Ailsa Abraham's Blog: Ailsa Abraham, page 52

Hattie’s Adventure

This is the first of some Prize Draw stories from the competition I ran on my FB author page  –   my good friend  Kat Douglas suggested one about my orphan teds………

Hattie had lived in St. Ursula’s Orphanage for Homeless Bears ever since Reverend Mother found her forlorn and lost on a stall in a flea market. Hattie had already picked up a few! There had been another home before but Hattie couldn’t remember it now. The magic of the orphanage was that once new orphans came in to be washed, dressed and sorted out, they forgot about their old lives and the pain of parting from previous friends. Rev. Mother thought that was best; new start, new outfit, new outlook. 

Hattie got her name from the very brightly-coloured fluffy hat that Rev. Mother had knitted to match her sweater and although she was only tiny, she was adorable. She was also bored, so when she saw Rev. Mother packing her bags to go on a trip, Hattie sneaked into the bottom of one of them. Once inside she fell asleep and only woke up when the bag was jolted and bumped. In a terrible fright she clambered out of Rev. Mother’s enormous brassiere which had made a snug hammock and clambered to the top. The zip opened and a total stranger began rummaging in the bag. He was wearing a uniform and, in terror, Hattie jumped out of the bag and ran down the moving belt, squeezing herself into a different bag through which he had already searched. Panting, she hid under a bunch of feathers and some broken jewellery. She didn’t dare look out again but sat there being bumped around as the bag was carried, dropped in a taxi and driven somewhere.

“Well hello there!” said an  unfamiliar voice as the zip opened, the light blinding Hattie. She squinted up and was delighted to see that the person was wearing a hat even more outrageous than her own, decorated with bits of metal, feathers, lace, flowers and standing a couple of feet high. She immediately became “The Hat Lady”.

“How did you get in my bag, lil one? You looking for a new home? Looks like you found one. I’m going to use you to advertise my hats. I’ll put your picture on my Internet page and you can become my mascot. Like that, eh?” The woman shook Hattie gently so the bear looked like she was nodding. “Great! Welcome to your new job, Mascot!”

Hattie was in heaven. She sat at the desk and watched the woman sketching new designs and once, getting bolder, she tipped herself over so she was pointing at a bare patch on the hat band.

“You what? A tiny little bear there? Oh well – I don’t see why not. Good idea! Hey – you are going to be a great partner, Lilbear”

Rev. Mother always said that you knew when you had a new home cos you got a new name. Hattie decided that Lilbear suited her even better…and she had a job! She was a partner in a milinary business!

Copyright Kat Douglas.

 

 

You’re lucky!

This came to mind this morning as I hauled my drugged body around, still reeling from last night’s antihistamine (yes the one you get for hay fever) which my GP has advised me will knock me out as an insomnia cure. He wasn’t kidding. I may surface about tea time just ready to be wide awake at bed time.

It made me think that a lot of my friends on social media have long-term pain problems. We cope with the weird effects of medication – either unable to move due to the pain itself or crawling through treacle from the drugs. We are mainly very accepting and funny about it. We make jokes.

It would be very easy to turn around to others on FB who have ” a nasty sniffle” and do an impression of the above sketch. Sniffle? You’re lucky! My left leg just dropped off!

We don’t, we are generally very sympathetic but that is all that my cotton wool brain can come up with today – tune in tomorrow to see if service has improved. 

Changes

My good pal and colleague on Crooked Cat, David Robinson, author of the hysterically funny Flatcap books, amongst others, told me that a near-death experience changes one’s life. He knows this from personal experience.

I just nodded and thought “Well obviously, duuuuuuuuuh!” but I’m here to say that he was right. Having just survived a life-threatening accident (and I mean ONLY just) I begin to realise that my outlook on life is changing daily.

Things and people that seemed important to me before are now dismissed as “trivial”. I recently went into a deep depression, then suddenly came to the conclusion that I was allowing people who don’t matter to dictate my moods. Are they real friends or family? No. Does their opinion of me count? No.

I then thought about all the wonderful people who rang the house, sent messages and supported me while I was in hospital. My lovely publishers organised a whip-round to send me flowers and donated the rest to an otter charity, knowing that it would be close to my heart. Those are people who matter.

On social media we only know the faces that people choose to show us. Until we have our backs to the wall, we don’t know who is a true pal. I’m glad to know that. It’s a valuable lesson. I wish I had learned it earlier, before I allowed “pretend people” to hurt me so badly.

