Stuart Aken's Blog, page 262

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 21

Still enjoying this story? I certainly hope so.
I posted Chapter 1 way back on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have appeared here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search for the chapter you want to read.
Missed the start? Find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends to join us.
Chapter 21
Saturday May 1st
Mum arrived just before nine. The sun was already hot in a clear sky and I was pleased my cotton dress was in keeping with her outfit, even if mine was longer and Mum had followed Germaine Greer’s advice; in spite of her age, her breasts seemed quite firm enough to support themselves. Conscious of my nipples, I usually wore a bra.Leigh and Netta were still in bed, despite Ma’s warning that they’d have to get their own breakfast if they were up late. Mum and I left at once and she seemed genuinely pleased to have my company.‘I’m going to try to catch up on your education whenever I can, Faith. If I ask you searching questions, even seem a little personal, it’s only so I can discover what you do and don’t know. Okay?’‘Mum, I want to learn. I want to break out of my cocoon of ignorance as soon as I can.’‘Good. Are you on the pill?’‘What pill?’‘Who’s your doctor?’‘Am I supposed to have a doctor?’‘Who saw you when you were ill at the cottage?’‘Fa… The B.’‘Call him “Heacham,” love. It pays him the respect he deserves, which is none. You’ve no reason to feel anything but contempt and hatred for him so don’t harbour any guilt about using just his surname. Who’s Leigh’s doctor?’‘A man called Paul, I think. He examined me after the B… Heacham gave me the last beating.’‘He’d done it before?’‘Often. If I did something wrong I was stripped and beaten with his belt. Of course, he made me wear very little anyway, so I was ready for a beating in seconds. But that last time was the worst.’Mum was silent for a while, tears running down her cheeks. She pulled the car into the side of the road and took a little time to compose herself. She dabbed at her eyes with a tissue and looked at herself in the car mirror. ‘What a sight!’ She pulled a small case from her handbag and applied some colour to her face and her eyes.I was fascinated, having seen the models do this in front of mirror in the studio but never from quite such close quarters.‘Sorry about that. I hadn’t realized just how cruel Heacham had been to you. I’m sorry I left you with him for so many years. Will you forgive me?’‘I already have, Mum. Anyway, you really had no choice.’She drove off again. ‘Do you believe everything everyone tells you?’‘I believe you. And Leigh. And Ma and Old Hodge, of course. I used to believe everything Heacham told me, but now….’‘First important lesson, Faith. People lie. All people lie. Heacham lies, he lies so much that he even gives a distorted and addled version of his own peculiar truths; like most religious people. I lie. Leigh lies. Netta lies more than most, especially if she thinks she can gain from it. Ma lies. Old Hodge… Old Hodge probably only lies by omission and even then not if he can avoid it. Assume everybody lies, Faith, for their own advantage.’‘Are you saying you didn’t need to leave me with Heacham?’Mum shook her head but continued to look at the road. We had left the area I knew and were moving south. The terrain was much as I’d grown up with except that the new landscapes were more dramatic.‘It’s so hard, Faith. I believed at the time I had no choice. I tried to take you with me but he was too strong for me and I was scared after the way he’d hit me. I was the guilty party. I’d been having affairs, having sex with other men. For all his other faults, he was always loyal to me that way. Not that he ever showed any interest in other women, to be honest. I suppose I felt he deserved something out of our parting. I had no real reason to suspect he’d be cruel to you; otherwise, I’d have fought tooth and nail to keep you. Hope was a lost cause and I had no concerns about her, poor thing. But, if I’d known what he’d do to you, I might’ve found a way to keep you with me.’‘So, you did what you thought was best for everybody at the time?’‘Are you always so generous in your judgement of others?’‘Fa… I do hate that! Heacham taught me not to make judgements. He did it himself, all the time, of course. But he said I was stupid and ill informed and had insufficient information to make considered judgements. I believed him. I had no reason not to. So, I don’t make judgements.’‘Christ, that man’s a shit! But I’m with him on making hasty judgements. It’s too easy to go on first impressions and allow yourself to be prejudiced against someone or something unnecessarily all your life.‘Anyway, we were talking about you and the pill. When we get back, find out who this Paul is. Get on his books and ask him to prescribe you the pill.’‘What pill is it?’‘The contraceptive pill, of course.’‘What does it do?’‘It stops you… Oh, Faith, it’s hard to accept you’re so naïve. It stops you becoming pregnant. But you must take it regularly or it won’t work. Some types may make your periods…’‘Don’t I have to have sex to get pregnant? I thought it could only happen if you let a man put his penis in…’‘Yes, love. You do, as you say, have to have proper sex to risk pregnancy. Start taking it now and then you’ll be ready when the first chance comes up. You’re not safe until you’ve been taking it a while. I can’t remember how long; I’ve been on it for years.’‘But who am I likely to have sex with?’She shook her head again and smiled. ‘If no other man comes into your life and, with your looks, that’s unlikely, I expect you’ll want to go to bed with Leigh at least.’I couldn’t imagine being so close and intimate with any man but Leigh. But I wasn’t going to allow even him to penetrate my body until we were married.‘He hasn’t asked me to marry him, Mum. And he’s not likely to whilst Netta’s around.’‘Sex isn’t dependent on marriage, Faith. Not even in your case. There’ll come a time when the opportunity presents itself, when you and Leigh have a chance to make love. You need to be ready.’‘But I won’t have sex until I’m married.’‘You will, Faith, believe me. I know what I’m talking about. You’ll have sex before you get married. I promise you that.’It was pointless arguing. If it would make Mum feel happier, then I would do as she suggested. ‘Okay. I’ll sort it out as soon as I get back to Longhouse’‘Promise?’‘Mum, if I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it.’‘I expect you will. Periods. What do you know about them?’I knew the term.‘What did Heacham tell you?’‘He said I shouldn’t make a fuss and it’d happen every month. Funny, it was the one thing Mrs Greenhough helped me with.’She sighed. ‘The sisterhood.’We drove in silence for a while through countryside that had become far less rural. There were towns now, some quite large. We passed through streets thronged with Saturday shoppers and I wondered why we didn’t stop in any of these places.‘Leeds is a big city, Faith. Wonderful shopping. I love the city. You’ll find it exciting and lively. Netta loves to come shopping, especially if we’ve got money to spend.’‘You go shopping without money?’‘Window-shopping. It’s wonderful. You’ll love it.’‘Seems a bit pointless.’She laughed. ‘Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it. Anyway, today I have money. I’ve been asking for cash instead of presents all this week. I don’t like to, and they know I wouldn’t normally, but I explained and they were eager to help. They wanted to meet you but I explained, told them you’re not like Netta and me but only interested in one man. They were disappointed, of course, but I’m not going to change you.‘Actually, I’m really lucky. One daughter I can indulge in all the pleasures we share with men and another I can be more serious with. I can share the cultured side of life with you, Faith. You’re intelligent and bright, probably creative, where Netta’s just a natural hedonist and not the brightest of souls. I didn’t have to teach her to be a sexual beast, you know. Given her head, she’d have been at it even sooner. Netta’s a feline creature with all the sexual scruples of an alley cat.‘I don’t blame her, of course. I enjoy my men just as much. I’ve no shame about accepting gifts in return for pleasure. I sometimes don’t get anything, except for my own pleasure, of course. But I generally get enough to keep me in style. Does that shock you?’‘Are you a prostitute, Mum?’‘Christ! Leigh said you were direct. No. I’m not. Some might see it that way, I suppose. I never charge the men I go with. I don’t hire myself out by the hour or so much for certain services. It’s not like that. But there’s an unwritten rule that says they make a gift in exchange for the pleasure I give them. I give my body; they give me the things I need to live a good life. Fix the boiler, decorate the lounge, buy groceries, that sort of thing, you know?’I could see no material difference between this and prostitution but I couldn’t condemn her. I might have to revise my views on prostitution instead.We reached the city and Mum found a place to park straight away in a tall building made of several floors all devoted to space for cars. I thought it a bit weird. Leeds was huge and I made a mental note to apologize to Leigh for doubting what he’d said about cities.The day was a whirl. Mum whisked me from shop to shop to café to shop to shop to café to shop in such a rush that I experienced little but confusion and disorientation. She, however, obviously enjoyed herself enormously and I just tagged along and hoped I nodded in the right places.Leigh had paid me in cash up to date and refused to take anything for my board and lodgings. I had some spending money and was able to buy his birthday card and present. At Mum’s insistence, I bought some new clothes, more underwear and some of the basic ingredients needed to paint my face. She bought me a razor and some skin lotion.‘What for, Mum? I thought only men shaved.’‘Under arms at the very least, and, if you can’t face waxing, your private parts.’I was very happy to get into the car and leave that frenetic place for the peace and quiet of the countryside.‘It’s been one of the best days I’ve had for ages. Enjoyed it?’I couldn’t deflate her and I had another lesson in lying to avoid hurt. ‘It’s been a lovely day, Mum. Thank you.’We drove in silence, which I relished after so much rush and noise.‘You’re very quiet.’‘Tired.’She was thoughtful for a moment. ‘I suppose it might be tiring if you’re not used to it. Next time you’ll have a better idea what to expect and it won’t seem so daunting.’I said nothing. I hoped the next time would be months in the future and I didn’t want to spoil Mum’s obvious enjoyment of the trip.‘Wasn’t your idea of fun, was it, Faith?’‘I, well there were…’‘I’m your Mum. It’s all right. You can be honest with me.’‘It’s all so overwhelming, Mum. I found York quite intimidating. It was only because I was with Leigh that I managed to deal with it so well…’‘That’s fine. Honestly, it is. I’m glad Leigh was more able to entertain you and keep your mind off the negative aspects than I was. It shows you have deep feelings for a man. It’s obvious you’re not a city lover and you clearly don’t like shopping. But that’s no problem, Faith. I’ve got Netta to go shopping with. We’ll find something else to enjoy together. Do you like walking?’‘Yes. I like being with you, Mum. For the moment, that’s enough for me. And I’d rather have you to myself than share you with strangers.’‘Do you at least like what you’ve bought today?’‘Yes. And the things you’ve bought me. Thanks, Mum.’‘Pleasure. Not keen on the idea of makeup, though, are you?’‘It seems like a cheat. Not natural. Like showing the world someone else.’‘God, you’re like your dad. He was a lover of the natural and unadorned. He certainly loved me unadorned. The less adorned the better, in fact. Oh, he was a lovely man.’‘Miss him, don’t you?’‘I’m still in love with him. Always have been. Always will be. Hopeless case, you see?’‘Perhaps not so hopeless. Tell me more about him.’We were out of the city and back on roads I found more comfortable with their reduced traffic and fewer buildings.‘David was a lecturer at my college. He was older than me. He tried very hard not to fall in love with me even though I fell for him at once. He thought it was unfair for someone so young to waste herself on an old fogy like him. His words. But I loved him. God, I love that man! He was clever and kind and good and funny and serious and talented and wise and oh so wonderful. I cried every night for weeks when he left. Every night.’‘Why didn’t you tell him about me?’‘Things were different then, Faith. He wanted so much to make his mark in the world of literature. I’d have held him back. If I’d told him I was pregnant, he’d have been back on the first plane to marry me. It would’ve ruined his chance of the professorship he wanted so badly.’‘But you loved him.’‘Exactly. That’s what love is, Faith. Love is giving the person you love whatever will be best for them, not whatever will be best for you. I knew I’d be bad for him, so I let him go. I’ve never regretted it, but I still hurt. I always will.’‘Did he get what he wanted?’‘I don’t know. That’s the irony. I’ve no idea what became of him. I know he had a book of poetry published in the States. He dedicated it to me and sent me a copy. I’d told him not to write to me as I’d married a jealous man who might hurt me, you see? Heacham thought he was my first and he’d have been furious if he’d known about David. I managed to keep all that from him, thank God.’‘May I read it?’Mum said nothing for a long time but I knew she’d heard me. She concentrated on her driving and I saw her wipe her eye with a fingertip. ‘It’s in my bag. I carry it with me everywhere. You deserve to read it, Faith. Take it. But don’t let any harm come to…’‘Mum, it’s obviously precious to you. I’ll guard it with my life.’She smiled. ‘Not your life, Faith. I’d go as far as your honour, but not your life. It’s a book, when all’s said and done and you’re my daughter, my living reminder of David.’I rifled through her bag and discovered things I didn’t recognize. I thought it better not to ask. The book was quite small. A slim hardback volume with a black cover, tooled in gold. It had been well thumbed.I opened it and found the name and address of the publisher, as I’d hoped. My smile was secret. I had a starting point to make my search for David Lengdon, my real father.

