Rob Gregson's Blog, page 3
November 14, 2014
Guest Post - Andy Paine
Continuing this mini-series of guest posts by indie authors, I'm very pleased to introduce Andy Paine - another writer I first encountered through Authonomy. He's a fellow member of the Comedy Literature Only Group (CLOG) and were it not for the fact that he has a tendency to gloat about Australia's superior weather, I think I'd be nominating him for some kind of award about now.
Over to you, Mr Paine.
My writing can be summed up I think most accurately as ‘happy nonsense,’ or perhaps as ‘deliberately uncouth’, or maybe as one reader suggested, ‘totally crap.’ When Rob asked me to contribute to his blog, I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna need prunes!’
I am a firm believer in the concept that language can and should be fun. Just say the word ‘bubbler’ out loud and you’ll see what I mean. There is a real magic to be had in silliness, and in that vein, here is a snippet of my novel ‘Bad Business,’ a book that lampoons anything it crosses paths with (for scientific research of course!). This is perhaps the silliest scene in the book, but when I was picking a scene, I said to myself, you should pick the silliest scene in the book, and so I did.
A big thanks to Rob, for the continuing support, and for sharing my passion for irreverence.Andy.
From 'Bad Business'
The Judge banged his gavel on the hard wooden desk with impatience, giggling automatically with delight at the noise, before he straightened up and put on his serious face. His father had roused him yesterday for not being serious enough, and he was adamant he would not fail again. With a clear voice he called for the representatives, which he had just learned was what the men that talked all the time were called. Slowly the quiet humdrum of voices in the courtroom died down. To his right Bob saw a giant duck walking forward, his suit tattered and cheap, with dirty yellow and white feathers pouring from the cuffs. His bill was quivering, and it was clear that he was nervous.
“Mr Duck for the guilty party,” said his public defender. Surely that was not the best way to establish innocence!
“Thank you, sit down Mr Duck,” said the Judge, “and for the prosciutto?”
Bob turned from the sad sight of the sitting Duck, and looked the other way, almost jumping out of his skin as he saw the vampire’s face pressed up against the cage, its eyes staring evilly at him.
“I believe you mean prosecution," said the vampire in his seductive voice. “William Squire the third, Earl of Dunwood,” he added, his eyes never leaving the caged Mr Bobbins. It wasn’t surprising that he had a title, thought Bob, all vampires did. They were centuries old after all.
“Yes quite right, Mr Squire,” said the Judge, scribbling an amendment in his colouring book.
“Mr Duck, your guilty client has been charged with tax evasion, and evasion of a foreclosure notice. How do you plead?” asked the judge.
“We plead via grovelling, Judge,” replied the duck.
“Very well, please begin to beg. Mr Squire, feel free to interrupt at any time.”
“Judge, this is just a simple case of misunderstanding,” began Mr Duck.
“Did you say misappropriation?” interjected the vampire.
“No, misunderstanding,” said the Duck nervously, “Mr Bobbins here attempted to pay his outstanding fees however was unsuccessful. He is willing to pay them now.”
“With what money?” asked the vampire. “If he had money he could have paid the fees already.”
“He has money…” said Mr Duck in response, before being cut off.
“Judge it is clear that this man has also been involved in theft, possibly embezzlement. I seek to add both charges to the charge sheet,” said the vampire.
“I didn’t bring my dictionary, so no dazzle-mans, but you can have theft,” agreed the Judge, “but Mr Squire you should be aware that the principle of Creando lutei scilis applies. The onus is on you to prove guilt.” Judge Awesome looked very happy with himself after that statement. He had clearly read it word for word from his notes.
“Yes Judge, and I believe I can,” said the vampire turning with confidence to face the accused.
“Guilty says what?” he asked in a low rushed voice that Bob couldn’t quite hear.
“What?” Bob replied in confusion. The courtroom collectively emitted a huge gasp.
“Ah ha,” said William Squire the third, pointing at Bob.
“That’s damning evidence Mr Duck; what do you have to say to that?” asked the Judge.
“Well…” said the Duck, stammering with indecision. It was clear to Bob that he didn’t win very many cases. He could ask permission to hire a barrister, but most of them were just partially illiterate coffee enthusiasts, who were too stubborn to admit they made a mistake, so Bob decided to take matters into his own hands.
“Judge Awesome,” said Bob from his cage. “May I have leave to speak?”
“You may speak, but you can’t leave,” replied the Judge.
“I….,” he began, before feigning he could smell something. “What is that smell, it’s powerful, overbearing even.”
“What is it?” asked the judge making sniffing gestures.
“I know… it’s innocence,” said Bob, “I know that smell anywhere.”
“Really?” asked the Judge with interest.
“Yes sir, without a doubt, and may I bring to your attention the legal principle of whoever smelt it, dealt it,” finished Bob with aplomb.
The assembled gallery of spectators oohed and aahed. They had just witnessed some first class lawyering.
The judge nodded his head appreciatively as he wrote something on the page.
William Squire the third was livid. “He’s lying,” he raged.
Bob was ready for him.
“I know you are, you said you are, but what am I?” said Bob.
“By god he’s good,” said Mr Duck in awe.
That was the snapping point for the vampire, as he attacked the cage.
“Blood! I demand blood,” he said angrily, as he reached through the bars for Bob’s neck. He was going for the jugular, which was not altogether unusual for prosecutors.
“Stop that, Squire,” ordered the Judge. “That is the last time I will warn you about trying to murder in my court. One more time and you will receive a time-out!”
“But he’s manipulating the court!”
“No buts!” yelled the Judge. “Laniatus tortulas,” he added, “the Judge is always right!”
William Squire the third sat down, but his glare only increased in intensity. If you have ever been glared at by a vampire you would know just how uncomfortable it can be, especially when you are locked in a precarious steel cage, and have a history of chronic toe cramps.
“Mr Bobbins,” said the Judge in address, and as it so happened also in a dress. Bob looked up as best he could, although his head remained at an angle.
“I have heard enough on this matter, and little lunch is fast approaching. It is clear to me that I am unclear whether you are guilty or not. What I intend to order is that you pay the fine, which according to my papers is…,” he was moving his mouth silently trying to add.
“Clerk,” he yelled, “please read the numbers.” With that he passed the file down to a very aggrieved and harassed looking woman. She had wiry glasses and a high bun in her hair.
“Twenty-five pence,” is the fine, “and you owe outstanding debts of a further twenty five pence, being the monthly tax for a fashion business.”
“You get that?” said the Judge to Bob.
“Yes Judge,” said Bob.
“Must be a college man,” said the Judge to himself.
“Now, if you wish, the Judge can register your business now, and you will have to pay your tax each month when the collectors come around,” said the Clerk.
“That is all I wanted from the start,” said Bob.
“Can I do that?” asked the Judge.
“Yes Judge, you can do whatever you want,” replied the clerk.
“Excellent,” he replied, sitting back in his chair to dream up some elaborate orders.
“Now are you a member of the Union?” asked the Clerk, as she bent to write on his court papers.
