Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 21

A Musical Dog

The downside of owning a dog is that sometimes – well okay much of the time – they parp.  And toot.  And even occasionally trumpet (especially if they’ve swiped your beans on toast when you weren’t looking).  But in the case of my pooch forget the parp, toot and trumpet.  There is a whole orchestra of wind instruments going on under that tail. 
A beagle is a bit of a wotsit when it comes to grub.  As far as this breed is concerned, all food is theirs.  Even yours.  They will eat anything and everything and have no comprehension of their stomach ever being full. 
I have a feeling that my pooch has ingested something she shouldn’t have when out in the garden.  I also have a feeling that come Monday morning we will be queuing at the vet’s to make sure all is well and possibly have an antibiotic injection.  In the meantime I’ve put her on soft boiled rice to calm the gut down.  That and throwing all the windows in the house wide open.  With a bit of luck the wind music will soon stop. I much prefer it when she sticks to playing the piano... 

Prague

Recently I began jogging again.  Not because I liked it.  Rather to tone up, lose weight and get fitter.  To date I look no different.  Nor has any weight been lost.  However, fitness might be up a notch.  This was put to the test last Thursday when Mr V and I caught a plane to Prague.

Following Easyjet’s advice, we arrived at Stansted Airport two hours prior to take-off.  Checking in the luggage promptly, we congratulated ourselves on having plenty of time to twiddle our thumbs.  Sitting down with cappuccinos, we set about putting the world to rights.  And lost track of time.  Stupidly we hadn’t gone through the X-Ray bit and, as luck would have it, there was a queue a mile long.  A lady swathed from head to toe in flowing garb was repeatedly setting the alarms off and flatly refusing to co-operate. The queue ground to a standstill.  Chuntering broke out.  Staff looked harassed.  Twenty minutes later it was finally our turn.  I didn’t get through.  Boots, belt and wristwatch had been removed.  A stern woman with a huge metal detector scanned me.  More demented bleeping.  Next thing I was being thoroughly frisked by hand.  I was finally waved through when the queue was at boiling point and airport staff determined the numerous decorative studs on the backside of my jeans were to blame.  We now had ten minutes to catch our flight.  Even worse, the monorail wasn’t working.  At various points notices proclaimed: If you are late, we won’t wait.  And thus began our run through Stansted Airport as we searched for Boarding Gate 2.  We belted along corridors, skirted trolleys, bypassed dawdlers, leapt two stairs at a time up escalators, flew round corners and finally found Gate 2.  The area was devoid of people and the gate was locked.  At that moment there was an announcement.  ‘Last call for Prague, please go to Gate 13.’  Not Gate 2?  We turned and thundered off in the opposite direction.  We were the last to board the plane.  Mr V’s heart was hammering so hard his shirt was visibly pumping.  Whereas I was puffing but not about to have a coronary.  So the good news is:  jogging works.  Oh, and we got to Prague.
The following morning we set off to explore.  Like all good tourists I’d downloaded a map of Prague the day before using all my printer cartridges in the process along with an entire roll of cellotape to stick hundreds of A4 sheets together.  Whereupon the receptionist gave us a dinky map all neatly folded up.  ‘Catch the Number 22 tram to the river,’ I read from my tourist guide.  As if on cue, a tram rattled to a standstill by our side and we hopped on.  And off we went.  In the wrong direction.  An hour later we still hadn’t found the river but we’d checked out some diverse market stalls where you could buy fresh flowers.  And cannabis.

Totally lost, we came across a church.  ‘Let’s go in,’ said Mr V.  Inside a few religious diehards sat in pews, heads bowed in prayer.  The silence was so profound it was literally deafening.  As I’m a firm believer that God is everywhere and not just in a church, I didn’t imitate Mr V who was frantically crossing himself and clearly muttering apologies for not having been inside a holy place since heaven knew when.  The interior was a Godly version of Madame Tussauds.  Eerie giant-sized statues of saints and a dying Jesus jostled for space here, there and everywhere.  A padre glided silently out of an elaborate confessional box and greeted us.  Mr V did lots of bowing and scraping and reversed towards an exit.  The padre put up a hand to halt us.  Terrified that he was going to be hauled into a confessional box, Mr V made a break for it.  Whereupon the real reason for the padre’s attempt to stop us became apparent.  Only God would know when that particular door had last been opened.  It groaned back on its hinges, creaks and cracks splintering the air, shattering the silence and shocking the occupants within.
Finding the underground, we disappeared into the bowels of the earth.  More by luck than design we ended up in a place that was totally unpronounceable but began with S and was near the river.  And thus our exploring of the Old Town properly began.
Prague is a beautiful city with a plethora of cobbled streets and quaint buildings steeped in history.  However, so many have been marred by prolific graffiti, indeed I have never seen so much of the stuff in my life.  And any ideas to do a bit of frivolous shopping and buy yet another handbag went out the window when I saw the number of tramps, beggars and lost souls on the streets.  These were people who needed a meal.  And although we gave a few some money, I doubt they fed themselves.  To say it made you sad is an understatement.  Likewise when I saw a beautiful young girl offering her services to a bunch of drunk stags.  All I kept thinking was, ‘That’s somebody’s precious daughter,’ and I wanted to shove the leering louts away.  But all cities have their dark side.  Prague was probably no different.
Putting the seedier bit to one side, it was nice to visit another patch of the world and explore that country’s culture and history.  Would I go back?  Possibly.  But next time I’ll be paying closer attention to departure gate changes – and have on my trainers...

