One on her own

All writers have ways of supporting their writing. I write for six months a year and work for the rest of the time, squirreling away my salary to pay for when I next return to my garret. They do say that something kick starts a writing career. Maybe a sudden spell of time on your hands can bathe you with sudden literary inspiration.

I found myself without a job a few years ago and before a week had passed I was attacking the keyboard with vigour as the words pounded out of me – and they haven’t stopped since. I was like a thing possessed; several novels escaped one after the other. But, sadly the moths were beginning to gather on my rapidly depleting bank account and I needed to go out and earn some money. I thought I would try temping to earn a few pennies to pay for my writing and this has worked for quite some time. Although, it was always difficult explaining to people why I didn’t want a full time job, because writing is always seen as a leisure activity by those who don’t write. The comments made me laugh: ‘it must be lovely not having to do anything all day when you aren’t working’ - these people have obviously never tried editing a book. One of my favourite comments is: ‘I’ve always wanted to write a book.’ I’m never sure whether it’s a stock phrase to come trotting out if someone mentions writing or whether they truly believe they could construct if not a tome then a least an account of their wedding.

Writers seem to find a variety of ways to keep on with their fiction writing: journalism, feature writing, travel writing, even greeting card rhymes – all come up when you ask a writer how they fund their passion for words, then the inevitable, relentless sending off of work and waiting round the letterbox for the next bitter disappointment to land on the mat with a soul sucking plop. You never stop learning to be a better writer, every day I figure out some or other twist in the tale and it’s a delight every time.

I would dearly love to sit and write all day every day until I crumbled into dust. But I think in a way it’s healthy and also a good source of inspiration and new characters to get out and grub around in an office or similar environment for a while - it stops me stagnating. Although a wage slave at the moment, I do get some material out of the experience and I find office politics come under the category of ‘you couldn’t make it up’. With the advent of ‘blue sky thinking’ and the relentless onslaught of acronyms that make my nose twitch like Samantha from Bewitched in many a meeting. I like to play the game ‘how many acronyms can my colleagues stuff into a paragraph’ – I’m still waiting for a total block. My personal favourite of office crapspeak at the moment is ‘it’s a big ask’, it beggars belief they take it all seriously but they do and nod away like the little dogs on car parcel shelves.

But soon the end of the contract is in sight and my garret is waiting for me. I’ve one chapter of the latest novel yet to write and I’ve been itching to get at it since Christmas.

We’ve certainly had a snowy start to the year, and an icy reminder of how hard things can get when nature comes to call. South of the border, we have had it too easy these last twenty or so years, being able to pop into our cars and drive away at a moments notice, being able to stride along the pavements to get our papers of a Sunday morning. It pulls us up short when we step outside our doors to find our vehicles buried beneath a foot of snow. The footpaths are covered in a crust of thick ice which makes our feet slither this way and that, we struggle to stay upright, grabbing at gateposts to stop ourselves from falling. All normal life stops, appointments are cancelled, gatherings halted. Even getting to work becomes a marathon trek, people spend most of the day braving the ride of public transport or negotiating crowded, ice-bound motorways to get to their jobs, only to arrive and hear the forecast of more snows on the way, so they scuttle back home to harvest their children from relatives and childminders, gathering food as they go. It harkens back many years to before the last world war, when winters were hard, when people struggled to keep warm and well fed. It’s, perhaps a timely reminder to us all that things are not always so easy and the good times should be cherished when they return.

I, for one will relish the day the snow clears and the pavements are again safe to traverse. Having slipped and sprained my ankle on the ice and snow underfoot, it made me appreciate just how good it is to be able to walk normally. It took me an hour to complete a 20 minute journey today. Each step was a fresh agony, stepping up kerbs was a mountainous feat to attain. It made me realise just how vulnerable we all are when injured, unable to run away from danger, at times I felt as if I couldn’t take another step, but if I stopped I knew I wouldn’t start again. I had to keep going, when I got to my destination I was so exhausted I could have curled up and slept, but I had to carry on, finish the day - knowing that I had to make the same journey again many hours later. By nightfall, the snow had turned to slush, ice coated the pavements, with squashy melted snow in between, even the grass was frozen and whipped my feet out as I tried to walk across the park. I tried to imagine what it must have been like for people hundreds of years ago, without thick lined coats, hiking boots and layers of warm clothing, how tough and resilient they must have been to walk miles every day. I did notice that I had to concentrate so intensely on not falling I hardly noticed the icy winds hitting my face, and when the snow fell I hardly registered it swirling around me as I tried to keep walking. We have all grown soft from our central heating and sumptuous transportation, what would we do if we regularly had to fight through extremes of weather and couldn’t indulge in our expected comforts on a daily basis?

A salutary warning indeed.

This year (or rather last year, now, how time flies!) New Years Eve fell on a blue moon, a rare enough occurrence as it is, but to also fall at the turn of the year at the end of a decade, what are the odds against that happening – I don’t know, there was nothing on Google, so if you know, please tell me. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if the blue moon foretold good luck and good fortune for us all?