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perf6.000x9.000.indd (Photo credit: stuartaken)You've come all this way, so it's unlikely you'll stop until you reach the end. But, just in case you're impatient for the next chapter, you know where you can buy the book. If you do, please write a review and post it wherever you can - Amazon, Goodreads, any other bookish site. Reviews are what get indie published books noticed, you see.
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8 June 1912 - Universal Studios founded in Hollywood.
Related articles Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 20 [image error]

Procrastination Is The Thief of Time

This small nugget of wisdom flowed from the pen, or quill, of Edward Young, an English poet and dramatist. It comes from his work, Night Thoughts, written 1742-5.
In spite of the age of the quote, it is as apposite and relevant today as it ever was, possibly more so. Today, we are beset by so many more distractions stemming from the things with which we surround ourselves.
I don’t know about you, but I love the act of writing, the process of those words flowing from the ether via my brain and fingers to the keyboard. I love it. So, why do I put off the moment when I should start? Why do I find so many other things to do rather than engage in a pastime that I love?
It’s irrational, isn’t it? And I pride myself on being rational. But, perhaps this is the issue. Writing isn’t generally a rational process, especially if writing fiction, which is my favourite genre. Writing fiction requires an engagement with a level of fantasy, mixed with elements of reality, of course. But that necessity to dwell in the world of fantasy removes the writer from the rational world. And, perhaps, it is the need for this move into the creative sphere that allows the writer to lose sight of the need for discipline.
Creativity is a delicate affair. It’s necessarily subject to influences beyond the reasoning mind. An engineer, that most grounded of imaginers, can create a working machine that depends on the laws of physics and the use of pragmatism, but the leap of faith that raises a standard machine to the level of brilliant invention depends almost entirely on intuition. For those of us who are artists, in all fields, imagination is the prime driver of our creations. So, it’s hardly surprising that we can be deflected from the work of exercising that difficult to define aspect of ourselves by qualities that are more easily identified. What I’m saying here is that when we create, we take risks, and human beings are generally resistant to risk. We risk being made to look foolish in the eyes of our peers, and, more importantly, being made ridiculous in our own eyes.
So, we engage in activities we can rely on, activities that require little risk. I find myself drawn to answering emails, engaging in social chat on Facebook, promoting various stories via Digg, StumbleUpon and LinkedIn. I will respond to those connections made via Pinterest (there’s an addictive social grouping if ever there was one). And whilst I’m able to convince myself that this activity has some value in that it spreads my name wider and increases my online visibility, I know deep down that I am merely putting off the moment when I must put my fingers to the keyboard and produce some new combinations of frequently used words. I have no real grounds for fear in this regard: I am frequently able to sit down and produce a story with absolutely no planning. So, I have no experience of being blocked to prevent my getting on with it. Similarly, I seem to be able to draw ideas from the ether so that I am rarely short of things to write about. So, what stops me from actually getting on with it?
I think part of it comes from a perceived need to start with a clear desk: I hate clutter, both material and intellectual. So, I’ll find excuses to clear actual objects - writing magazines awaiting responses to articles, details of writing contests to transfer to my Writing Contests page on this blog, unanswered emails that require a considered response, messages on social sites like LinkedIn and Facebook. I pretend I have a need to clear these items before I’ll be ‘ready’ to do some writing. This is so, even though experience tells me I can get out of bed, sit down at the keyboard and write straight away, regardless of ‘stuff’ piled on my desk or in my Inbox.
So, is it laziness? Is my subconscious just playing games with me and pretending it doesn’t want to do the work, kidding me that the other stuff is more important?
No, I think it’s almost entirely a combination of discipline, or the lack of it, and organisation, or the lack of that as well. Because of this, I’ve developed a Time Chart in which I’m recording the time I spend on each task during the day. I hope this will show me just how much of my time is spent doing things I really don’t need to do. I have always held that the most precious resource we have is time. If I discover I’m wasting that one thing we can never recover or replace, I expect it to have a salutary effect on my behaviour. I’ll let you know the outcome of my little experiment.
In the meantime, I invite you to think about how you procrastinate and what things get in the way of actually creating. Please share your experiences and thoughts in the comments space below. You know you want to; after all, it’s a way of putting off that moment when you’ll have to face keyboard or pen and paper and actually construct sentences with words, building paragraphs and finally chapters and, maybe, even a novel!
Related articles The Dangers of Distraction. Procrastination Perfectionism - Are you going to let those two words get the better of you? On Procrastination Top Six Ways to Procrastinate as a Writer [image error]