“No Ma’am,” replied Bob.
“Shame, monthly tax for union members is only five pence,” said the clerk indifferently.
“Okay, well, please stand Mr Bobbins,” ordered the Judge, clearly not enjoying being out of the spotlight.
Bob tried as best he could to straighten, but all he could manage was to get one knee up.
“Contempt of the court,” screamed Mr Squire, jumping to his feet. “I demand blood.”
“Quite, Squire,” ordered the Judge, banging his gavel loudly. The vampire sank to his seat again, looking ashen faced, which was standard as his body was of course dead, but on that ashen face was an emotion that was foreign to a vampire, disappointment.
“Mr Bobbins, you are hereby sentenced to pay…. whatever she said, and are herewith registered with the Treasury Department, to pay monthly tax instalments of…whatever she said. You are also ordered to give me a lengthy pedicure before you are released. I warn you, any further breaches will result in something very bad. Do you understand?”
“Yes Judge, thank you,” said Bob, as the cage shimmered and disappeared.
Bob arched his back and let out a relieved groan, smiling as he saw the elation on the standing Duck’s face.
“I won a case,” quacked Mr Duck, his feathers involuntarily ruffling with pleasure.
“You were great,” lied Bob.
“Ever thought about lawyering?” asked Mr Duck.
“Ever thought about not?” he replied.
“All the time,” said the Duck, “but this is the only profession that will employ me.”
Bob nodded in understanding and patted the Duck on the shoulder.
At least he didn’t have to massage a judge’s feet, he thought, as he was led into the chambers by the tight bunned clerk.
**
Anyone wishing to read more of 'Bad Business' can do so via Andy's page on Authonomy.
Over to you, Mr Paine.
My writing can be summed up I think most accurately as ‘happy nonsense,’ or perhaps as ‘deliberately uncouth’, or maybe as one reader suggested, ‘totally crap.’ When Rob asked me to contribute to his blog, I said to myself, ‘I’m gonna need prunes!’
I am a firm believer in the concept that language can and should be fun. Just say the word ‘bubbler’ out loud and you’ll see what I mean. There is a real magic to be had in silliness, and in that vein, here is a snippet of my novel ‘Bad Business,’ a book that lampoons anything it crosses paths with (for scientific research of course!). This is perhaps the silliest scene in the book, but when I was picking a scene, I said to myself, you should pick the silliest scene in the book, and so I did.
A big thanks to Rob, for the continuing support, and for sharing my passion for irreverence.Andy.
From 'Bad Business'
The Judge banged his gavel on the hard wooden desk with impatience, giggling automatically with delight at the noise, before he straightened up and put on his serious face. His father had roused him yesterday for not being serious enough, and he was adamant he would not fail again. With a clear voice he called for the representatives, which he had just learned was what the men that talked all the time were called. Slowly the quiet humdrum of voices in the courtroom died down. To his right Bob saw a giant duck walking forward, his suit tattered and cheap, with dirty yellow and white feathers pouring from the cuffs. His bill was quivering, and it was clear that he was nervous.
“Mr Duck for the guilty party,” said his public defender. Surely that was not the best way to establish innocence!
“Thank you, sit down Mr Duck,” said the Judge, “and for the prosciutto?”
Bob turned from the sad sight of the sitting Duck, and looked the other way, almost jumping out of his skin as he saw the vampire’s face pressed up against the cage, its eyes staring evilly at him.
“I believe you mean prosecution," said the vampire in his seductive voice. “William Squire the third, Earl of Dunwood,” he added, his eyes never leaving the caged Mr Bobbins. It wasn’t surprising that he had a title, thought Bob, all vampires did. They were centuries old after all.
“Yes quite right, Mr Squire,” said the Judge, scribbling an amendment in his colouring book.
“Mr Duck, your guilty client has been charged with tax evasion, and evasion of a foreclosure notice. How do you plead?” asked the judge.
“We plead via grovelling, Judge,” replied the duck.
“Very well, please begin to beg. Mr Squire, feel free to interrupt at any time.”
“Judge, this is just a simple case of misunderstanding,” began Mr Duck.
“Did you say misappropriation?” interjected the vampire.
“No, misunderstanding,” said the Duck nervously, “Mr Bobbins here attempted to pay his outstanding fees however was unsuccessful. He is willing to pay them now.”
“With what money?” asked the vampire. “If he had money he could have paid the fees already.”
“He has money…” said Mr Duck in response, before being cut off.
“Judge it is clear that this man has also been involved in theft, possibly embezzlement. I seek to add both charges to the charge sheet,” said the vampire.
“I didn’t bring my dictionary, so no dazzle-mans, but you can have theft,” agreed the Judge, “but Mr Squire you should be aware that the principle of Creando lutei scilis applies. The onus is on you to prove guilt.” Judge Awesome looked very happy with himself after that statement. He had clearly read it word for word from his notes.
“Yes Judge, and I believe I can,” said the vampire turning with confidence to face the accused.
“Guilty says what?” he asked in a low rushed voice that Bob couldn’t quite hear.
“What?” Bob replied in confusion. The courtroom collectively emitted a huge gasp.
“Ah ha,” said William Squire the third, pointing at Bob.
“That’s damning evidence Mr Duck; what do you have to say to that?” asked the Judge.
“Well…” said the Duck, stammering with indecision. It was clear to Bob that he didn’t win very many cases. He could ask permission to hire a barrister, but most of them were just partially illiterate coffee enthusiasts, who were too stubborn to admit they made a mistake, so Bob decided to take matters into his own hands.
“Judge Awesome,” said Bob from his cage. “May I have leave to speak?”
“You may speak, but you can’t leave,” replied the Judge.
“I….,” he began, before feigning he could smell something. “What is that smell, it’s powerful, overbearing even.”
“What is it?” asked the judge making sniffing gestures.
“I know… it’s innocence,” said Bob, “I know that smell anywhere.”
“Really?” asked the Judge with interest.
“Yes sir, without a doubt, and may I bring to your attention the legal principle of whoever smelt it, dealt it,” finished Bob with aplomb.
The assembled gallery of spectators oohed and aahed. They had just witnessed some first class lawyering.
The judge nodded his head appreciatively as he wrote something on the page.
William Squire the third was livid. “He’s lying,” he raged.
Bob was ready for him.
“I know you are, you said you are, but what am I?” said Bob.
“By god he’s good,” said Mr Duck in awe.
That was the snapping point for the vampire, as he attacked the cage.
“Blood! I demand blood,” he said angrily, as he reached through the bars for Bob’s neck. He was going for the jugular, which was not altogether unusual for prosecutors.
“Stop that, Squire,” ordered the Judge. “That is the last time I will warn you about trying to murder in my court. One more time and you will receive a time-out!”
“But he’s manipulating the court!”
“No buts!” yelled the Judge. “Laniatus tortulas,” he added, “the Judge is always right!”
William Squire the third sat down, but his glare only increased in intensity. If you have ever been glared at by a vampire you would know just how uncomfortable it can be, especially when you are locked in a precarious steel cage, and have a history of chronic toe cramps.
