to spend your money. And Starbucks coffee isn’t actually ‘all that’ anyway.

PS: Soz. Yet another writing-based blog. Next week I promise we talk about cats. That hilarious cat blog has been waiting its turn for weeks!

PPS: Must all you authors insist on having all those initials, full stops and spaces in your names? I mean, jeez-louise, it took me nearly 2 hours (slight exaggeration) just typing out the names and inserting links, y’know…

Cover Me, I’m Going In!

 

 

Much to my utter, utter, utter, utter (is that too many? No, you can never have to many utters), utter disgust, I am having to change my book cover. Again. Before I launch into my rant (I’m ramping up as we speak), I apologise as I’d promised I wouldn’t talk about writing books too often as it might bore the non-writers. But you see, I can only post blogs about the things I do. And it’s either this or divulge the story of the day the milk went off and we all had to eat toast instead of cereal. Although, thinking about it, that story was fascinating and is fantastic blog-fodder. I’ll have to use it next time. So you see, it’s like this; I changed the book cover before Christmas. I had to; CreateSpace (Amazon’s paperback publishing arm) were unhappy about the resolution or something of the very first cover picture (I don’t know, I don’t listen). So I created a new one from their stock images. And now, well…I don’t think it’s any coincidence, but the book appears to have stopped selling…

Right, here’s a pic of the first book cover pre Christmas:-

And here’s the updated cover post Christmas:-

I was a bit sick of the first cover and personally quite liked the second one, but I guess the stats don’t lie. The book-buying public do not agree with me. I can only surmise, what with the ambiguous title, people now think my book is actually about foreign affairs. Which it isn’t. And who wants to read about foreign affairs? Well, not me – but each to their own…if that’s your bag. I fear some hapless politics teacher or enthusiast may well be in for a shock if they accidentally purchase a copy.

But you see it highlights an interesting point, you can’t judge a book by its cover. Or, in my case, you really shouldn’t because you could be quite wrong. Choosing the right cover for your novel is evidently far more crucial than I’d given it credit for. I have never in my life bought a based on the artwork on the front ; it’s always been through recommendation. But I suppose it’s not the same for everyone. Like I say, the cover you see above with the building and the plane is an Amazon-own. But I guess it’s not romantic enough. Or pink enough. Or cute enough. Or sickly-sweet-couple-embracing-half-naked-making-me-want-to-throw-up-in-my-mouth enough.

Even if I’d never embarked on creating a paperback, I’d grown tired of the original cover. It appealed to the romantic-genre market, perhaps, but it didn’t seem to do justice to what was written on the actual pages. The book should be in the romantic genre, sure, but I’d felt it to be a little more gritty than the cover implied. But what do I know? Abso-sodding-lutely nothing, clearly.

I first realised there was a problem in late December/early January when the sales stopped dead. Obvs. But then I made excuses, I thought, well we’ve just had Christmas and nobody has any money and meh-meh-meh-meh-meh-meh *said in whiny voice*. But the book costs less than a regular-sized cappuccino in any coffee shop so surely it couldn’t be that. So then I started doing a little investigating on Amazon. If you click on my book (particularly on the US site), you can scroll down and see what other customers who viewed the book are also looking at. And this was the type of thing:-

International Relations: A short introduction of a post 9/11 world.
Global Affairs: A very boring look at political analysis and other things you don’t especially care to read about.

OMG, what had I done?!! My book was supposed to fall into the romantic-genre (albeit a rather witty, edgy and gritty romance, if I do say so myself) but now it was moonlighting as something it clearly was not! I’d put a big-ass plane and a building on the front! A big-ass plane and a building!! And everybody knows that that evidently represents political tedium all wrapped up in a glossy 6×9 shell!

Something had to be done. Or rather, something had to be done by my long-suffering husband who went back to the drawing board, muttering, ‘I told you so‘ (he hadn’t) under his breath. The book in its initial pink and hearty guise had sales that had been gradually building; perhaps even a buzz was growing. And I had inadvertently suffocated that; suffocated it, punched it in the face, put a pick-axe in its head and buried it. So my only option was to go back to the original cover design and rework that into something a little more slick, with a higher DPI resolution or something. Or rather, my husband had to. Those things are completely beyond me. Know your limitations, that’s what I say. The new cover had to be recognisable from the book in its infancy to try to reignite the buzz, but also be more refined. And that is the picture you see at the very top of this blog (and in the next paragraph). Behold the new cover. Ta-dah!

I really hope you like it. If you don’t’, perhaps keep that to yourself as we don’t want to hurt my poor, hard-working husband’s feelings. I could still take or leave the ‘hearts’ if I’m honest (I’d asked my husband if there were any hearts of the barbedwire variety available but he said there weren’t). Perhaps it isn’t going to appeal to the majority of males out there, but you can’t ignore the stats. The book-buying public evidently wants pink. And lots of it.