Erotic Anthology Published

After many delays and obstructions, I've finally managed to get my collection of erotic short stories published. I'm offering all readers here the chance to obtain a FREE copy (normal price is $2.99). But you'll have to be quick off the mark; the offer ends 10 June. And, I'd appreciate a review, please.
How do you get one?
Follow the blog, or follow me on Twitter, or 'Like' my Facebook page. Links are here on the blog. Then use the 'Contact me here' link just above to let me know your email address and I'll send you the code and link you need to obtain a free copy via Smashwords. The ebook can be downloaded in a format suitable for any ereader. If you don't have an ereader, you can either read it in PDF form (there's a link to a free PDF download at right), or on Kindle for PC (or Mac), both of which are free on the Amazon site for your country of residence.  USA here.  UK here.
So, what does the book contain?
8 stories:
Hunky heroes and hot women inhabit the beds, cars, beaches and other scenes in this anthology of erotic stories. You'll find exotic locations and beautiful people coming together to excite, arouse and satisfy you as you join them in their journeys from meeting to merging. The attraction is heterosexual and the outcomes mutually orgasmic, so, whether you're a male or female reader, you'll find something to satisfy your dreams here. Lurking amongst the steamy stories, you'll discover a BDSM piece and an adult fairy story that should work well as a bedtime story.
Come in, enjoy alone or with the partner or partners of your choice. All welcome. 




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Across the River & Into the Trees, Ernest Hemingway, Reviewed.

Having read Hemingway when I was a young man, and enjoyed what I read, I found Across the River and Into the Trees disappointing. Much of the language, of course, is American and leaves a British reader uncertain of meaning, as context frequently doesn’t illuminate. I felt the book was a little flat, to the extent that I didn’t bother to read the whole work. None of the characters grabbed my attention and the story seemed to be meandering and going nowhere. With such a long ‘to read’ list, I felt it was not a good use of my limited reading time. Certainly, had this not had Hemingway’s name attached, I would have stopped reading after chapter two.
I know his fans will think me mad, deficient or perverse, but I can give only my own judgment on the work and I was disappointed. I’ve read, and enjoyed, The Old Man and the Sea, For Whom the Bell Tolls and other works by this Nobel laureate. But this one failed to catch my attention, failed to draw me in sufficiently to persuade me to continue to invest my time in it. It may be that further reading would have redeemed the dull and uninteresting start but I wasn’t prepared to spend more time in finding out.
So, in spite of the usual quality of writing, expected of this past master, I can’t honestly recommend this book.
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Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 20

Still enjoying this story? I certainly hope so.
I posted Chapter 1 way back on 13 January. Subsequent chapters have appeared each Friday, and will continue to be posted until all 50 have appeared here. You can find those already posted via the archive; just search for the chapter you want to read.
Missed the start? Find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite your friends to join us.
Chapter 20
Sunday 25th April
Netta waltzed into the kitchen scandalously exposed in Leigh’s shirt and with delight all over her face. Leigh looked altogether too pleased with himself.‘Good morning, Netta, Leigh.’Mum glanced a quick, unspoken question at Netta and she replied with her open hand. What the significance of five was, I had no idea.Leigh had witnessed the exchange, which was clearly meant to exclude him. ‘Six, I think, you’ll find.’Netta laughed. ‘He’s right. And, on a scale of ten, though I shouldn’t say this in front of him, I’d say somewhere between six…teen and seventeen.’Leigh’s face clouded at the six but brightened into an expression of smugness as Netta increased the score beyond the realms of mathematical possibility. Recent reading, experience of Leigh and a small amount of information from his idiot’s lantern allowed me to deduce that she was commenting on his prowess as a lover. That she rated him so highly was hardly the news I wanted. But I could do nothing about it. I offered them breakfast.Mum had already had toast with me; she was still yawning after our late night chat. I felt alive, awake and excited by all I’d learned. She’d released a large burden of guilt from me and I no longer felt in any way to blame for what Father…. the B had done to Hope or me. I knew Mum was convinced that I hadn’t known he was raping her. Whether Netta would ever come to the same conclusion, I couldn’t tell.‘Run me back home after breakfast, will you Mum?’‘Leaving this stud so quickly?’‘Only so I can come back and live with him. Think I’m letting a sex god like this get away so easily?’A cloud passed across Mum’s face and I wondered if anyone noticed how it affected me as well. Leigh and Netta seemed lost in each other’s charms. I found myself wondering just what it would be like to have a man in bed with me and blushed at my fantasy. Mum saw me colour but only smiled.‘Where’s Ma this morning?’How to tell Leigh she wasn’t happy with Netta in the house? Why she felt like that, I had no idea, but she’d been at pains to tell me to ‘hang on in there’. What could I say to Leigh? If I told the truth, it was bound to hurt Netta and I wanted to avoid that. I had another lesson in the arts of lying. ‘I don’t think Old Hodge is very well.’Leigh frowned. ‘I’ve never known either of them take a day off sick. I hope the old man’s not ill. I’d better pop across and see them.’I was about to try to prevent him but Mum shook her head and I let him go. Netta simply poured herself a coffee from the pot before she tackled the toast I’d put on her plate.As soon as Leigh had left, Mum turned to Netta. ‘He’s really that good?’‘Tell the truth, Mum, the best I’ve ever had. Took me there at least twenty times, probably a lot more, I stopped counting. He’s by no means the biggest but the way he uses it...’‘Haven’t I always said it’s not the size of the hammer but how you knock in the nail? Sure you really want to commit so soon? I mean, don’t you want to wait and see for a bit?’‘Absolutely not. I’ve told him I’ll stay as long as I want and he’s happy with that. There’s no danger. I know what I want. In any case, if it did come to the point where I couldn’t leave, can you think of a better scene than this?’ She gestured to take in the whole of Longhouse and all it represented.I closed my eyes against the grief I felt welling inside me. ‘You can’t stay here! I want Leigh. I love him!’ It had escaped me before I’d had the chance to think about it. I felt confused and alarmed at my admission and so grateful that Leigh hadn’t heard me. I dashed from the room and ran to my bedroom to escape the immediate consequences of what I’d said. I was still up there when Mum called to say they were going to collect Netta’s things.‘See you when you get back, then.’‘I’m not coming back, love. Leigh’s coming with us and he’ll bring Netta back.’I dashed downstairs and hugged my mother close. ‘Promise you’ll come and see me again soon.’‘Try and keep me away.’ She looked at Leigh for permission.‘You’re welcome whenever you like, Matilda. As long as Faith’s living here, you’re welcome to visit her.’Mum became thoughtful. ‘What are you doing next Saturday?’‘I’ve nothing planned, unless Leigh…?’He shook his head.‘Put on your glad rags and prepare for some serious shopping. You and I are going to Leeds. I’ll pick you up around ten… No, since Netta won’t be home to slow me down, I’ll be here by nine. Be ready.’ She kissed me and they were gone.I’d considered my outburst and knew what I’d said was true. I did want Leigh. I did love him. But I’d realised too late what that really meant. I couldn’t compete with Netta. Younger, she might be, but she was years ahead of me in all the ways that mattered, and she was willing to give herself, without reserve, in a way guaranteed to please Leigh even though she had no wish to marry him.The cars pulled off the drive and I closed the gate and stood watching Netta and Leigh in his big blue Range Rover follow Mum in her little red Hillman Imp down the lane and out onto the main road. I waited by the gate for a long time, just staring into the distance through the fresh green leaves of the sycamore and listening to the distant sheep grumbling on the fells. Footsteps crunching the gravel brought me out of my lonely dream and I turned to find Old Hodge approaching in his gardening gear, a hoe over his shoulder. ‘Surprised to see the sick old man out of his bed?’I blushed. He grounded his hoe and enclosed me in the comfort of his clothes that smelt of earth and linseed oil. ‘It’s all right, love. I’m sure you did it for the best, but you stick to your honesty in future.’‘I didn’t want to hurt Netta’s feelings.’‘P’raps not; she’ll not be shy of hurtin’ yours, though.’He took a step back and looked me up and down. ‘My word, but you’re coming on a treat, you are. I know who I’d choose if it were me you loved instead o’ Leigh, and it wouldn’t be yon flighty miss, no matter ‘ow eager she might lie between the sheets.’ He pecked my cheek, doffed his cap at me and wandered off to see to the flowerbeds at the back of the house.I found Ma in the kitchen. ‘She’s coming back, Ma, to live here.’‘So Leigh tells me. I can’t stay away forever so I expect I’ll have to get used to her. But she’ll feel the lash of my tongue if she hurts you, Faith. You’re worth ten of that sister of yours anytime.’‘I love him, Ma; I want him. What am I going to do?’She hugged me until I was back in control and then sat me at the table as she busied herself with making a pot of tea. ‘Leigh sees only through his eyes and thinks with his cock. Sorry, I know you don’t like that sort of word but it’s what I’ve always called it, love. I mean no harm or disrespect. Trouble is, that young minx’ll give him everything he wants. But she’ll want too much in return. He’ll tire of her, just like all the rest. Bide your time, Faith. He’ll see you for what you are in the end.’‘What am I, Ma?’‘A sweet, kind, pretty, caring young lady, is what you are. You’re nice and considerate and honest. He’ll see she’s a selfish bitch soon enough. He’ll soon learn she takes more than she gives. And he knows he can get his sex a lot cheaper than she sells it for.’‘You make her sound like a prostitute! She is my sister.’‘You don’t have to sell it for money to be a tart, Faith. She’ll take Leigh for as much as she can. How do you think she and that mother of hers…? I’m sorry, love, I truly am. I was forgettin’ she’s your mother too.’‘I like her, Ma. I like my mum. She seems kind and she listens.’‘Happen she does. There are those where she lives who have a different point of view. I’ll say no more against her, love. You’ll learn soon enough for yoursen. I’ll still be here when you need a shoulder to cry on.’My world had started to be so pleasant since leaving the B. Now everything was disintegrating about me. Ma was against Mum because they both viewed me as their own daughter. Netta was against me because she wanted the man she knew should be mine. And Ma was against Netta because she knew she would hurt both Leigh and me. I could no longer rely on Leigh for support and help; I doubted he’d even notice me whilst Netta was around. I began to think I ought to look for somewhere else to live.‘You stay put, love. Move out of Longhouse and Leigh’ll stop noticing you altogether. You need to be under his nose. I’ll tell you something, Faith: nothing would make me happier than that you be the one to finally tie Leigh down and get him married.’I hadn’t thought that far. At that point, I didn’t even know if that was what I wanted. Yet, when I considered my feelings, it was obvious. Marriage to Leigh was the only possible conclusion to my hopes and dreams. I loved him. If I loved him and he could grow to love me, then marriage was the natural and logical outcome.But when he returned with Netta, I found it hard to think of my hopes as more than a silly, unattainable dream. They were clearly besotted with each other. Leigh barely glanced at me as he whisked her in with her cases and bags. They were so long unpacking in his room that even I realised they must be doing something more.Their closeness and obsessive need to be together finally persuaded me I had to do something to learn about the real world. The B had kept me locked inside an artificial cage of ignorance and innocence that left me ill suited to survive the world I now inhabited. I must learn something of life, of society, of relationships. I must learn about people, customs and why everyone was so obsessed with sex. My problem was; I had no idea where to start.‘I wish you could hang on to your innocence, love. There’s plenty of worldly wise already out there. You don’t need to become one of them to understand them.’‘I wasn’t thinking of shedding my clothes and having sex, Ma. And I don’t mind being innocent so much as remaining naïve. I need to know and understand what it’s all about. Why Leigh and Netta like to have their clothes off and look at each other. Why Leigh likes to take pictures of women in the nude. Why Leigh’s penis is so fascinating … to Netta and why her vagina seems to absorb him. What it is about sex that’s so all consuming and important.’‘You still surprise me with the way you say things, Faith. Shock me, sometimes. There’s nowt wrong with sex, you know, love. Old Hodge and I still enjoy each other in that way. Old and wrinkled we may be, but we still feel the same needs and desires we felt when we first met.‘Sex is one of the things that bind love. But sex without love is at best a good time, at worst the most awful experience a woman can have. Love without sex is like lamb without mint sauce, apple pie without custard; it’s nice enough but not complete.‘But, Faith, I can tell you, sex with love is something else. There’s no way to describe it; it has to be experienced. That’s why no one’s ever successfully described the joy and wonder of it. Those who’ve never experienced it, think it’s just the same as ordinary sex only more so. But it’s something so different, something so far removed, it’s as different as a rhyll is to a mighty raging river.’It was quite a speech for Ma. It whetted my appetite for learning. I went to the Longhouse library in search of works that might teach me something about these mysteries.