“Mr Bobbins,” said the Judge in address, and as it so happened also in a dress. Bob looked up as best he could, although his head remained at an angle.
“I have heard enough on this matter, and little lunch is fast approaching. It is clear to me that I am unclear whether you are guilty or not. What I intend to order is that you pay the fine, which according to my papers is…,” he was moving his mouth silently trying to add.
“Clerk,” he yelled, “please read the numbers.” With that he passed the file down to a very aggrieved and harassed looking woman. She had wiry glasses and a high bun in her hair.
“Twenty-five pence,” is the fine, “and you owe outstanding debts of a further twenty five pence, being the monthly tax for a fashion business.”
“You get that?” said the Judge to Bob.
“Yes Judge,” said Bob.
“Must be a college man,” said the Judge to himself.
“Now, if you wish, the Judge can register your business now, and you will have to pay your tax each month when the collectors come around,” said the Clerk.
“That is all I wanted from the start,” said Bob.
“Can I do that?” asked the Judge.
“Yes Judge, you can do whatever you want,” replied the clerk.
“Excellent,” he replied, sitting back in his chair to dream up some elaborate orders.
“Now are you a member of the Union?” asked the Clerk, as she bent to write on his court papers.
“No Ma’am,” replied Bob.
“Shame, monthly tax for union members is only five pence,” said the clerk indifferently.
“Okay, well, please stand Mr Bobbins,” ordered the Judge, clearly not enjoying being out of the spotlight.
Bob tried as best he could to straighten, but all he could manage was to get one knee up.
“Contempt of the court,” screamed Mr Squire, jumping to his feet. “I demand blood.”
“Quite, Squire,” ordered the Judge, banging his gavel loudly. The vampire sank to his seat again, looking ashen faced, which was standard as his body was of course dead, but on that ashen face was an emotion that was foreign to a vampire, disappointment.
“Mr Bobbins, you are hereby sentenced to pay…. whatever she said, and are herewith registered with the Treasury Department, to pay monthly tax instalments of…whatever she said. You are also ordered to give me a lengthy pedicure before you are released. I warn you, any further breaches will result in something very bad. Do you understand?”
“Yes Judge, thank you,” said Bob, as the cage shimmered and disappeared.
Bob arched his back and let out a relieved groan, smiling as he saw the elation on the standing Duck’s face.
“I won a case,” quacked Mr Duck, his feathers involuntarily ruffling with pleasure.
“You were great,” lied Bob.
“Ever thought about lawyering?” asked Mr Duck.
“Ever thought about not?” he replied.
“All the time,” said the Duck, “but this is the only profession that will employ me.”
Bob nodded in understanding and patted the Duck on the shoulder.
At least he didn’t have to massage a judge’s feet, he thought, as he was led into the chambers by the tight bunned clerk.
**
Anyone wishing to read more of 'Bad Business' can do so via Andy's page on Authonomy.
November 10, 2014
Guest Post: Rob Wingfield
I mentioned in a previous post that I was minded to throw open the doors of the Null Room and to issue an invitation to a select band of indie writers to submit posts of their own.
I'm kicking off with Robert Wingfield - an author to whom I'm indebted for a number of things. Firstly, for introducing me to Authonomy, which has helped me to hone my first book into something resembling - well, a book - and secondly for providing much mirth and merriment via a series of comic novels, beginning with 'The Legend of Dan'. Finally, he was also the instigator of the INCA project, which seeks to support, promote and encourage independent writers. A laudable aim, I trust you'll agree.
From Sicily: One Man in a Bus
We arrive at a hotel in Agrigento itself, and I discover that the local fag shop sells stamps. A word of warning though; if you go into a tabac unprepared, the following ritual, presumably dating back to Roman times, occurs:
In English, you ask for a stamp to send a letter or postcard home, brandishing said item and miming licking and sticking.There are puzzled expressions where the staff pretend not to have a clue what you are looking for.You falter your request in Italian, reading from your handy phrasebook; “Per favore puoi vendermi un timbro di inviare questa lettera ritorno in Gran Bretagna?The shop people nod sagely, and then have an animated discussion in Sicilian, where they decide how much they are going to rip you off by.They then sell you stamps you could stick on lead ingots and still not be surcharged by Royal Mail.Fortunately, I meet a previous victim of this ordeal, bemoaning the loss of her life savings, and I make a point of learning some numbers in Sicilian so that I can ask for the right value of frankobollo. They are most impressed in the shop, and send me on my way with the correct number and value of stamps and a kiss on my weary forehead, calling me ‘migliore amico’ (scummy Brit).
I feel confident I'm finally getting to grip with this language thing until I am called in late for dinner yet again. This I blame on unclear instructions and non-operation of the Sky box in the room. I have to steal one of my fellow traveller’s pre-ordered meals. She is very nice about it, pretending to be feeling a bit queasy, and only swears continuously at me during the eating and afterwards, and a bit more the following day. My €5 wine receives better approval from the official wine taster so I don’t feel so bad about topping up my glass under the table.
Later I work on the Sky box in the bedroom again; it is now stuck on the Fashion Channel. What sour faces the sticks have; I bet they are the life and soul of parties. And who would buy this stuff? Don't they know there is a recession on? Perhaps that’s why they look so miserable, because they can’t afford the clothes even on their inflated wages. They really don’t need to worry; if they were seen out in the wild in these togs, they would be ridiculed beyond belief - well they would be if they joined my companions; I make a note to not wear today’s shirt, ever again. I eventually placed it in one of the many charity collection bags which cascade through my letterbox, but even the gypsies wouldn’t take it and returned it to my doorstep with an abusive note. I eventually had to cut it up into small pieces and put it in the compost bin, where the resulting soil proved ideal for scattering on the garden to prevent weeds coming up.
***Thanks Rob.
Look out for more guest posts shortly.
I'm kicking off with Robert Wingfield - an author to whom I'm indebted for a number of things. Firstly, for introducing me to Authonomy, which has helped me to hone my first book into something resembling - well, a book - and secondly for providing much mirth and merriment via a series of comic novels, beginning with 'The Legend of Dan'. Finally, he was also the instigator of the INCA project, which seeks to support, promote and encourage independent writers. A laudable aim, I trust you'll agree.
From Sicily: One Man in a Bus
We arrive at a hotel in Agrigento itself, and I discover that the local fag shop sells stamps. A word of warning though; if you go into a tabac unprepared, the following ritual, presumably dating back to Roman times, occurs:
In English, you ask for a stamp to send a letter or postcard home, brandishing said item and miming licking and sticking.There are puzzled expressions where the staff pretend not to have a clue what you are looking for.You falter your request in Italian, reading from your handy phrasebook; “Per favore puoi vendermi un timbro di inviare questa lettera ritorno in Gran Bretagna?The shop people nod sagely, and then have an animated discussion in Sicilian, where they decide how much they are going to rip you off by.They then sell you stamps you could stick on lead ingots and still not be surcharged by Royal Mail.Fortunately, I meet a previous victim of this ordeal, bemoaning the loss of her life savings, and I make a point of learning some numbers in Sicilian so that I can ask for the right value of frankobollo. They are most impressed in the shop, and send me on my way with the correct number and value of stamps and a kiss on my weary forehead, calling me ‘migliore amico’ (scummy Brit).