Wiser than he lets on – Flatcap!

Swings and Roundabouts

Remember I’ve always compared social media to being at a party? Yesterday I had the identical feelings both good and bad.

At the party I saw a group of people passing around photos and getting very excited. They were the lovely gang FB British Books which does what it says on the lid. It’s for authors of books set in Britain and for people who love reading same. There was such a mad reaction from authors that it is now only open to readers (and those lucky few, like me, who jumped in with both feet from the beginning). The welcome and the atmosphere on there are brilliant. That picture at the top is Loch Lomond, the inspiration for the loch on Iamo’s father’s estate.

Do go and have a look and join. If you like books set in the British Isles, using native English, this is the place to discover new authors and see photos of the places that have inspired them. I could spend ages just looking at the pictures although my own so far have been limited to the building that inspired the Lodge for the Guild of Black Shaman and a London black-cab (essential transport for my magic-users who can’t drive or operate machinery).

Yesterday I also had that ghastly experience of walking up to someone I have met, chatted with and have them turn away with a curt “Who the hell are you?”. Left in the middle of the room with my mouth opening and closing as my self-esteem trickled through the carpet like bathwater down the plughole…I sidled back over to the British Books folks who seemed very much nicer.

Depression sets in …. til I find friends who remember me

Pills, potions and poison

It’s a bit of a handicap having a certain amount of medical knowledge. I tend to self-diagnose which, as I was a veterinary nurse, means that I’ve had distemper twice and rabies a few times. I also know the side-effects of medicines by heart.

My problem at the moment is that I am not sure about the migraines. I’d never had one until the time the woman smashed into my car last November, causing a stroke. I was only sent for a scan because I suffered unbearable migraines for a couple of months afterwards.

Since my motorbike crash they’ve come back. I don’t want any more MRI scans because I’m sure being bombarded with rays doesn’t do one any good. I’ve had quite a few recently. The only thing that touches them is Zaldiar which is the French brand-name for Tramadol. Yes, they can be highly-addictive if taken too often. The other awkward part is that they wake me up to the point that I am bouncing off the walls because I feel better. The relief of pain is one of the biggest highs in the world (trust me, I’m an expert). Of course, if I haven’t taken them til the pain is dreadful, that means by bed-time I’m not at all ready to sleep.

So don’t take the Tramadol, you say. Well, the pain-killers prescribed for my migraines some time ago were almost pure opium and caffeine – another lethally addictive combination but those sent me to sleep for 18 hours at a time. Effective against migraines but useless for a fully-functioning life.

I shall go and see Seb, my adorable GP. He will probably want to prove that I have (or have not) had a mini-stroke from the bike crash. I really don’t care – they can’t do anything about them but I suppose it should be on my records. He may give me more of the opium … but you see my dilemma?

Please don’t say that if you were a vet you’d consider putting me to sleep…we kept worse cases going for years! *Looks pathetic and lays paw on your knee*

…Authors, it costs yeez NUTHIN to dream…

…Authors, it costs yeez NUTHIN to dream….

Dream on, baby…

Travel souvenirs

What do you bring back from your holidays? Costume dolls, hats, pictures? I usually bring phrases if I’ve been in a country where I don’t speak the language. My head is like a “pending” box – crammed full of scraps of paper with useful info on it. One day I must get in there and sort them out, tidy-like.

This time I sat on the train from Paris and listened to everyone coughing and sneezing, thinking that the best I could hope for was Ebola virus. I’m optimistic like that. No, it’s just a cold/flu type thing that will run its course in a couple of days but has flattened me on top of everything else recently. Trouble with visiting “foreign” places is that one doesn’t have the antibodies. I remember having a virulent reaction to mosquito bites by Lake Como when I was living in Brittany and a regular meal for our home-grown variety to no ill effects.

http://www.paranormalscotland.com/presentations/new-profile-page-2/

Something else that was thrust into my bag before I came home was an idea for another book in the Alchemy series which I never intended to be more than a trilogy. You may remember that Dagda, head of the Black Shamans’ Guild is a Native American. Well I went to a fascinating talk in Stirling by two Navajo Rangers and my ankle was constantly being booted by a moccasin-clad foot urging me to take notes. You see, my characters dictate my books and Dagda, being highly interesting, would like his back story to be told and an adventure of his own. Well I took notes – who knows?