###
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What Do You Love and Hate About Self-publishing?

That’s a question to which you’ll need to supply the answers, of course. To get you started, here are my own views.
So, do I get the 'hates' out of the way first, or inspire with the 'loves'?
Let's make it a 'love' sandwich.
I love the freedom self-publishing gives me as a writer, allowing me to select all aspects of my books, so that they really are my products in as many ways as possible. I have the final say over the text, the content, the layout, font, length and the cover illustration. I can choose my titles and not have some marketing accountant interfere because he thinks another would sound more enticing.
And that's the real issue, I suppose. I get to publish what I want, not the mish-mash that some bean counters would have me publish. Because, make no mistake, in traditional publishing the accountants are the ones who have the final say about what is and is not published. And this, in spite of the fact that they have frequently rejected books that have later gone on to be best sellers. Men who care more about profits than about artistic honesty and integrity are not the people I want dictating how my books should look and what they should contain. Publishing has grown to be too much like modern football: all about profit and very little to do with the activity itself.
So, what do I hate? Marketing. I don't want to spend my time as a salesman. It's not a natural role for me. And I speak as one who has sold for a living on more than one occasion. I worked as a shop manager for a few years and I worked as representative for a company selling photographic printing services to shops for a year. That year almost killed me. The whole process requires a level of dishonesty I'm incapable of sustaining, even should I wish. I was selling a product that was sub-standard and I had no faith in it. It was a role I left as soon as I found an alternative method of earning my daily bread.
Of course, selling one's own work is a different matter, in that one has faith in the product. But, that apart, the actual process of selling is something alien to my personality and philosophy. It isn't that I have some subconscious problem with making money from my work. That isn't the issue. We all tend to judge others by our own standards and habits. For me, shopping for anything is a matter of discovering which product suits my needs and then finding a place that I trust where I can obtain it for a reasonable price. I'm not an average shopper, as I find the whole process of buying things something of a necessary evil. It's definitely not a social activity for me. I don't enjoy the process. And the aspect of shopping I most dislike is having some sales assistant trying to sell me something I don't want.
As a result of these feelings, I find myself reluctant to 'force' my work onto others. I'd prefer them to discover for themselves the delights to be had between the covers. I know that this is not practical or even wise if I'm to maximise my income from my books. So, I compromise in ways that I'm able. I place my books on sites that people visit frequently, I write this blog on matters that I hope will attract attention, I use the social networks to increase my 'visibility'. And I offer my work free from time to time so that readers can sample my writing and hopefully feel inspired to write reviews. Reviews sell more indie books than almost anything else.
What I'm not prepared to do is spend my precious writing time on marketing the work. I hope people will enjoy my books and, over time, will spread the word. Unrealistic? Possibly. But it's how I am. In the good old days of traditional publishing it was actually possible for an author to remain entirely hidden and for his writing to be the only thing known about him by his readers. That situation no longer obtains and, as in so many other aspects of life, I have compromised in order to attract some attention. But there is a limit to what I'll do in this regard and, if that means I don't make the best-seller lists, so be it. I'm not about to sell my soul in order to gain more readers.
The other real advantage of self-publishing, the other aspect I love about it, is the freedom it gives the writer to choose the subject matter and style of writing; what is generally termed 'genre' in the trade. With traditional publishing, the agent and the editor tend to confine the writer to a specific area of writing. So, you become known and labelled as a 'crime writer', a 'fantasy writer', a 'romance writer' and traditional publishing does everything in its power to restrict authors and prevent them straying from the field of activity they see as suitable for the writer. In reality, the field they expect to make the most money from.
Well, I have many subjects I wish to explore and many different types of story I wish to tell. If I wish to write a romance and then follow that with a science fiction thriller and then an epic fantasy, I'm free to do that as a self-publishing writer. I have the freedom of choice.
For me, that freedom is paramount. I’m a creative artist and I don't intend to allow the false restrictions of the perceived market place and the Great God Profit to confine my creative spirit and strangle my individuality by forcing me to write in any particular vein. I accept that I will not make as much money as I might under the guidance and governance of a publisher and agent, but I will remain artistically true to my own standards and interests. That's my choice as an author. I have no responsibility to anyone but myself and my readers.
In the end, it comes down to what the individual regards as success. For the majority, that quality is measured in cash returns. For me, it’s measured in the work itself. I write the best I can and leave it to readers to decide whether they like that work enough to recommend it to others. It's a slow and uncertain process of growth in an overcrowded field full of poor and generic work hyped for the consumption of the majority. But it's my choice. Not the imposed direction of some accountant. And that's why I love self-publishing.
Does that mean I would reject any offer from an agent or a tradition publisher? Not necessarily. I’d examine what was on offer and if it suited my way of doing things, I’d consider it. But if it involved me in what I consider unreasonable and harmful restrictions, I'd turn it down, regardless of the amount of money on offer. I realise that makes me a fool in the eyes of many, if not most, but it's how I feel about the whole business.I am, first and foremost, a creator. I'm not some sort of profit generator to be moulded and distorted by the needs of the market place.
My position is that readers either like my work and buy it or they don't. That's their choice and I'm willing to live by that ideal.