So there you have it, the old saying appears to be true; if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Or if you fix it, don’t throw out the baby with the bathwater. I can’t think of any more fitting platitudes or metaphors. Not that those were especially fitting. I’m not a fool, a cover-change may achieve nothing, and I don’t suppose this change is going to set the world on fire, but I’m hoping to get back on track at least. And a note to other writers – as per many, many, many, many times before; I make these mistakes so you don’t have to. Don’t you just love me? Please don’t think I invent these silly stories just to have something to blog about; honestly, my ineptitude knows no bounds. And you couldn’t make this crap up.

(UTTER!!)

 

getBook.at/InternationalRelations

You Know You’re Getting Too Old When…

Believe it or not, I attended a gig the other night. Yes, me. At a gig. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again (namely in ‘Why I Say No to Glasto!‘), I don’t actually like live music. Unless the musician can almost identically replicate the album, then I’m not up for it. What I truly can’t stand is that horribly ‘student band’ sound that you often find yourself subjected to. I’m not entirely sure how I ended up at this particular gig because my husband has pretty much learned over the years ‘not to go there’. But a few weeks ago I’d said that I quite liked an album he had been playing in the car (big mistake). And low and behold, the gig was suddenly booked up with a ticket with my name on it. I think I may have been hoodwinked…

Anyway, you may as well know that the artist we went to see was C. Duncan (Mercury Music prize nominated, no less. Not that that is always a positive thing). I’d shown an interest in his work because it wasn’t your average type of pop music. And I detest average pop music. He’s classically trained, which is very evident as the music is almost choral in places, his voice layered again and again giving the impression of angelic, harmonic voices of a choir. I wasn’t sure how this was going to be replicated live, but I was hopeful that I wasn’t going to be have to sit through poorly played bass guitar that goes right through your body like seismic activity or drums that make you clench your teeth for an hour (I know, I know, I sound really old – I reiterate, I don’t generally like live music because it’s usually a poor imitation of the cleanly-recorded studio album. Don’t you even think of ad-libbing on me!).

On entering the club, after initially trying to ignore being hit by the strong odour of wee right by the bar, I was immediately surprised at the smallness of the venue. Oh and the next less-than-pleasing realisation was that there were about four seats – all taken, of course. I glanced at my watch, 8pm. Then we spotted the flyer on the bar which advised us that C. Duncan wasn’t going to be on stage until 10pm. 10pm? At night? Mother of God, that was two hours away and I was already tired – I’d usually be in bed by now. And remember, I had no seat or even the vaguest chance of getting one. The first of the support bands were already up on stage (if you can call a bit of a raised mezzanine area a stage) as we wandered over the bar to get some drinks. I tried to sip at my vodka, lime and soda but the lingering stench of piss was making me feel queasy and had somehow transformed the taste of the drink to match it. Or perhaps the drink really did taste like piss, I don’t know. The support band were as expected, the sort of thing I wouldn’t go to see if I’m honest, the songs were a little bit forgettable.

Both my husband and I both hate standing. I think it must be from years of being on our feet in the healthcare profession but we now get terrible low back pain very quickly after standing for only a short time. Or maybe it’s because we’re over 40 and our bodies are just a bit knackered. Anyway, the closest we were going to get to being seated was leaning against a pole which I think was a support to stop the roof from caving in (you can shift your weight from foot to foot and use the pole to take some of the load off). But as we ventured over to said pole, I noticed I could barely lift each foot off the floor, so ingrained with sticky spills over the years were the floorboards. At one point, I actually thought my boot was going to be sucked off my foot as it might in a quagmire. Finally I made it to the ‘pole of support’, I sipped gingerly at my horrible drink and realised an hour had gone by as the second of the support bands made their way up on stage. This bunch were marginally better than the first but the lead singer was seated at a keyboard (the lucky bastard) so I couldn’t see him (being of small stature like I am). And his female backing singer-come-keyboardist-come-tambourine-shaker kept singing out from under her overly-long fringe, doing a bit of a coy girlish look from the corner of her eyes the entire time which was vaguely irritating.

Anyway, by the time the main act came on at 9:45 (thank the Lord, C. Duncan must have wanted to get home early too), my back was already killing me. I’d been standing on one foot and then the other for an hour and forty-five minutes and the pain was starting to get to me. But then the music started. And everything was alright again. I don’t know how he managed it, but Mr Duncan and the band managed to surpass the sound created on the album. All the musicians were great, the guitarist, bassist, keyboardist and drummer all tight and flawless. The thing that amazed me the most was how the lead singer and the two backing singers (the bassist and the keyboardist) managed to recreate the beautiful harmonies I’d heard on ‘The Architect’ (the album). It was just great (and you know me, I never extol the virtues of anything if I can help it). There were a couple of points where the singer insisted on sharing some new material…New materiel?! Jeez, are you kidding me?! Sometimes I remind myself of Homer Simpson in the episode when he goes to see Bachman-Turner Overdrive who are playing in Springfield. And he’s heckling the band when they attempt to play new material, shouting, ‘Takin’ Care of Business!! No talking! No new crap! Takin’ Care of Business! Now!!‘, even after they’ve already played it (yes, I’m like that). But even the new material was mostly okay.