What happens when it rains cats and dogs?

Holidays are being discussed.  We are fortunate enough to be able to scrape together the necessaries to go away this year and exchange a British summer for a couple of weeks under a foreign sun.  Forgetting everyday niggles, gripes, worries and stress is something I find myself really yearning for come this time of the year.  However, so far nothing is booked.  I can see a last minute dot com being the result. 
Mr V is clinging to the hope that we will still be having a family holiday.  With three children aged 19, 17 and almost 15, I knew the summer of 2011 would be the last time we’d all be together.  Indeed, my son has already booked a jaunt to Turkey without us.  My step-daughter doesn’t want to go away and my daughter doesn’t want to go on holiday without her step-sister or brother.  So at this rate it could just be me and Mr V – which quite frankly I’m more than happy to entertain (where’s that brochure gone for the Maldives?). 
Currently the British weather is dismal.  The Government is telling us all we are in drought, to shower instead of bath, that if we use our hosepipes we will be punished with a hefty fine and to SAVE SAVE SAVE our water!  This is bitter pill to swallow when your road is flooded, you need Wellingtons and a storm mac to walk the dog and can’t sleep at night for the drum of torrential rainfall upon the bedroom skylights.  But when all is said and done I don’t really care where we go on holiday just so long as the sun shines all day long for two straight weeks and there is a sun bed to crash out upon with my Kindle and a cool drink. 
Oh, and in answer to the title of today’s bit of blog, the answer is obvious.  If it’s raining cats and dogs, you have to be careful not to step in a poodle.  Yes, the joke is as dismal as the weather... 

A Bit of a Bummer...

I spent all my teenage life with a chest as flat as apancake.  Which didn’t bother me too muchuntil, like my peers, we developed an interest in boys.  My girlfriends would merely raid their dad’ssock drawer and swagger off to the local disco sporting a pair of DollyPartons.  But I didn’t have the gung-hoto do that.  Which meant they quicklypartnered up for a dance while I stood on the outskirts watching.  Alone. 
These days that is no longer the case.  By that I don’t mean I lurk on the edge ofdance floors.  I mean that I no longerhave a flat chest.  And very recently Ihave been reminded how bits of our body can either make us either see the funnyside, or actually be very upset.  Forexample, the exterior of our house is currently being painted.  I am faintly amused by the decorator ringingthe doorbell and addressing my chest.  Idoubt he knows what my face looks like. But if you ask him what sweater I’m wearing, he’ll give you an A1witness description.  However, for othersthe attention is hard to cope with.  Andthey can perceive themselves as fat. 
The misconceptions people have about their bodies is quitestaggering.  I don’t watch television andhaven’t for years.  I’m not au fait with Boot Camps for Big Girls, or Britain’s Next Anorexic Model or I’m An Attention Seeker Do Not Evict Me,but these programmes are watched by millions. And a high percentage of the viewing audience are very impressionable. 
Take my daughter.  When werecently attended The National TV Awards and I was oohing and aahing about variouscelebrities, who did my daughter rush off to talk to?  Some 30 year old woman with the body of achild, fake breasts, fake hair, fake nails, fake eyelashes, fake tan, a nosejob and a cosmetically over-filled lip to the point where – in profile – therewasn’t so much a trout pout as a morphing into Donald Duck.  ‘Oh my God,’ breathed my daughter, ‘she’s sobeautiful.’  Are you kidding?  Seriously? 
Tell today’s young adults that you think a young and voluptuousSophia Loren is fab and they will squeal with horror and declare if theirbackside were that big they’d be auditioning for the next Lipo Or Live With It programme. And THAT is what hacks me off. That TV, films, magazines, you name it, are full of ideals andinfluences that are bang out of order. 
So, bottom line is: BRING BACK THE BOTTOM!

Say That Again?