So, how do you feel? What are your loves and hates about self-publishing? The comment space below is easy to use to make a contribution, so let’s have your words, please.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 19

Still here? Still enjoying this story? I certainly hope so.  A word of warning: this chapter contains explicit sexual activity.
I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Following chapters have appeared each Friday. You can find them via the archive; just search for the chapter you want to read. And the whole book will eventually be posted here.
Missed the start? Find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite friends to join us.
Chapter 19
I’d never had sex like it. Netta was something else. I’d fallen in lust with her even before she revealed that wonderful body so spectacularly.Netta was sex incarnate; carnal, libidinous, licentious and wanton. I never, ever fooled myself that we made love. We had sex. But what sex. The chemistry was explosive. I could perform with her four or five times a day and still want more. And she was adventurous; happy to experiment for my delight as well as her own. In sex, she was totally unselfish and generous. In every other aspect of her life, she was self-centred and uncaring. I knew that but I was still lost to her within hours of meeting and I never could get enough of her. And when I discovered how much the camera loved her form and face, I was lost. Netta became, from the first, my obsession.A brief conspiratorial look passed between her and Matilda, which sent her mother quickly up the stairs after Faith.‘It isn’t that I mind being watched, but with an expert like Mum I’d feel I was being awarded points.’ Her laugh was rich and earthy with none of the offence so common in coarse women.She removed my slippers and socks, her hands gentling my skin as she slid the wool from me. ‘The joke about English men is true, and I don’t think it enhances the pleasure one bit, do you?’I smiled.She stood astride me and bent to kiss my mouth. One of my hands found a breast beneath the flare of her dress, the other played across her abdomen and thighs, circling the area exposed rather than concealed by the short blonde hair she’d shaped into a heart. She responded to my touch at once, clearly finding pleasure in it. Her fingers stroked my hair and played about my ears as I discovered the weight of her breasts, the firmness of her proud nipples and, as I entered the small copse, the warm moistness at the edges of her rounded lips. She moved her hips a fraction and I found the place she wanted me to touch with finger tip softness. She freed me from restrictive clothing and, as she sat astride me and enclosed me, she was already coming, her head thrown back, her breath in short ecstatic gasps.This was no act for my benefit; I could feel the rhythmic contractions wrap around me as I moved slowly within her. My hands moved to her firm round buttocks where I held her close so that our pubic mounds stroked together. She found my mouth with hers and pushed her warm insistent tongue inside until I persuaded mine into her mouth and touched her teeth and cheeks. Still she throbbed and pulsated round me as I slowly moved within her. We moved as one until it was impossible to say where I ended and she began. I felt her come again and this time she gave voice in short sharp moans of pleasure. I let her run the course before I lifted us, still joined, and lay her on the rug beneath me.I slipped my hands along the full length of her body, shedding the dress with the movement, and she lifted her head to allow me to remove it completely. Resting on my elbows, I cupped each fine breast in turn. My hands moved to her shoulders and I bent and took each nipple in turn between my tongue and teeth, teasing it and gently sucking. My gentle motion in between her thighs had her hips moving to meet me, her legs wrapped around mine to draw me closer to her. I felt her move toward another climax and this time I wanted to go with her. Thrusting hard and fast, I let the passion overtake me now I knew that she would come. I felt that first stirring deep within me and wanted it to build and last. I slowed my movements without pausing. Even through her building climax, she responded to my needs and helped me, moving more gently. As the point of no return approached, I thrust again with passion and abandon and felt her with me. We came together in an ecstasy of motion, sound and touch that left us spent and gasping.Still coupled, we lay together in the warmth of the dying fire and gently stroked the skin that we could reach without shifting our relaxed bodies.In the bedroom, she took off the rest of my clothes and urged me to the bed. With her hands and breasts and tongue she aroused me, straddled me again. I tried to clutch her to me and take her high again but this time was for me and she clasped my hands to her breasts with hers as she rose and fell to let my whole length slip inside and to the very lips and back again with each movement. I arched to reach up and go with her but she lifted higher and I let her have her way, let her take me as she would. Her timing was intuitive so that when I felt my climax building, she slowed her movement, holding me on the very brink. Seven times she took to me to the point where I was nearly past control and each time she slowed almost to a halt and let me stay a while longer on that high plateau where everything was sensation. On the final climb, she lowered herself toward me, freed her breasts from my hands and brushed them softly on my chest with each fall and rise of her hips. I felt the build toward release and, as I came, she closed herself around me and with short, swift movements, took me to the mountaintop. I arched and stretched and filled her, felt the moment take her and she came again with me. It seemed forever there was nothing but we two locked in passion, floating high above all, feeling everything and knowing nothing else.We slept some time after that. I woke to find the bedroom light still blazing, Netta lying on her back beside me with her hands thrown out above her head, her near leg touching mine and her other bent at the knee. A portion of the duvet covered one breast and the half of her that lay beside me. I shifted it to cover her and she stirred and placed my hand on her mound of Venus. My lips kissed all along her arm as I rose above her. I kissed and tongued along her to those firm, protruding buds and took each into my mouth whilst my fingers stroked the warm moist gap between her lips, my other hand caressing her ear. She shifted to give access and I knelt between her thighs. My hands stroked her flanks and body as I kissed my way across her breasts and abdomen and found her entrance with the tip of my tongue. I knew I had the spot as she rose to meet me, spreading to allow more contact with my tongue. I cupped and stroked her breasts and nipples with my hands and fingers, teasing with my thumb and finger, rolling each pink tip and stroking gently upward from base to tip. My tongue tasted her pleasure, moved up and down along the small hard nodule of her, brought her to the first delicious climax. I held her, floating, floating, as waves washed over her and soaked her skin in pleasure. I kept the rhythm soft and gentle, feeling her response as a second sea washed over her, waves moving her rhythmically in an ecstasy I shared. Again, I kept her floating, as the swell became a calm, and slowly moved my tongue to penetrate the warmth and softness of her centre as my hands caressed her body and enclosed her hips in readiness. I rose up from between her thighs and kissed the full length of her body. As my mouth found hers and my tongue pushed between her lips, I entered her and thrust my full length deep within her, lifting her toward me with my hands cupping the round swell of her buttocks. I felt again the closeness as she wrapped herself around me, felt again the building rhythm of her climax. This time was still hers and I held back until she cried in passion and surprised delight, her body arching up, her head thrown back, her mouth wide open for the air. I let her breathe, as I remained a slow and gentle pressure deep within her, barely moving, stroking her hard nodule of delight with the firm base of my member. She began to rise again and this time I went with her. I thrust my full length, almost leaving her each time I plunged and rose, driving hard and fast within her as she gasped and writhed and held my buttocks to prevent me breaking our connection. I felt the moment of release arriving and gave in to the pressure and released myself within her as she came to meet me and we peaked higher than we’d reached before. I heard her voice cry out with mine and knew an ecstasy and pure delight I hadn’t known was possible.We didn’t part but lay there spent and without want or need until the passion slept and took us with it into dreams that were mere shades of that reality.Morning found her at the bedroom window, uncovered, gazing at the falling rain, her elbows on the sill, her gorgeous bottom inviting. I slipped from beneath the cover and approached. She didn’t move as I stroked my hands along her sides and cupped her breasts. I felt her thighs part to admit me and I entered her without the need for preparation. She was moist and welcoming and let me take her as she was. I came more quickly than I wished for her sake but she was happy to be there for me.We stayed that way for long enough for me to recover before I lifted her and took her to the bed again, withdrew from her despite her protests. I turned her so she faced me with her hips arched over the bed edge. We coupled once again and this time she came with me as I held her thighs and thrust within her depths. I kissed her body as she lay before me, stroked her skin and made her come once more before I let her go.For a while, we lay beside each other, bodies touching, until movement and sound from outside our world told us they were up and it was time for food of an entirely different kind.She stood. ‘Shower with me?’We returned to the bedroom hungry for sustenance.Netta slipped my shirt on. ‘If I come to live with you, Leigh, I want you to understand two things.’I pulled on a pair of jeans and nodded.‘First, I decide when I’m going to leave.’I had my own ideas about that but I was in no mood to argue. I was happy to go along with her for now. ‘Okay.’‘Second, you never use that crass three word excuse that dreamers always think they have to say. Sex is one thing, love is something else entirely and I’m way from ready for commitment and self sacrifice; it’s pointless anyway, tomorrow we could all be blown away.’‘Agreed.’ I understood her anxiety about a possible nuclear holocaust but didn’t share her pessimism.‘Good. Let’s have breakfast. I’m starving.’
###
You've come so far it's unlikely you'll stop until the end. But, just in case you're impatient for the next chapter, you know where you can buy the book. If you do, please write a review and post it wherever you can - Amazon, Goodreads, any other bookish site. Reviews are what get indie published books noticed, you see.
Tweet with me on Twitter: http://twitter.com/@stuartaken
          Like my author page on Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/StuartAkenMy website has links to 100s of other sites of interest: http://stuartaken.co.ukRead on Goodreads:  http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4234877.Stuart_AkenStumble with me: http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/stuartakenCome Digg with me: http://digg.com/stuartakenPin with me here: http://pinterest.com/stuartaken/Buy my ebooks via Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/stuartaken