So the band finished their pretty wonderful set after an hour, we clapped and cheered our approval but decided to give the meeting and greeting and t-shirt buying with the band a miss (it was a school night after all and do I look like a bloody groupie to you?) and off we hurried back to the car. So at the age of 44, I attended my first gig in years. Hopefully my husband knows me well enough not to repeat the experience again too soon, and next time, I’ll make sure I’m very careful about saying anything positive about the music that happens to be playing in the car. And husband, don’t think this means I’m coming to Glastonbury with you this year either, because you and I both know that is never going to happen.

 

NB: I jest, of course. I really enjoyed the gig. Thanks husband (I’m not jesting about Glastonbury though). 

 

 

Happy Blog-Day to Me!

Hazzah! It was the first anniversary of the launching of my blog two days ago (I’m doing an awful lot of anniversary posts lately, note to self; must cut back on that. Hey-ho)! Anyway, where’s my present? Oh, I see…it’s like that, is it? Well, we’ll talk about the lack of gift issue later. But wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, I’ve been on the blogging scene for a whole entire year – I know, hard to believe, ey? I mean, I realise it’s no great shakes to those of you who’ve been around writing posts for yonks but this is me we’re talking about and I never stick at anything!

When I started out on 11th Feb 2015, I hurriedly cobbled together a site which looked as though fashioned by a toddler on crack and posted some crappy ill-thought-out bit of information about the new book which had been out for a couple of weeks at the time. But even whilst publishing that first post I thought, I’m not going to survive very long in this blogging game if I continue writing self-indulgent posts about ‘the writer’s journey’. Don’t get me wrong, I do write about the act of writing from time to time because that’s what I do and it would be remiss of me to omit an entire facet of my life. But I try to keep it to a minimum unless I feel it’s relevant to my week (i.e. turning an eBook into a paperback, or how bloody hard blogging can be at times). So right at the get-go I knew there was only one avenue open to me. Yes, that’s right – mundane thoughts that had come into my head or (I think) amusing things that have happened to me, elongated into 1000 word essays full of acerbic sarcasm rapier-like wit.

I remember at the beginning I was publishing a post practically every other day. I felt so inspired, I thought, I’ve got so much to say! I’ll never run out of ideas! Poor, deluded, misinformed simpleton that I was. I laugh at that idalistic naivity now. These days I realise that good material doesn’t grow on trees, and I’d rather miss my scheduled Saturday slot than write when I’m simply ‘not feeling it’. I’m all too aware that not every post I’ve ever published has been completely flawless (some crud will always make it through), but I know deep down when I’m happy with something or not. The trouble is, sometimes  I feel I’ve been quiet for too long and I simply must post something.

People write blogs for various reasons, it transpires. You’ve got those who have a certain expertise in a certain field, like fitness or food or fashion or photography or travel (I’m not one of those, I know nothing). Some use the blog as an outlet to exercise the mind and explore their creativity (either use it or lose it). And then you have those of us who’ve published a book and blog because ‘you’re supposed to’. Or at any rate that’s how it started out for me, but now it has very little to do with the book. The blog is an entity in its own right. It’s more a part of my psyche than any novel I could right because I’ve been telling you about my life, warts and all. Whether you want to hear about it or not.

Even as I write this, I realise it’s no biggie to have simply managed to maintain a task for a year. I’d probably have given up within weeks if I didn’t get such nice feedback. I actually thought I’d get ripped to shreds when I first started out – but that didn’t come to pass, for which I’m grateful. Hardly anybody ever tells me I’m crap which still mystifies me. And whilst I have everybody fooled, I make hay while the sun shines. Still, I might not be doing this in February 2017. Who knows where my path will take me? I know one very good blogger who has been around for years but was considering giving it up because it distracted her energies away from other projects she felt she ought to be focusing on. That could be me. What I’d like is to see the blog perhaps evolve into something else. Perhaps I could have my own newspaper column or something, or I could be writing content elsewhere. Or my book could go stratospheric and I just won’t have time to do this any more (excuse me, why are you laughing?) Or not. Maybe this is the pinnacle of my success. And you didn’t even bring a cake. Charming.

So I know a lot of you who read this are seasoned bloggers yourselves (thanks to you and the non-bloggers for being patrons of my unworthy blog all these months, you’re legends), but for those of you who aren’t, maybe you should think about giving it a go? They say everybody has a book in them, and even if that seems like too huge a mountain to climb, I’m certain everybody has a blog in them. You could bring something unique, something fresh and special to the mix that nobody else could. I have a good friend who is on the verge of becoming a blogger (a very good one, I’d wager) but something is holding her back, I think it’s the fear of failure. But I don’t think you can fail as such, and I keep telling her how supportive you all are. So come on people, give it a go. You’ve nothing to lose and perhaps a lot to gain. I’d read your posts, just make sure they’re filled with juicy gossip and the odd swearword and I’ll be a subscriber for life. Anyway, about that present..?