I feel confident I'm finally getting to grip with this language thing until I am called in late for dinner yet again. This I blame on unclear instructions and non-operation of the Sky box in the room. I have to steal one of my fellow traveller’s pre-ordered meals. She is very nice about it, pretending to be feeling a bit queasy, and only swears continuously at me during the eating and afterwards, and a bit more the following day. My €5 wine receives better approval from the official wine taster so I don’t feel so bad about topping up my glass under the table.
Later I work on the Sky box in the bedroom again; it is now stuck on the Fashion Channel. What sour faces the sticks have; I bet they are the life and soul of parties. And who would buy this stuff? Don't they know there is a recession on? Perhaps that’s why they look so miserable, because they can’t afford the clothes even on their inflated wages. They really don’t need to worry; if they were seen out in the wild in these togs, they would be ridiculed beyond belief - well they would be if they joined my companions; I make a note to not wear today’s shirt, ever again. I eventually placed it in one of the many charity collection bags which cascade through my letterbox, but even the gypsies wouldn’t take it and returned it to my doorstep with an abusive note. I eventually had to cut it up into small pieces and put it in the compost bin, where the resulting soil proved ideal for scattering on the garden to prevent weeds coming up.
***Thanks Rob.
Look out for more guest posts shortly.
November 6, 2014
A Man for Two Seasons
I know I'm supposed to enjoy this season of mists and mellow fruitfulness but, quite frankly, I don't. It's another season closer to winter and I don't even want to talk about that.
I live in a part of the world that is absolutely wonderful - unsurpassable even - if your most eager wish involves the early onset of rheumatoid arthritis, but for anything else it's pretty much useless. The weather is so relentlessly drab that autumn marks what is effectively the end of all colour for a period of roughly half a year.
A friend recently applauded my beautiful "black and white" photograph of a hillside scene. I thanked her, naturally, but then had to point out that, actually, it wasn't a black and white photo at all; that was just how things look round here. And that makes the point, I think. I'm a creature who loves leaves and sunshine, warmth, colour and long hours of daylight, so this time of year feels like the start of a very long decline.
Of course, it's also the season when retailers develop an irrepressible Christmas spirit and assail both our senses and our airwaves with invitations to commence our shopping early. (In mid-July, ideally, but November will do at a pinch.) Quite unbidden, they'll then start to count down the days before we must all endure that other ghastly annual ritual - the one designed to rid us of our cash and get us all drunk in the company of relatives we'd otherwise choose not to meet. (A family friend works in forensics and he once told me that there is always a huge spike in the murder rate around Christmas time. I'm not at all surprised.)
However, I have a plan. Work, family and limited funds preclude the possibility of over-wintering in the Seychelles but perhaps I can derive some vicarious pleasure from the sunny words of other writers. Over the next few months I'll be inviting one or two fellow indie authors to contribute a post to this blog. Some of them live in quite splendidly warm locations so I'll ask them first; perhaps they can lend this place a bit of much-needed colour.
November 5, 2014
Only the facts have been changed...
A reviewer recently made some encouraging remarks about a scene in Unreliable Histories that was based closely on a real-life encounter involving a member of my family. I won't say which scene it was (mainly in the interests of protecting the not-so-innocent) but it did remind me how much scene-worthy material has been gathered over the years by my family and friends.
Some of it I may be able to work into a future novel so, for now, I'll keep those tales close to my chest, but other examples only work when you know they really happened.
He's been getting into odd situations his whole life. He often tells the tale of when, as a small boy, he and his gang found someone's pet dog that had escaped from the family home. Rather than simply return it, the boys took it into their den on some waste ground and decided that what it most needed was to be dressed up in his friend's pyjamas. (Exit one friend to return, some minutes later with said attire, snatched secretly from his bedroom.) The dog was duly dressed, made a fuss of and then left in the den when the boys were called home for their meals. On their return, they discovered that the dog, still presumably in the pyjamas, had escaped. What still makes my dad laugh, even today, is the image of the dog returning home and the owner opening the door to find the dog standing there in its new outfit. The idea of the owner wondering what his or her pet could possibly have been doing is usually enough to send him into fits of uncontrollable giggles.
The point is, if you read a particularly unlikely-sounding scene in one of my novels, stay your skepticism; it's quite possible that that's one of the few events in there that really happened.
September 11, 2014
The Kindness of Strangers
I never expected that writing a couple of books would change my life, but we all make mistakes.
I mean, don't get me wrong: I'm not yet battering away seething ranks of cheque-waving publishing executives. Nor, thus far at least, has any financial planning consultant come to me with the earnest advice that I should give up the day job and devote the rest of my life to penning comic novels from a beach bar in the Caribbean. Those kinds of fondly imagined developments will have to wait a little longer.
What has changed is my view of other writers and what, for the purposes of finding a suitably interesting title for this post, I shall call the kindness of strangers.
Unleashing my first comic fantasy through Amazon KDP and through sites such as Authonomy and Goodreads has not brought untold wealth but it has exposed me to a richly diverse community of aspiring authors. Spread across the globe like little lights on one of those NASA-published satellite photos of the 'Earth at Night', there are countless self-published writers who are only too ready to offer advice, reviews and constructive criticism to their fellows.
All sorts of fascinating and talented writers have offered valuable comments and suggestions about how Unreliable Histories might yet take the literary world by storm. They have acted as sounding boards and proof-readers - even counsellors on occasion - and I'm happy to state that I have used their feedback to make important changes to the book. I hope and feel it is all the better for it.
There are also many bloggers out there who support indie authors every day by reviewing and promoting their works. For no more fabulous a reward than a hastily emailed mobi file and a short synopsis, many of them will provide a thoughtful and often lengthy critique and pass on any recommendations to their followers.
To use this post to thank all those who have helped me in some way would be to risk sounding like an over-long acceptance speech at the Oscars. (It might also suggest an unwarranted sense of achievement so it is best avoided for many reasons.) That said, I would like to mention a few individuals, if only to make a start on redressing the balance.
Thank you to: Loretta Lynn(author and blogger) for a very kind review. Robert Wingfield (author, ambler and occasional sailing enthusiast) for his generous reviews and continuing encouragement. Ell Tucker (author) for her reviews on The Hellvis Compendium and BIT'N Book Promoters. Sharon Stevenson (author), who has bravely read and reviewed both my books. The CLOG review group on Authonomy for their ideas, comradeship and periodic bouts of madness. Annie Harmon(author and blogger) for some really helpful feedback. Norman Morrow (author) for his entertaining 'pre-reviews' and his exceptionally creative use of the verb 'to feck'. Kerry J Donovan (author) for taking a leap of faith into the Amazon. Lauren Algeo(author and indefatigable Facebook poster) for her work on the Sunday Reading List and for posting all kinds of interesting stuff. And Andy Paine (Authonomy author and goldfish-descendent) for enjoying literary silliness every bit as much as me.