It's Just Too Hot to Install a Water Butt.

It's a ten minute job, right, installing a water butt to collect rain water? Wrong. It should be. It's an ecologically friendly thing to do, it's good for the planet, so it should be simple.
But I failed to reckon with a basic fact of life. The back of the shed is, of course, the place for all those things that you might just need one day. They can be stored there, out of sight and out of mind, which is where I nearly was when I took a look at the proposed site for my newly acquired rain butt.
It's a mixture of jungle, scrapyard and rubbish tip back there. Out of sight and enclosed on three sides, it's a repository for so much…stuff. So, before I can attach the guttering to collect the water from the roof, I have to clear a space. The wheel barrow and the two plastic sacks of compost, one opened to rejuvenate the potted umbrella plant that's resided in the living room for 20 years, is simple enough. Then I discover that some helpful neighbourhood bird has deposited a cherry stone in the fertile soil back there. The result is a huge cherry tree that I'd never noticed, since it's doing a twisting dance with nextdoor's unidentifiable tree and the lower branches of my rather magnificent eucalyptus tree. It's no good. It has to be removed. But, before I can take the hand saw close enough to cut the trunk, I have to clear the fallen leaves of the past ten years. Now the compost bin is almost full of leaf mould, so that's a bonus for the garden later on.
The trunk is exposed and I take the saw to it. It's a relatively simple task and I drag the weed equivalent of a tree onto the lawn to lie; a sorry trophy until I can deal with it. Next, there's a large slab of rough concrete. It weighs about seven tons and measures forty foot by thirty five. Well, okay, I admit that's an exaggeration, but that's what it feels like when I try to shift it. And shift it I must, otherwise every time I approach the spot where the water butt will stand, I'll fall base over apex over this errant lump of concrete. What's it doing there anyway? Well, last year, whilst preparing the ground for the gravelled turning bay at the front of the house, I came across this flat topped lump of concrete that had once served some unknown function for the previous occupier. I managed to raise it and somehow placed it into the wheelbarrow without actually breaking my back, though it did rather bend the wheelbarrow. There was nowhere for it to go, so it ended up behind the shed. That's what you call 'planning', you see. So, now it has to be moved. But there is no other out of the way place for it to go, except, if I do a little bit of clearance, I reckon I can slide it underneath the shed, which is raised off the ground on bricks.
Before I can shift the concrete block, I need to clear away the things that are in the way of me sliding it out of the way. So, there's a small sack of white edging gravel I bought to make the patio look pretty. I'll need that for when I relay the patio later on, so it comes out to sit on the lawn. Then I discover I'd secreted a couple of those enormous plastic containers they deliver sand and gravel in, you know the things that hold around a cubic metre of product and that they never want back. One time only use; now there's an environmentally friendly use of plastic! So, they come out to join the growing pile of rubbish on the back lawn. I disturb about fifteen thousand spiders, some pretty fearsome and large, and an equal number of woodlice. Next, I come across the metal frame of an old garden bench that I'd intended repainting and refilling with wooden slats, so we might sit on it on the patio on sunny days. It consists of a couple of cast iron decorative ends joined together by a long metal rod. The original wood rotted away years ago. I figure if I haven't re-used it by now, I probably never will. Onto the lawn it goes.
There's a pile of mixed bricks, paving and household, along with some flat slabs of York stone that once formed a small feature and now lie awaiting a new lease of life. Too good to chuck out. But in the way, so they go - that's right - on the lawn. You're getting the gist now, aren't you? I forgot about the old orange plastic washing up bowl and the old brown rubbish bin, both full of lovely brown water and soaked dead leaves. Into the compost bin with the contents and the two containers, kept for reasons even I can't imagine, go - right again - on the lawn.
The space is clear. All I have to do now is fix the guttering and place the water butt on its stand and we're away and ready for the next rain.
Ah.
Guttering. Some short while ago, we had the outside woodwork on the house replaced with UPVc plastic as a way of smartening the property and reducing the need for maintenance. I asked the workmen to save me some of the old guttering, as they were replacing it, of course. I knew, you see, I'd need a short piece, about 8 feet in total, to feed rainwater into the butt. They were kind. Left me four lengths, totalling around 36 feet, along with two downpipes, some joints and brackets and other bits and pieces. They were all stored, if that's the word, on the patio.
So, out comes my trusty Black and Decker folding workbench from the garage. Of course, I have to take the car out of the garage in order to get at the workbench. I set it up, on the lawn (is there really room there?). And, in the process, manage to place my thumb between the end of one of the folding legs and the place where it sits when unfolded. Two pieces of fairly hefty metal with a thumb between; I think you can guess where the damage occurred.  I suffer, always have, from a strange condition that causes me to feel faint, even occasionally actually causes me to faint, when I attack myself in certain ways. I feel the world start to spin and, with plenty of experience, recognise that I need to place my head lower than my heart for a while or my body will abruptly do that of its own accord. So I lie down on the lawn (yes, I know, but there is room). That grass is doing great service.
Once the initial feeling has subsided, I rise slowly and grab a folding chair from the shed, plonk it on the patio and sit there with my head between my knees. A position in which Valerie discovers me as she is hanging out the washing on the outdoor airer. Sympathy and a plaster are both forthcoming. The blood is stemmed and the thumb appears still to be functional, so I continue the job. Valerie attacks the fallen cherry tree with saw and secateurs to make it small enough to fit in the recycling bin for garden waste.
I select the first piece of guttering, place it against the shed to gather measurements and see exactly how it will work. The hacksaw cuts through the plastic with ease and I strip the necessary joints and brackets from the lengths left by the workers. When all is assembled, I return to the garage to search through seventeen thousand assorted screws for the four I'll need to fix the brackets to the shed. Nine hours later, I've found four screws. Valerie holds up one end of the assembled guttering whilst I mark the spots needed to ensure there'll be enough slope to drain the water into the butt. I fix the brackets; that small electric screwdriver blessed again for its ease of use.
I clip the guttering into place and look at the spot where the butt will stand. Uneven and a little too low to get a watering can under the tap, even allowing for the stand I've bought for that purpose. So: oh, I forgot about the bag of sand I also discovered behind the shed and had to move using the wheel barrow and emptying the bag in three loads as it was too heavy to move full. Now that sand comes into its own as I spread a layer of it on the ground and then place a layer of house bricks on top. The spirit level assures me they're level in both directions and I place the stand on top. Next the butt itself is raised. All that remains is to cut the hole in the lid. Good old Stanley knife does that job, and the down pipe enters the hole and all is done and ready.
Time for lunch.
Valerie does the catering whilst I organise chairs and tables for the first time on the patio this summer. We eat.
The tools come in handy to reduce the old guttering and the several lengths of wood I'd also forgotten about that were stored behind the shed. I need them all to be short enough to fit in the back of my hatchback. The old bench frame eventually comes apart with the aid of a spanner and I fold the old plastic storage bags neatly to form a base for the rest of the rubbish in the back of the car, once I've taken out the seats.
The local recycling centre is quiet at this time of the day and I find the various deposit points for the different bits and pieces.
Back home, I tidy up the tools and have a shower. I've learned that I need to rest after any form of physical activity if I'm to be any use for the rest of the day: a legacy of 8 years of ME/CFS. So I lie on the sofa and watch the news on TV before finally coming in here to do some writing.
Only then do I remember I haven't done my usual writing piece on the blog. So, there you have it: my excuse for failing to supply you with a thoughtful piece on writing this Thursday. And, if you've got this far, all I can say is, you've got more stamina than I have!