I find accents extremely challenging.  Especially when on the telephone.  It doesn’t matter whether you’re from Irelandor India, Scotland or Singapore, if you talk to me expect to hear a lot of,‘Sorry, could you repeat that please?’ So they do and I’m still none the wiser. At times it’s quite embarrassing. ‘Are you taking the Mickey?’ snarled one exasperated person at the otherend of my telephone earlier this week. 
A Londoner pronounces J as jay.  A Scott will say ji.  Or, depending on theregion, jee.  Earlier this week one Scotsman was telling mehis email address.  I wrote beale@blahblah.co.uk andread it back for confirmation.  ‘Och no,’said the disembodied voice, ‘it’s Beale.’ ‘Beale?’ I questioned.  ‘Beale!’came the reply.  ‘Beale?’ (meagain).  ‘Lassie ah seed BEALE...B...I...L...L.’  And then the dawn came up.
Mind you, spelling things doesn’t alwayshelp.  Another email address I happilysent off to air.haig@blahblah.  Seconds later it bounced back to me as afail.  Upon checking with the person theyexpressed puzzlement.  ‘Och howstrrrrange, it’s definitely air dothaig, air for Rrrrrobert.  Ah.  Or should I say arrr?
Having family in the North of England I’ve acquainted myself withcatching the booss yister-day, although chatting with my Italian in-laws wasinitially very challenging.  When I firstmet my mother-in-law I assumed she was still talking Italian.  I smiled politely and did lots of miming withmy hands while my husband snorted into his coffee cup.  Nowadays I have my mother-in-law sussed.  She simply leaves the last syllable offeverything.  So if she starts telling youabout somebody’s dort you know she’stelling you all about that person’s daughter. Telling me how she made one pasta dish was a doddle to translate.  Macarone,tomart, oyn, ricot, parmes.  Yum!
I remember the first time my parents met my in-laws.  We went out for a meal where the mothersdiscreetly kicked off their shoes under the table and began talking animatedly for twohours completely at cross-purposes.  Myin-laws were talking about beautiful Italy, my mother agreed that Israel wasindeed very lovely and asked what they thought of the beaches, and my father(who’s quite deaf) told them all about his new car to which my father-in-lawsaid he preferred to travel by plane.  ‘Tothe supermarket?’ asked my father.  ‘Ohyes, lots of supermercato,’ my father-in-law confirmed.  And when we left the restaurant, our mothershad odd shoes on.
So it’s not just me is it!

All in a Twitter

This week I joined Twitter. In the last few months various people have suggested that somebody whowishes to call herself an author should get herself 'out there'.  Until a few days ago I ignored thesesuggestions.  After all, I've only just settledinto Facebook.  And that's taken threeyears – with Timeline still being ignored. I thought I was being cutting edge starting a blog (it's bad enoughwandering about trying to find New Post).  Twitter too? That sounded like an owl hooting. Anyway, I digress. 
So I signed up.  And did myfirst tweet.  'You'll have to be clevererthan that,' a prompt appeared, 'you only have 140 characters.'  140 characters?  Twitter is expecting a writer whose fingers spewthousands of words to sum up a statement in 140 characters?  Flash fiction isn't my forte, so Twitter andI were definitely not off to a good start. 
As my genre is contemporary romance (oh all right, chick lit ifyou insist) I decided to kick off with those two words in the search box.  And up came Twitter's suggestions on who Ishould follow – fellow lovers of the written word...romantics...writers...andnaturally chick lit fans.  I beganclicking the button to follow.  After awhile, the eyes glazed.  But I let themouse keep on clicking.  First lesson onTwitter: pay attention to who you are following.  I was astounded to receive messages from'chicks' and lots of tips on spit and swallow. Obviously nothing to do with cuckoos or feathered friends.  A bit of unfollowing hastily took place. 
Forty-eight hours later I was quietly congratulating myself.  I'd even discovered a link and managed toopen it – how exciting!  But not quitethe thrill I was looking for.  Secondlesson on Twitter: don't open a link unless you know who sent it.  Suddenly I was receiving hundreds of nastymessages and, even worse, so were my followers...all apparently from me!  By this point the urge to take Twitter andmetaphorically flush it down the toilet was overwhelmingly strong. 
A spot of password changing then took place.  After that I wondered why I couldn't sign backin.  Transpired I'd mis-typed Twitter forTitter.  In another three years or so I'msure I'll be tweeting like a pro. Meanwhile, tweets are being typed with one finger.  But I'm too polite to say which one....

How to be a bit of a scrubber...