I am pleased to have made the acquaintance of all these people - and delighted that we are strangers no longer.
April 6, 2014
What's It All About? (The Joy of Text)
I published my second novel last week so both parts of 'The Written World' are now online and waiting for the world to take notice. However, the world itself seems to have been a little distracted of late - what with all its wars, political instabilities, live talent shows and everything - so, in an effort to accelerate this notice-taking process, I've been contacting a few indie reviewers and asking if they wouldn't mind taking a look. Quite naturally, one of the first questions they've tended to ask is what the books are about.
Now, I already have a day job so writing, re-writing and editing the two novels has taken literally years. In fact, some of the themes and core concepts have been bouncing around inside my head for more than a quarter of a century - generally wondering quite what to do with themselves and whether they'd ever make it out onto the surface of a page. I mention this not because I'm trying to suggest that 'The Written World' is in any way profound or particularly well-considered but rather to show just how strange and unhelpful it is that, even after all this time, I'm still having a certain amount of trouble explaining what, precisely, the two novels are about.
When I'm feeling especially pretentious, I like to make important-sounding statements in which phrases such as subjugation, cultural imperialism and rebellion against traditional bases of power crop up rather a lot. I sometimes hint at some philosophical themes revolving around ontology, free will and the nature of experience or, with a glass or two of wine inside me, I might even venture to suggest that it's about the motivations and deceptions involved in the writing of fiction itself. At this point, however, most people's eyes tend to glaze over so I usually discover that this is an excellent time to shut up.
In any event, all of this literary posturing is largely irrelevant; it might be useful if I were applying for a grant or trying to impress someone at a party but the truth of it is that all these themes grew out of a much more mundane aspiration. I just wanted to write.
When I began this process, the first words I ever put down on paper were: "A series of entertaining scenarios." That was how I wanted the whole thing to be structured; how I wanted it to feel. That's because, when I look back to some of my favourite authors, that's how I remember their writing. For me, the joy of their work is not so much to be found in the sequence of the events (whether they relate to a real life journey or the unfolding of a fictional plot) but in the experience of immersing oneself in the writing and enjoying the moment.
For example, I love Bill Bryon's wry observations and his perennial position as the slightly bemused outsider. I love Douglas Adams' anarchically inventive use of language. And I love the way Stephen Fry can conjure a creation such as Professor Donald Trefusis, whose phraseology (and world view) are, I think, almost incomparably admirable. Their books are all possessed of real warmth and humanity and, crucially, they're funny. To read them is to be entertained and often, the specific subject isn't all that important; it really is a case of enjoying the journey more than the destination.
Now, clearly, I'm never going to attain those lofty peaks but their presence in the landscape does at least aid navigation; it gives you something to aim for. I wanted to write something that took the characters from one interesting scenario to another and although I obviously needed the plot to build towards a climax, the order in which these scenarios occurred was almost incidental.
As a long-time reader of fantasy and sci-fi novels, I felt that there were all kinds of tropes and clichés that had comic potential - plus a few more from role playing games that I wanted to throw into the mix. Planning the novels was therefore largely a question of deciding which of them to examine and at what point in the journey. The first book tends to look at urban fantasy, wizardry and elaborately dangerous lairs whilst the second looks more at the conventions of the 'great quest' fantasy - the long journey, with all its attendant hardships, exotic monsters and moments of discovery.
I also wanted to make part of the story revolve around cartography and exploration because it just seemed inherently funny, given what we know of history and all those antique maps illustrated with sea serpents and tribes of two-headed men. Some of the real life explorers of old were just so obviously fantasists, prepared to lie and exaggerate in order to elevate their positions, and I thought it would be funny to imagine that a whole industry could evolve to cater for such people.
On top of all that, there are some glances in the direction of cultural intolerance, zealotry and economic development strategy so, all in all, it's a series of novels that has quite a lot chucked in. I suppose that's why I find it difficult to give a simple answer to the question 'what's it about?' and why I undoubtedly still have a lot of work to do perfecting my 'elevator pitch.'
For the time being, I might just say 'wizards.'
Now, I already have a day job so writing, re-writing and editing the two novels has taken literally years. In fact, some of the themes and core concepts have been bouncing around inside my head for more than a quarter of a century - generally wondering quite what to do with themselves and whether they'd ever make it out onto the surface of a page. I mention this not because I'm trying to suggest that 'The Written World' is in any way profound or particularly well-considered but rather to show just how strange and unhelpful it is that, even after all this time, I'm still having a certain amount of trouble explaining what, precisely, the two novels are about.
When I'm feeling especially pretentious, I like to make important-sounding statements in which phrases such as subjugation, cultural imperialism and rebellion against traditional bases of power crop up rather a lot. I sometimes hint at some philosophical themes revolving around ontology, free will and the nature of experience or, with a glass or two of wine inside me, I might even venture to suggest that it's about the motivations and deceptions involved in the writing of fiction itself. At this point, however, most people's eyes tend to glaze over so I usually discover that this is an excellent time to shut up.
In any event, all of this literary posturing is largely irrelevant; it might be useful if I were applying for a grant or trying to impress someone at a party but the truth of it is that all these themes grew out of a much more mundane aspiration. I just wanted to write.
When I began this process, the first words I ever put down on paper were: "A series of entertaining scenarios." That was how I wanted the whole thing to be structured; how I wanted it to feel. That's because, when I look back to some of my favourite authors, that's how I remember their writing. For me, the joy of their work is not so much to be found in the sequence of the events (whether they relate to a real life journey or the unfolding of a fictional plot) but in the experience of immersing oneself in the writing and enjoying the moment.
For example, I love Bill Bryon's wry observations and his perennial position as the slightly bemused outsider. I love Douglas Adams' anarchically inventive use of language. And I love the way Stephen Fry can conjure a creation such as Professor Donald Trefusis, whose phraseology (and world view) are, I think, almost incomparably admirable. Their books are all possessed of real warmth and humanity and, crucially, they're funny. To read them is to be entertained and often, the specific subject isn't all that important; it really is a case of enjoying the journey more than the destination.
Now, clearly, I'm never going to attain those lofty peaks but their presence in the landscape does at least aid navigation; it gives you something to aim for. I wanted to write something that took the characters from one interesting scenario to another and although I obviously needed the plot to build towards a climax, the order in which these scenarios occurred was almost incidental.
As a long-time reader of fantasy and sci-fi novels, I felt that there were all kinds of tropes and clichés that had comic potential - plus a few more from role playing games that I wanted to throw into the mix. Planning the novels was therefore largely a question of deciding which of them to examine and at what point in the journey. The first book tends to look at urban fantasy, wizardry and elaborately dangerous lairs whilst the second looks more at the conventions of the 'great quest' fantasy - the long journey, with all its attendant hardships, exotic monsters and moments of discovery.