Gulf, by Robert A. Heinlein, Reviewed.

Robert Heinlein, L. Sprague de Camp, and Isaac Asimov, Philadelphia Navy Yard, 1944. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Gulf , by Robert A. Heinlein, is a Sci-fi adventure story/thriller, set on a future Earth and Moon, full of fascinating contradictions. The anachronisms - for example, the plot depends on the physical transmission of microfilms - ought to render it unreadable for a modern reader, but the quality of the writing and the characterisation both take it into the realm of the 'classic'.
Written in 1949, long before the computer was commonplace, although Turing had by that time already shown such a machine was a real possibility, the exclusion of this major influence on the world is a serious omission. I suspect, had Heinlein been aware of the extraordinary changes to communication encouraged by computers and their peripherals, he would have found a way to modify his story to include this aspect of modern life.
There's a good deal of philosophising in the book; much of this could conceivably be considered an analogy for Hitler's attempts to breed a pure race of Tutons. Here, however, we have the idea of a race of 'supermen' based entirely on brainpower. That, perhaps, is the least attractive part of the book. There's a singular lack of emotional content in both the characters and the philosophy many of them espouse. I gained the impression, from the large portions of author intrusion, that Heinlein was definitely on the side of the 'supermen'.
Whilst many of the ideas expressed are attractive to anyone who has a rational element to their personality, the lack of emotional content is a serious worry. Imagining a world taken over by those with the ability to reason and rationalise their way out of our most pressing problems, but lacking any emotional connection either with each other or with their intended victims, makes for a barren world devoid of the most important single quality displayed by humans: their capacity to love.
The story itself is fast moving, full of event and crammed with ideas. The central character, Gilead, is an extraordinarily capable survivor in what is often an almost incomprehensible world. His connection with and partnership of Baldwin allows the story to take on a new dimension and it is following this association that the philosophising really begins.
The denouement was both surprising and, on reflection, inevitable. I find myself recalling certain passages and considering the various messages and theories postulated by the book. I suspect this is a story that will stay with me for quite a while and one which will inform my own writing in certain ways.
So, if you're susceptible, beware of reading this book. It might give you ideas! It's an old story but, in spite of its deficiencies, one worth reading.
It has been said that in Gulf, Heinlein tackles the question, 'What is a superman?' and in answering it, makes previous answers appear muddleheaded. I'd add to that observation that Heinlein's 'superman' is the product of equal muddleheadedness. The total lack of a moral framework or an emotional component, makes his superman more a totalitarian despot than a true superhero, I think.
Nevertheless, I'd happily recommend this as a read for sci-fi and general readers alike.