I’m never lonely – besides all my spirit companions, including Titch now who has decided to continue his duties as my personal bodyguard from beyond, I have all my characters around me. So there’s always someone to chat to…or argue with. I wonder why I tend to get two seats to myself on trains?

 

Learning curve.

The picture above is my idea of a really awful review – one star and a fist behind it. This piece was inspired by a discussion on FB started by my dear friend, the children’s author Brenda May Williams 

We are often asked “What is the hardest thing about being a writer?” with the expected response being a) finding a publisher or b) getting ideas.

No, for me the worst part and the hardest lesson was accepting constructive criticism and learning from it. Never having reacted well to being told off, it was a very hard job but I managed it.

I have only ever received one truly negative review and it was on an early version of Shaman’s Drum before it was published by Crooked Cat. The woman was scathing about certain things but when I scraped myself off the ceiling, I had to admit she was right to a certain degree. The next version was changed a bit.

This goes for self published or traditional authors and one of the big stumbling blocks is … duh duh duh – EDITS. I write my books but they would be nothing without the immense hard work done by Steph Patterson

Some people seem to think that they don’t need professional help. They did OK at English at school so where is the problem? The problem, forkwit, is that you are too close in, you are reading what you thought you wrote and are so taken up with the story that you can’t see the words. It takes an impartial observer to weed out the mistakes. This is why Badger is my best proofreader. He is not fond of my work so reads it dispassionately, fishing out holes in plot, mending word goofs and pointing out where I have gone overboard on purple prose.

This led us on to reviews. I cannot in all conscience give a good review to a book that is poorly written in the sense of “cowboy writer” bodge-jobs. The narrative might be great but I find the mistakes get up and punch me in the face, spoiling my enjoyment of the whole.

It is, therefore, a big mistake to give a 5* review to someone who is your mate. A far friendlier thing is to recommend a good editor and refuse to leave a negative comment. This can, of course, blow up in your face. We writers are a very touchy lot.

PS – if a bad review is not constructive, dismiss it. You can’t please everyone. Shout at your computer screen and forget it but do examine it closely a bit later on to see if there is any helpful material there. 

…Scots?… wha’s like us?… damn few, an’ they’re a’ deid…

…Scots?… wha’s like us?… damn few, an’ they’re a’ deid….   As I’ve just got back from the homeland and am still wearing my accent – an unashamed bit of Alba Pride from my dear friend…

Me n Mu

I was a cock-up in the despatch dept. We decided long ago that I was sent to the wrong sister or the stork’s sat-nav was on the blink. My mother’s younger sister, Muriel, is my real mother. So I was delighted to go and visit for a week. I would love to get over there more often but time, money and distance prevent. I even look far more like her than I do my birth mother. Her and grandma of course.

She is an amazing woman. Having lived all over the world and returned to Scotland she is now so busy that I have to make appointments for our telephone chats. She is normally out chairing a meeting or running a group in the evening. She also drives the bus for the old folk to go to Quaker Meeting, all of whom are younger than her. She’s 85!

For me, it is my “other” home and like running back to Mummy. Odd trips out are arranged and in the evening, having eaten a mutually satisfactory small veggie meal, we settle down to knitting or crochet (squares for blankets for African orphans) and ignore the TV for the most part.

I also get to see most of my cousins. We take the French option and just call everyone cousin – no matter how far removed. I had three generations of them this time.

Mu, me and Mary or “What are you gels up to?”

Having taken two days to remember to speak English and not French when I hit London, it is going to take me a few days to lose my Scottish accent. The moment the tyres hit the runway, it comes back and even on the phone I pick it up again. Badger can tell when I’ve been chatting to Muriel because I’ll call him a “big galoot” or pine for deep fried Mars bars.

We don’t DO much but just that is a wonderful change. Mu cancels all her meetings for the week I’m there so we just potter about together, always stopping for tea and cakes somewhere and I am permanently finding packets of tablet slipped in my pocket (Google it – it’s delicious, Scottish sweetie!)

My only mistake on this trip (there’s always one) was to forget my adapter for my hairdryer which is why my head looks painted on. So here you are – this is some of my family, what is left of them and oh boy do I wish I saw them more often. One day, perhaps….one day.

Unfortunately, when Mary took the group photo, the wee boy wouldn’t stand still long enough to be in it!

Plus Mary’s two daughter and one on the way.