I also wanted to make part of the story revolve around cartography and exploration because it just seemed inherently funny, given what we know of history and all those antique maps illustrated with sea serpents and tribes of two-headed men. Some of the real life explorers of old were just so obviously fantasists, prepared to lie and exaggerate in order to elevate their positions, and I thought it would be funny to imagine that a whole industry could evolve to cater for such people.
On top of all that, there are some glances in the direction of cultural intolerance, zealotry and economic development strategy so, all in all, it's a series of novels that has quite a lot chucked in. I suppose that's why I find it difficult to give a simple answer to the question 'what's it about?' and why I undoubtedly still have a lot of work to do perfecting my 'elevator pitch.'
For the time being, I might just say 'wizards.'
March 31, 2014
Doe Snot
I've been spending the last few days proof reading my second novel. Actually, that makes it sound as though I've been locked away in a box doing nothing but poring over endless pages of prose but the truth of it is that I've been fitting it around lots of other, much more exciting things - things like sleeping, emptying bins and examining my fingernails.
Unlike writing, which I actually do for fun, proof reading is boundlessly and inexpressibly dull. It's a process that absolutely no one could or should enjoy; it's tedious, unrewarding but lamentably necessary - like using dental floss or attending a works Christmas party. It's possible that there are people out there who enjoy things like that but, in all honesty, I wouldn't want to meet any of them.
Getting a book ready for publication is a little like booking a holiday to somewhere nice. It's all about the expectation. Before it all happens, you can immerse yourself in lots of fondly imagined scenarios - gazing up at quiet, azure skies or lying on empty palm-fringed beaches whilst Sue Perkins and Mel Giedroyc pass you inexhaustible supplies of iced sponge fingers. (That's the idyllic I've-just-published-a-successful-novel part of the metaphor for those who missed it.) Before that, however, (and this is where you can start to draw parallels with proof-reading) there is the messy reality of shopping trips and health insurance documents, of packing and weighing baggage, of fending off the massed ranks of insurance brokers and car hire agencies who clearly aren't going to go away until they have sold you something unnecessary and profanely over-priced.
What I'm getting at is that it's boring. You've already done the interesting work; you've sucked your metaphorical pencil (no one sucks keyboards as far as I know), you've amused yourself with daft bits of dialogue and you've spent days and months shaping and re-shaping your plot until the whole thing makes a kind of sense. Now, the challenge is essentially over and all that remains is to see whether anyone thinks it's any good. However, before you can release it, you've got to re-read it all - and not just once but so many times that the words begin run together and you're no longer sure whether your eyes are reading what's actually there or whether you're just remembering what you think you meant to write in the first place. And there's just so much of it. Next time, I swear I'm going to try my hand at limericks.
The problem is compounded by the fact that my fingers seem to be intent on betraying me. They make the usual typographical errors, as I'm sure everyone does, but they also like to hide some rather devious ones of their own. For example, they will always (and I use the word in the literal sense of 'without fail') represent the word 'confirm' as 'conform,' they will often serve up 'form' instead of 'from' and they will invariably type 'doe snot' when the phrase for which I was rather optimistically hoping was 'does not.' If you were to set up an ear, nose and throat clinic for large woodland mammals, you wouldn't see any more instances of doe snot than you'd find in my last written draft.
I wonder whether these errors are peculiar to me or whether many of us fall foul of the same patterns. If it's only me, that could be quite an exciting discovery because it might suggest that there's a whole new line of forensic research just waiting to be explored. Criminologists the world over could soon be studying messages from kidnappers and online predators with a renewed vigour. Just as a falling apple is held to have been the trigger one of Newton's greatest realisations, so a simple inability to type 'confirm' correctly could usher in a new age of successful law enforcement. I will be delighted if that proves to be the case, though I won't be at all surprised if it doe snot.
Unlike writing, which I actually do for fun, proof reading is boundlessly and inexpressibly dull. It's a process that absolutely no one could or should enjoy; it's tedious, unrewarding but lamentably necessary - like using dental floss or attending a works Christmas party. It's possible that there are people out there who enjoy things like that but, in all honesty, I wouldn't want to meet any of them.
Getting a book ready for publication is a little like booking a holiday to somewhere nice. It's all about the expectation. Before it all happens, you can immerse yourself in lots of fondly imagined scenarios - gazing up at quiet, azure skies or lying on empty palm-fringed beaches whilst Sue Perkins and Mel Giedroyc pass you inexhaustible supplies of iced sponge fingers. (That's the idyllic I've-just-published-a-successful-novel part of the metaphor for those who missed it.) Before that, however, (and this is where you can start to draw parallels with proof-reading) there is the messy reality of shopping trips and health insurance documents, of packing and weighing baggage, of fending off the massed ranks of insurance brokers and car hire agencies who clearly aren't going to go away until they have sold you something unnecessary and profanely over-priced.
What I'm getting at is that it's boring. You've already done the interesting work; you've sucked your metaphorical pencil (no one sucks keyboards as far as I know), you've amused yourself with daft bits of dialogue and you've spent days and months shaping and re-shaping your plot until the whole thing makes a kind of sense. Now, the challenge is essentially over and all that remains is to see whether anyone thinks it's any good. However, before you can release it, you've got to re-read it all - and not just once but so many times that the words begin run together and you're no longer sure whether your eyes are reading what's actually there or whether you're just remembering what you think you meant to write in the first place. And there's just so much of it. Next time, I swear I'm going to try my hand at limericks.
The problem is compounded by the fact that my fingers seem to be intent on betraying me. They make the usual typographical errors, as I'm sure everyone does, but they also like to hide some rather devious ones of their own. For example, they will always (and I use the word in the literal sense of 'without fail') represent the word 'confirm' as 'conform,' they will often serve up 'form' instead of 'from' and they will invariably type 'doe snot' when the phrase for which I was rather optimistically hoping was 'does not.' If you were to set up an ear, nose and throat clinic for large woodland mammals, you wouldn't see any more instances of doe snot than you'd find in my last written draft.
I wonder whether these errors are peculiar to me or whether many of us fall foul of the same patterns. If it's only me, that could be quite an exciting discovery because it might suggest that there's a whole new line of forensic research just waiting to be explored. Criminologists the world over could soon be studying messages from kidnappers and online predators with a renewed vigour. Just as a falling apple is held to have been the trigger one of Newton's greatest realisations, so a simple inability to type 'confirm' correctly could usher in a new age of successful law enforcement. I will be delighted if that proves to be the case, though I won't be at all surprised if it doe snot.
March 21, 2014
International Day of Happiness
It was with some surprise that I learned that today is the International Day of Happiness.
That's all very lovely, of course - what with me being a big fan of happiness and all - but I'm always compelled to wonder how you go about getting a place on the panel that decides these things. I think I might quite like that job.
The fact that it coincides with the spring equinox means that, for me, it was always going to be a better day than usual anyway. Winter is irredeemably rubbish, here in the north west of England, and I live out the colder months in a condition that's not dissimilar to hibernation. However, once the snowdrops and daffodils start to show, once the first leaves start appearing on the hawthorns, then life seems suddenly wonderful again. I love the summer, and anything that signals the advent of warmer, longer days is always going to put a smile on my face.