Read My Novel, Free: Chapter 18

Still here? Stubborn, or are you really enjoying this story? I certainly hope so.
I posted Chapter 1 on 13 January. Following chapters appear each Friday. You can find them via the archive; just search for the chapter you want to read.
Missed the start? Find it here: http://stuartaken.blogspot.com/2012/01/read-free-my-novel-here.html
Read, enjoy, invite friends to join us.
Chapter 18
Saturday 24th April
‘May I call you Mother?’‘It’s who I am but I’d prefer Mum or Matilda.’My sister watched curiously. I took in her long blonde hair, eyes the colour of cornflowers and the secret smile forming on her full lips. I knew at once she was everything Leigh looked for in a woman and my heart checked within me, causing me to gasp audibly.‘The papers called you “Faith,” but I’d rather use “Fay” if you don’t mind. Can’t stand all that church stuff. I’m Netta, your little sister. Only not so little as you, it seems.’I shrugged, noncommittally. Mother, Matilda, Mum stepped forward and we embraced, a little awkwardly at first until natural affinity took over and we hugged tightly as if neither of us ever wanted to let go. It was a feeling of such warmth and belonging that I couldn’t stop the tears. When I pulled back at last, I was relieved to see telltale trails running down Mum’s made-up cheeks.Netta was eyeing up Leigh in the same way all other women did. She was as interested in him as he was in her. So far, he’d remained a silent observer at this family reunion.‘Netta.’ I held out my arms in what I hoped was a welcome. She approached and allowed a small hug, even kissed my cheek.‘Hi, Sis.’‘It sounds formal, but I’m pleased to meet you. I thought I was alone.’There was a brief, awkward silence.‘Look, I want to get one thing straight, Faith. Netta and I don’t believe a word of what the papers say about you and that terrible business with Heacham and Hope. And we…’‘I’ve kept the papers away from Faith, Mrs…’‘Matilda, please. I’m sorry. I just assumed ...’‘I’ve only just started to read newspapers, Mum; not in the habit yet. What did they say?’‘You know, Sis, about how you must’ve helped him rape helpless little Hope…’Mum’s look told me they had discussed this and that Netta had broken an agreement. ‘Neither of us believes a word of it, of course. We know you must’ve been unaware.’‘Hard to fathom, though, when you’re supposed to be the one who looked after the poor, useless thing.’‘That’s what Leigh thinks, Netta, so you and he will probably get along fine. I’ll say it just once; once more for Leigh’s benefit. I knew absolutely nothing about what that B was doing to our sister. If I had, I would’ve killed him with my bare hands. You can believe me or not. I can’t make you do something you don’t want to. But, whatever any of you think, it’s the truth.’Leigh looked uncomfortable. ‘I do believe you, Faith. Have done for a while.’I was angry and hurt that such was the beginning to what I’d hoped would be a wonderful day and the start of a new and pleasant phase of my life. Leigh’s declaration was late in getting through to me and by then he was speaking to Mum and Netta. I stared at him with surprise.‘There’s a lot you can’t yet know about Faith. I’d give her the benefit of the doubt, at least until you know her better. But, be warned, she hasn’t had the advantage of a social upbringing and she speaks the truth as she sees it, always. It’s a little alarming, and just one of many reasons I’m very fond of her.’I wanted to hug him, but I was wary of showing that sort of affection in front of Mum until I knew her better. Her good opinion was vital to me, so I just nodded at him and gave a smile of gratitude. I wanted to get him alone to explain and thank him properly and tell him how I really felt but events conspired against me and I had no experience to guide my behaviour.‘Shall we all sit down?’ Leigh led us from the office into the sitting room where he offered drinks.Mum was wearing a pale blue denim skirt that was too short for someone her age, though there was nothing wrong with her legs, and a top in black cotton that displayed a generous cleavage. Netta was in the shortest pale lilac dress possible. The soft fabric clung to her large, firm breasts. I felt demure in my knee-length cotton print dress. Leigh, of course, had eyes only for Netta and Mum.We talked around things rather than about them, to begin with. I learned about the small bungalow they lived in and how Netta was supposedly studying for A levels at college.‘It’s so boring. None of the lecturers is with it. Half the time I can’t be bothered. I’d much rather tune in, turn on, drop out, you know? Especially with Russia and the States playing games with our futures with their big boy’s toys.’I didn’t really know what she meant but I nodded, applying the polite responses Ma was teaching me.Mum worked part time in the office of a local car dealer. ‘That’s how I got my little car, you know.’I answered the questions they asked until Leigh became impatient with my reticence and told them all he knew about my life with the B before I’d come to live at Longhouse.‘No telly? No radio? No magazines?’ Netta couldn’t believe it was possible to exist without such things.Mum, on the other hand, just nodded. ‘I should’ve known. He always was a weird bastard. Cruel and cold and hard. No love in the sod. He started on the God kick before we got married but it was becoming more of an obsession by the time he threw Netta and me out. I always hoped it would be another of his passing phases. I’d no idea he’d take it as far as that.‘Now I think about it, it’s not such a surprise he was raping Hope. The only time he could ever screw me was when I was dead drunk or completely exhausted and had no energy to participate. Sod’s a necrophiliac. Real, live women scare the shit out of him. That’s why he never touched you, Faith; you could move and answer back. The bastard.‘No wonder he wanted you out of the house. He must’ve realised you were getting old enough to put two and two together and he was scared you’d guess what…’‘Christ, Mum, she’s nearly twenty-one! I’d’ve twigged when I was ten!’‘Hasn’t had your advantages, Netta. I mean, you were acting like a woman by the time you were thirteen. Looking like one, too. I mean, Leigh, she’s been having sex since I don’t know when. I caught her with a farmer on her fourteenth birthday. I knew I couldn’t stop her so I’ve just made damn sure she’s protected. Don’t want her having to marry some bastard like Heacham because she’s in the club.’‘Like mother, like daughter. Mum obviously enjoyed sex. I thought I’d have a bit myself before the stupid morons blow us all to kingdom come.’‘A lot, more like.’There was no animosity between them. It was as if they were playing a game. But I did not know the rules and, in any case, I had no wish to join in. Leigh watched them with interest. It was at that moment my head suddenly caught up with my heart and I understood, right there and then, how I loved and wanted this man. And, immediately after this revelation, I realized I had just invited into his home the young woman most likely to prevent him even looking at me again, let alone growing to love me. As if to underline my thoughts, Netta stood up and turned to face Leigh.‘Is it true you take pictures of women with no clothes on?’‘Sometimes I wear clothes, sometimes, not. Depends on the woman.’‘Really? Anyway, I meant the women wear no clothes.’‘When I take a picture of a woman I like her nude. And I mean completely unclothed.’I did not remind him of the pictures he had taken of Abby and the other girls with their knickers or hot pants on; stuff for glamour magazines and papers where they didn’t like to see pubic hair or anything naked below the waist. Nor did I mention the pictures he had taken of me, fully clothed, in York. It seemed inappropriate.To my horror, Netta pulled her dress off over her head. ‘Like this?’Mum seemed completely unsurprised by her display. And Leigh just examined her and made a small sign to make her turn slowly in front of him as the flames flickered warm light up her perfect skin.‘Will I do?’‘To the eye, you’re perfect. The camera’s a little more discerning. Have to do a test shoot to be sure, but you have all the makings. It’s just possible your face is too individual to photograph well; difficult to know. The lens likes bland, and there’s no way I could describe you as that, Netta.’‘Doesn’t she worry you when she acts like this, Mum?’‘She’s perfectly safe. We’re here and Leigh knows about women. No, I’m not worried. I’m very proud of my beautiful young daughter. Proud of her looks, proud of her confidence. That’s all down to the way I’ve raised her. Aren’t you proud of your looks, Faith? You’re a very pretty girl, you know. My colouring, rather than your dad’s, of course. That’s where Netta has the advantage over you. She’s taken her dad’s colouring for her hair and eyes where you inherited mine.’‘The B’s got dark hair and brown eyes. Haven’t I got his colouring as well?’Mum looked at me quizzically and then made a face of sudden realization. ‘Of course! Silly me. You wouldn’t know. How could you? Heacham’s no more your father than he is Netta’s.’Leigh looked with interest at all three of us. Netta stared at our mother expectantly. Then the meaning sank in. ‘You mean you left me with that twisted, perverted bastard even though you knew he wasn’t my father? I lived with that…that creature for all those years and did his bidding, worked my heart out, stripped naked for him, suffered all that misery and he’s not even my father?’‘I had no choice, Faith. You can’t know what that evil bastard was like. I lived in …’‘Fear? So did I, Mother! I lived with him for longer than you did. Of course I know what he’s like! I fed him and did his washing and cleaned his house, suffered his perverted beatings, acted as a living fantasy for his foul sexual practices and nursed his other daughter…I suppose Hope is his daughter, is she?’‘Oh yes. The only one of the three of you that was his and she had to be like that. Hardly surprising. A man like that. What else would you expect of his seed? Hope’s his all right. I just wish she wasn’t mine.’‘It’s not her fault she’s ...she’s disabled.’‘It’s not mine, either.’‘If Heacham’s not Faith’s father, who is?’I was grateful for Leigh’s timely intervention. Again, things were not going the way I had dreamed for this meeting with my family.Mum gathered herself and took a deep breath but I could not tell whether this was to prepare herself for a difficult task or to dampen her own emotions. ‘Faith’s dad. There was a man. David Lengdon. Professor Lengdon now, I expect. He went to the States on an exchange and I never saw him again. He never knew I was carrying you. I often wonder what would’ve happened if he had. No Hope and no Netta, I expect. He was a lovely man. My only real love.’‘Where is he now, Mum?’‘No idea. Like I said, he went to the States. I lost track of him; didn’t want to hold him back. Anyway, it’s water under the bridge. No point going over old ground again. But he gave you your brains; I gave you your looks.’‘What about my dad?’ Netta had settled herself on the lamb’s wool rug in front of the fire where Leigh could ogle her whenever he wished, which was most of the time.‘You know better than that, Netta. Put your dress back on, love. You’ve made your point.’‘Why did the B marry you if you were pregnant with another man’s child?’‘Told you she was direct, didn’t I?’ Leigh dragged his eyes away from Netta, who was making a sexual pantomime of replacing her dress.Mum smiled at me and I knew I was being indulged, and that took some of the sting out of the way I felt.‘I was young, pregnant and single, Faith. Your father was out of the country and I didn’t intend to ruin his career by dragging him back here just so he could make an honest woman of me. But in those days, a single girl with a baby was a social outcast. Heacham had always given me the eye. I was nineteen and very pretty and he was a fool. First time I got him drunk, I thought I’d overdone it. He just couldn’t get it up. But I fell asleep beside him without my knickers and woke up later to find him shagging me like a rabbit. Didn’t take long for me to cotton on that I had to be as near dead as possible before he would or could do me. I was very soon bored with that. He kept me on a tight rein but where there’s a will ...’‘A willie, Mum.’She pulled a face at Netta’s remark. ‘Hope came along and nearly died at birth. Wish she had. God alone knows why they try so hard to keep such rejects alive. Should’ve let her go, poor thing. What sort of life has she had?‘I had the occasional fling without getting caught. Had a long, infrequent affair with Netta’s dad. Great bloke but a bit of a lad then. He’s settled down now, of course. Wife and three kids of his own. Still has half the girls in the country screaming and wanting him in their knickers whenever he steps on stage.’Netta sat up; she had learned more about her father than Mum had ever told her before. If she expected to hear more, she was quickly disappointed.Mum just smiled at some memory and went on. ‘I suppose it was inevitable that gossip would reach Heacham’s ears. When it did, he thrashed me with his belt, told me Netta wasn’t his and I must take her and go. I told him you weren’t his either, but he wouldn’t believe me. I’ve no idea why. Maybe he did, really; maybe he saw how much you meant to me and used you to punish me, I don’t know. But the bastard threatened all of us with violence if I ever came anywhere near you or the cottage. I begged him to let me write to you and he conceded that but, of course, he never intended to let you have the letters. Bastard.‘I came into the village once or twice in the hope of seeing you. I daren’t let myself be known and I never brought Netta, just in case. I doubt I saw you more than half a dozen times in all those early years. It became clear the bastard was keeping you at home and I did worry for your safety and welfare, but there seemed nothing I could do. You don’t know how pleased and relieved I was to get that letter from Longhouse, Faith. I’m so glad we’ve met again. You don’t hate me too much, do you?’There were tears in her eyes and Netta was looking at her in a strange way. I held Mum’s hands and looked into her lovely face. ‘Hate you, Mum? I could never do that. I wish you hadn’t abandoned me and left me with that cruel bastard but I’m sure you thought it was for the best at the time. I forgive you. I like what I’ve seen of you and I’d love to get to know you better. I want a proper mum to love me and guide me. Will you be my friend, will you accept me back as your daughter even after all this time?’‘Try and stop me!’ She pulled me close and we hugged for a long time.Bored with our emotional display, Netta sauntered over to the radiogram. ‘Bit yesterday, Leigh. I thought you’d have a proper hi-fi.’‘One day. It was Uncle Fred’s and I’m reluctant to part with it. By all means stick a record on if you want.’She perused the selection and found the records were more up to date than the equipment. It was not long before Queen were singing Bohemian Rhapsody. Later there was Donna Summer singing ‘Love to Love You Baby’ with Netta dancing to the music in a way that ensured Leigh had eyes for nothing else.I doubt he even noticed me leaving for bed but I went up that night feeling more complete than I ever had. Mum was in the spare room across the corridor and we spent ages together, me sitting on the edge of the spare bed as she told me about her life in the market town to the south. It was not the life I would choose but she enjoyed it and I could not blame her for that. I was glad she was happy and felt fulfilled, even if she did seem promiscuous and licentious. What mattered was that she was my mum and she loved me and wanted me for her daughter.It hardly seemed to matter just then that Netta, who should have been in the bed I was sitting on, was sharing Leigh’s and building walls between him and my belated hopes. For the moment, I had a mum again, and I thought that was enough.

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