Yesterday my son came home trailing a suitcase stuffed withlaundry.  He doesn't stay very long youunderstand – just long enough to have me wash, tumble dry, iron and repack thesuitcase.  Robbie came through the doortelling me all about his latest dissection with great gusto.  I always do my best to be enthusiastic back,but it's hard.  I like human bodies to bealive, kicking and in one piece.  Notsmelling of formaldehyde with bits missing from the previous lot of medicalstudents who had to remove a brain or something.
I unzipped the suitcase and my son's clinic tunic was perched ontop.  'Give that a good wash Mum,' saidRob, 'it reeks of death.' He gave me a mischievous wink.  I donned a pair of pink rubber gloves andgingerly set about dissecting the contents of my son's suitcase, placing thetunic in the washing machine as if a stick of dynamite.
I'm thrilled my son wants to be a dentist and has embraced hisstudies with such passion.  My mother istoo.  As a retired nurse, she was verysad that her own daughters didn't follow her into the profession, especially inthe days of us husband hunting and not bagging ourselves a doctor.  Being raised by a nurse rubbed off on mysister and self in other ways.  OCD aboutgerms being key.  When we were kids, weimagined an army of virulent germs carting us off to hospital if we didn't washour hands for example.  Death hovered inevery public toilet. 
In some respects my son has morphed into my mother.  Little did I know that as I stood at thekitchen sink washing my hands, my actions were being studied.  'You call that hand washing?' Robbie spluttered.  'Let me show you how to clean your handsproperly.'  And with that he set aboutgoing between the webby bits, circling motions over the palms, washing eachindividual finger and thumb in a clockwise and anti-clock direction, and thenproceeded to work his way up to the elbow. 'I'm not scrubbing up for surgery,' I gaped at him in disbelief, 'I justwant to peel the vegetables.'
Anyway, all this chat about corpses and food reminds me of a sillyjoke
What did the skeleton say before eating his dinner?  Bone appétit.
I know.  Dismal.  Happy Sunday everyone...   

FREE Flings and Arrows - but not for much longer!

Absolutely delighted to raise my author profile and outreach with the sort of results I would never have dreamed of.  In the UK my second novel Flings and Arrows has hit the Number 1 spot in Contemporary Romance Bestsellers, Number 1 in Humour and as I type it sits at Number 3 in the entire Kindle Store.  Thank you to everybody who downloaded...and I think there is still a little time left to all those who yet haven't!  xx

Read Flings and Arrows FOR FREE!

For today and tomorrow only I am giving fans of contemporaryromance a little present.  You can downloadmy second novel, Flings and Arrows, FREE. If you enjoy the story, all I ask is you leave a few positive words onamazon.co.uk and Goodreads.comEnjoy!
xx







StephGarvey has been married to husband Si for 24 years. Steph thought they weresoulmates. Until recently. Surely one's soulmate shouldn't put Chelsea Football Clubbefore her? Or boycott caressing her to fondle the remote control? Fed up,Steph uses her Tesco staff discount to buy a laptop. Her friends all talk aboutFacebook. It's time to get networking.

Si is worried about middle-age spread and money. Being a self-employed plumberisn't easy in recession. He's also aware things aren't right with Steph. But Sihas forgotten the art of romance. Although these days Steph prefers cuddlingher laptop to him. Then Si's luck changes work wise. A mate invites Si topartner up on a pub refurbishment contract.

Son Tom has finished Sixth Form. Tom knows where he's going regarding a career.He's not quite so sure where he's going regarding women and lurches from onefrantic love affair to the next.

Widowed neighbour June adores the Garveys as if her own kin. And although 70,she's still up for romance. June thinks she's struck gold when she meets salsasqueeze Harry. He has a big house and bigger pension – key factors when you'vesurvived a winter using your dog as a hot water bottle. June is vaguely awarethat she's attracted the attention of fellow dog walker Arnold, but her eyesare firmly on Harry as 'the catch'.
Butthen Cupid's arrow misfires causing madness and mayhem. Steph rekindles achildhood crush with Barry Hastings; Si unwittingly finds himself being seducedby barmaid Dawn; June discovers Harry is more than hot to trot; and Tom'slatest strumpet impacts on all of them. Will Cupid's arrow strike again and,more importantly, strike correctly? There's only one way to find out....
 Download Flings and Arrows

Lucky Seven : Extract from Silicone and Stretchmarks

Lucky Seven : Siliconeand Stretchmarks
I was tagged by Rebecca Emin for a LuckySeven Excerpt.

Therules are simple:
1. Go to page 77 in your currentmanuscript
2. Go to line 7
3. Copy down the next seven lines as they are – no cheating
4. Tag 7 other authors (Done on Facebook)

This is my extract from Silicone and Stretchmarks which is still a work inprogress but hopefully ready for release later this year:



Jonas was giving me teenage torment. Only last week, when vacuuming his room,I'd found a magazine under his desk.  Ithad been full of naked women.  Taking a markerpen, I'd drawn dresses and swimsuits on all the busty ladies.  Sensible ones too.  No plunging necklines or high-cut legs.  Accessories followed – Harry Potterspectacles, one or two blacked out teeth and some handlebar moustaches.  And then I'd carefully returned the magazine underthe desk.  Jonas hadn't said anything.  And neither had I.  But I knew that he knew that I knew that heknew and I knew that he knew it too.