So today being the International Day of Happiness is either a case of very good planning or it's an utterly redundant exercise - depending, I suppose, on your mood and your natural propensity towards happiness. But in any event, it makes me wonder whether having an International Day of anything is really expected to have any measurable effect upon people's views or behaviours. For example, according to the official United Nations Observances for International Days, the 6th February was "International Day of Zero Tolerance to Female Genital Mutilation". Now opposing such heinous abuse is obviously a fine and worthy thing but are we to infer from this that the UN is disposed towards any greater lenience on the other days of the year? One would certainly hope not.
Or take another example. The 20th February was the International Day of Social Justice. Again, it seems a shame only to be getting really enthusiastic about such things for one day out of 365. Maybe we could really get our collective act together and have social justice for a whole weekend or, who knows, perhaps even an International Fortnight.
Anyway, I'm not going to get hung up on such matters. Spring is in the air and tomorrow is World Water Day, so I'm going to be enjoying my annual bath. That means I'll be nice and clean for World Meteorology Day on the 23rd.
That's all very lovely, of course - what with me being a big fan of happiness and all - but I'm always compelled to wonder how you go about getting a place on the panel that decides these things. I think I might quite like that job.
The fact that it coincides with the spring equinox means that, for me, it was always going to be a better day than usual anyway. Winter is irredeemably rubbish, here in the north west of England, and I live out the colder months in a condition that's not dissimilar to hibernation. However, once the snowdrops and daffodils start to show, once the first leaves start appearing on the hawthorns, then life seems suddenly wonderful again. I love the summer, and anything that signals the advent of warmer, longer days is always going to put a smile on my face.
So today being the International Day of Happiness is either a case of very good planning or it's an utterly redundant exercise - depending, I suppose, on your mood and your natural propensity towards happiness. But in any event, it makes me wonder whether having an International Day of anything is really expected to have any measurable effect upon people's views or behaviours. For example, according to the official United Nations Observances for International Days, the 6th February was "International Day of Zero Tolerance to Female Genital Mutilation". Now opposing such heinous abuse is obviously a fine and worthy thing but are we to infer from this that the UN is disposed towards any greater lenience on the other days of the year? One would certainly hope not.
Or take another example. The 20th February was the International Day of Social Justice. Again, it seems a shame only to be getting really enthusiastic about such things for one day out of 365. Maybe we could really get our collective act together and have social justice for a whole weekend or, who knows, perhaps even an International Fortnight.
Anyway, I'm not going to get hung up on such matters. Spring is in the air and tomorrow is World Water Day, so I'm going to be enjoying my annual bath. That means I'll be nice and clean for World Meteorology Day on the 23rd.
March 14, 2014
Things Left Unsaid
It's a month now since the death of Sir Tom Finney. It was touching to see so many people turn out for his funeral - flags, flowers and football scarves in hand - and to hear them say such positive things about him. It was heartening because he was without any doubt an extremely decent fellow and such individuals deserve to be celebrated.
I say this without my customary sense of irony because I've yet to meet anyone who didn't find the man to be unvaryingly generous and humble. As a long term resident of Preston, he touched people's lives over a period of many decades: almost half a century ago, for example, he picked out my mum and dad in a local dance competition and from that day onwards he always gave them a little wave whenever he saw them. There are countless others who tell similar stories. That willingness to immerse himself in the community is a far cry from the celebrity mindset of so many sporting heroes of today.
Personally, I can claim no real connection with the man other than to state, for the record, that when I was a child I used to played cricket on the school field close to his house and, though I say so myself, I once played a truly excellent late cut that sent the ball skipping over the boundary rope and through a little hedge into his garden. Then, as always, we got the ball back without complaint.
I record this not to extend the long roll of testimonials to his undoubted humanity of goodness of heart, though I am of course perfectly happy to do that. What struck me when I saw the broad ranks of townsfolk lining the route of his cortege was the thought that, as a people, we tend to be very good at expressing our admiration and love when the individual in question has passed away, but less so whilst they live. That seems to me to be entirely wrong.
Of Sir Tom Finney, we can at least be sure that he knew he was one of the city's best-loved sons, and that's good because to feel appreciated really matters. But I have to wonder whether he's an exception; for so many others, that doesn't often seem to be the case.
I remember going to see a stand-up gig by the American comedian Greg Proops and, as he returned to the stage after our loud and protracted cries of 'more!', he observed what a strange bunch we Britons were. During the performance, he said, we sat quite impassively, laughing at the jokes but otherwise doing nothing to show our feelings; it was only when the curtains closed that we found our voices and only then was he able to get any real sense of how his performance had gone down.
I think he was right and I think we're like that in life, too. Far too much of the time, we let the days and months go by, not doing enough to express to our friends and family just how much we love, need and appreciate them. To say these things at a funeral is to leave it too late; let's all find good things to say about the living and let's be sure to say them today.
I say this without my customary sense of irony because I've yet to meet anyone who didn't find the man to be unvaryingly generous and humble. As a long term resident of Preston, he touched people's lives over a period of many decades: almost half a century ago, for example, he picked out my mum and dad in a local dance competition and from that day onwards he always gave them a little wave whenever he saw them. There are countless others who tell similar stories. That willingness to immerse himself in the community is a far cry from the celebrity mindset of so many sporting heroes of today.
Personally, I can claim no real connection with the man other than to state, for the record, that when I was a child I used to played cricket on the school field close to his house and, though I say so myself, I once played a truly excellent late cut that sent the ball skipping over the boundary rope and through a little hedge into his garden. Then, as always, we got the ball back without complaint.
I record this not to extend the long roll of testimonials to his undoubted humanity of goodness of heart, though I am of course perfectly happy to do that. What struck me when I saw the broad ranks of townsfolk lining the route of his cortege was the thought that, as a people, we tend to be very good at expressing our admiration and love when the individual in question has passed away, but less so whilst they live. That seems to me to be entirely wrong.
Of Sir Tom Finney, we can at least be sure that he knew he was one of the city's best-loved sons, and that's good because to feel appreciated really matters. But I have to wonder whether he's an exception; for so many others, that doesn't often seem to be the case.
I remember going to see a stand-up gig by the American comedian Greg Proops and, as he returned to the stage after our loud and protracted cries of 'more!', he observed what a strange bunch we Britons were. During the performance, he said, we sat quite impassively, laughing at the jokes but otherwise doing nothing to show our feelings; it was only when the curtains closed that we found our voices and only then was he able to get any real sense of how his performance had gone down.
I think he was right and I think we're like that in life, too. Far too much of the time, we let the days and months go by, not doing enough to express to our friends and family just how much we love, need and appreciate them. To say these things at a funeral is to leave it too late; let's all find good things to say about the living and let's be sure to say them today.
March 13, 2014
My Cat May be Trying to Seduce Me
Well, I say 'my' cat but it was actually my wife and daughter who decided that what the household most badly needed was a sadistic, wildlife-murdering parasite that would damage the furniture, soil the neighbours' gardens and slowly but inexorably fill the forgotten corners of every room with the partially chewed remains of small rodents. After a brief but frank exchange in which I made clear my strong opposition to the whole proposition of cat ownership, the two of them out-voted me, drove off to a cat rescue centre and brought home with them the most prodigiously stupid and incontinent animal they could find. That was about nine years ago now and he hasn't improved with age.
We don't have the most cordial of relationships. You know how you sometimes see one or two of those sucky remora fish attached to the underside of a tiger shark? Well, it's a bit like that, although the cat and I clearly have different views as to which one of us in this analogy is represented by the shark. The closest we get to having an understanding is when the clock nudges towards 5pm each day, at which juncture the cat slouches into the kitchen, fixes me with a wearily expectant look and then nods his head in the direction of the food cupboard. I think it's the feline equivalent of tutting and tapping one's wristwatch.
I have never pretended to understanding the workings of the pair of cells that we so generously choose to call his brain. I don't understand, for example, why he has decided that springing onto my lap, only to sink his claws into my leg, will earn him any greater respect or affection than he already commands. I don't understand why he perceives any briefly abandoned cardboard box, breakfast tray or laundry basket as an open invitation to wee in it. But what I understand least of all is why a neutered male cat would attempt to seduce me.
Now, I may be interpreting this all wrong, but see what you make of it...
I was sitting alone in the house the other day - the family having gone off to enjoy the boundless joys of one of those padded play-barn places (the sort characterised by ball pools, brightly coloured plastic slides and the verruca virus) - and I was sitting eating an early evening meal. The cat, perhaps bored by my televisual choices or lack of communication, jumped from his cushion, padded over to my feet and miaowed more or less continuously for the next seven or eight minutes.
Now, at this point, I should say that I was doing nothing at the time that could have been construed as sexually enticing or encouraging of his attentions. I was merely sitting on the sofa eating a Thai-style vegetable stir fry. As far as some fairly rigorous internet research has subsequently been able to uncover, this particular combination of activities has never been found to induce any untoward hormonal imbalances in cats. Moreover, I was entirely sober and I was not dressed provocatively.
I lay out this defence because when I finally finished my meal and rose to take the tray into the kitchen, I fully expected the cat to come with me so that he could be let out of the back door. (You see, in addition to being his waiter I would also appear to be his doorman.) Curiously, however, he stayed exactly where he was until I returned to the sofa, looked at him in a state of some bewilderment and, using rather more vernacular than is here represented, enquired what he wanted.
Now comes the bit that I really don't understand. He looked at me (with an expression that I think many would have regarded as coy) before padding away to the door that leads to the hall and stairway. Here he paused, turned to look at me again, and then trotted upstairs to the bedroom.
Again, in my own defence, I wish to make it absolutely clear that I stayed resolutely where I was. However, given that the house was built some time around the early nineties, apparently from nothing more substantial than paper mache and Fimo modelling clay, it is always perfectly possible to hear the movements of every occupant in the house, from fellow humans all the way to fatally injured field mice. It is for this reason alone that I was able to hear the cat jump onto my bed and begin to rearrange the bedding.
Obviously, I didn't really fancy going up to see precisely what he was doing but, mercifully, when my family returned (a rather uncomfortable ninety minutes later) he hurried down the stairs to begin his usual routine of pretending not to have been fed. As a result, I never discovered what strange and unnatural shenanigans he had planned for me, and that's probably for the best.
Since then, there has been no recurrence of this unwelcome behaviour but the whole experience has left me feeling somewhat uneasy. In particular, I'm beginning to wonder what the real reasons were for his previous owner's decision to send him off to the re-homing centre...
If there are any feline psychologists out there (which is to say humans who understand cats; not the other way around), please do get in touch.
We don't have the most cordial of relationships. You know how you sometimes see one or two of those sucky remora fish attached to the underside of a tiger shark? Well, it's a bit like that, although the cat and I clearly have different views as to which one of us in this analogy is represented by the shark. The closest we get to having an understanding is when the clock nudges towards 5pm each day, at which juncture the cat slouches into the kitchen, fixes me with a wearily expectant look and then nods his head in the direction of the food cupboard. I think it's the feline equivalent of tutting and tapping one's wristwatch.
I have never pretended to understanding the workings of the pair of cells that we so generously choose to call his brain. I don't understand, for example, why he has decided that springing onto my lap, only to sink his claws into my leg, will earn him any greater respect or affection than he already commands. I don't understand why he perceives any briefly abandoned cardboard box, breakfast tray or laundry basket as an open invitation to wee in it. But what I understand least of all is why a neutered male cat would attempt to seduce me.
Now, I may be interpreting this all wrong, but see what you make of it...
I was sitting alone in the house the other day - the family having gone off to enjoy the boundless joys of one of those padded play-barn places (the sort characterised by ball pools, brightly coloured plastic slides and the verruca virus) - and I was sitting eating an early evening meal. The cat, perhaps bored by my televisual choices or lack of communication, jumped from his cushion, padded over to my feet and miaowed more or less continuously for the next seven or eight minutes.
Now, at this point, I should say that I was doing nothing at the time that could have been construed as sexually enticing or encouraging of his attentions. I was merely sitting on the sofa eating a Thai-style vegetable stir fry. As far as some fairly rigorous internet research has subsequently been able to uncover, this particular combination of activities has never been found to induce any untoward hormonal imbalances in cats. Moreover, I was entirely sober and I was not dressed provocatively.
I lay out this defence because when I finally finished my meal and rose to take the tray into the kitchen, I fully expected the cat to come with me so that he could be let out of the back door. (You see, in addition to being his waiter I would also appear to be his doorman.) Curiously, however, he stayed exactly where he was until I returned to the sofa, looked at him in a state of some bewilderment and, using rather more vernacular than is here represented, enquired what he wanted.
Now comes the bit that I really don't understand. He looked at me (with an expression that I think many would have regarded as coy) before padding away to the door that leads to the hall and stairway. Here he paused, turned to look at me again, and then trotted upstairs to the bedroom.
Again, in my own defence, I wish to make it absolutely clear that I stayed resolutely where I was. However, given that the house was built some time around the early nineties, apparently from nothing more substantial than paper mache and Fimo modelling clay, it is always perfectly possible to hear the movements of every occupant in the house, from fellow humans all the way to fatally injured field mice. It is for this reason alone that I was able to hear the cat jump onto my bed and begin to rearrange the bedding.
Obviously, I didn't really fancy going up to see precisely what he was doing but, mercifully, when my family returned (a rather uncomfortable ninety minutes later) he hurried down the stairs to begin his usual routine of pretending not to have been fed. As a result, I never discovered what strange and unnatural shenanigans he had planned for me, and that's probably for the best.
Since then, there has been no recurrence of this unwelcome behaviour but the whole experience has left me feeling somewhat uneasy. In particular, I'm beginning to wonder what the real reasons were for his previous owner's decision to send him off to the re-homing centre...
If there are any feline psychologists out there (which is to say humans who understand cats; not the other way around), please do get in touch.