Anyway, back to the blue moon, this colourful sounding phenomenon occurs when the full moon is seen twice in one calendar month. The moon isn’t really blue, this was just a moniker used by the ‘Sky and Telescope’ magazine in 1943, it was a phrase which stuck and moved into common parlance. The phrase ‘once in a blue moon’ refers to the rarity of occurrence, but in real terms there are 41 months in a century which can result in a blue moon, so the average would be to experience a blue moon once every two and a half years, which by all accounts makes a UK central government election a much rarer event.

When I looked out of my window on Thursday night as the full moon rose bright and clear above the streets and houses, it was vast and to my amazement it really did look blue and was glowing softly with a cold radiance on an icy night. I researched ‘blue moon’ in even greater depth, discovering that the ‘blue’ effect could well be a halo caused by ice crystals, (gosh, how many more lunar light shows can the moon throw at us on just the one evening?) But it was beautiful that night, and far more impressive than any of the fireworks I saw later on. Nature’s glories really can knock man’s feeble attempts into the dust at the side of the road.

Let’s hope the statistically improbable falling of the blue moon on New Years Eve at decade’s end does herald some good news for us all. We could certainly do with a parcel of good fortune after ten long years of war and disasters (some natural and some man-made). Mayhaps that bright blue moon heralded the end of a decade of moony money madness and is going to bring us into ten years of good old common sense.

It’s that strange barren time between Christmas and New Year when the festivities take a breather. Sales fever fills the gap between Yule and Hogmanay, it grips the shopping centres as swarms of people reach for anything marked up in red and white lettering, queues full of shoppers, with laden baskets, creep across the stores. The shattered shoppers never seem to question if they will be able to carry all their purchases when the basket gives up its bounty of bargains. They struggle for the bus stops, laden with more bags than their hands can grip, eyes still zipping hungrily in search of sale stock, they absolutely, totally, cannot live without. But, away from the frantic fervour of the shopping centres, the streets are almost empty of people, everything is drained of life and colour, even the traffic has lessened to a vehicular trickle. The weather is dark, dank and depressing, the skies hang low, glowering with wet intent, puddles roam the pavements reflecting the movement of a few gliding gulls surveying the ground for stray chips.

At first light, as I walk the deserted city streets, I’m intrigued to see that the gutters are littered with an array of abandoned objects: stray socks, a fallen shoe, tangled tights, empty bottles and lost sparkles. A few people struggle through the icy air to their places of work, faces long with resentment at the thought of colleagues snug at home, while they soldier on to the office, ready to battle with sales figures and left over Quality Street.

The sandwich shop smells of burnt soup, the baggy eyed boy behind the counter struggles to see through his hangover as he stocks the chiller cabinet with sandwich fillings. The pub window displays tinsel hanging askew after Christmas Eve celebrations reached the very limits of the hostelry’s walls. New Year’s Eve seems a long way off, its days before the next round of parties can begin, when the tills will ring again, sparkly outfits will be donned, and the recipients of midnight kisses will be eagerly sought. But, until then we must make do with eating left-over mince pies and gazing in dismay at the strange garments we bought in a moment of sales madness.

A Seasonal Tale

Every Christmas Eve, as night falls and the temperature drops, the air begins to fill with magic. A sense of mystical promise crackles around you as you walk into the gathering darkness. The lightest touch of ice crystals tingles on your cheeks; your breath comes out in a puff of white air as a little piece of you joins with the night. The velvety blackness of the skies is set with twinkling, diamond bright stars, distant lights of hope and joy.

Far above the other stars, sits the Christmas Star. It’s much bigger and brighter than all the other stars, and if you see it - it will quite take your breath away. Its surface seems alive, creating the illusion it’s throbbing and pulsating with radiant energy. If you do happen to see it, the star will come as a shock - the sort of surprise which dawns slowly. You will stand and stare at it in wonder, your mind racing with thoughts of what it could possibly be. Could it be the North Star, or a comet, or a planet, maybe it’s a satellite, a plane or a helicopter? Soon, you will realise that it is none of these. An uneasy feeling will begin to creep through you as you stare relentlessly at the bright light in the sky. But fear not, the sense of foreboding will soon ease; it will be replaced by a warm tingling glow of promise. When you feel it - drink it in, soak it up. The Christmas Star is shining just for you, and for of all those like you; those who are in the deepest place of need. It’s there to hearten in dark times, to give hope where there is otherwise, none.

Each Christmas Eve the star is there waiting, on that, the most magical of nights. It’s the time for families to be together, for presents to be given and food to be shared, when people gather around roaring fires, laughing and singing. But Christmas can also be the darkest of times. When familiar misery taunts the lonely and the sick, by showing them the other side of life, the one they seek to avoid, for it hurts them so. Christmas is full, it’s everywhere, it’s unavoidable, but to some it’s so far away you can see it, but never touch it, the closer you get to it, the further it draws away. Gloom deepens when the joy in the hearts of others turns bitter in your mouth, when you walk slowly past the triumphant windows, with their curtains thrown back to show festive trees hung with twinkling lights, gleaming baubles and spangly garlands. You slow your steps, dragging your heels to look at the warm glow inside, soaking up a few moments of another’s happiness. The night draws you on, across wet shiny pavements glossy with bright reflections towards more windows, and more trees, more lights and tempting, taunting glory. How it stings you, puts tears in your eyes to match the sparkling lights, how it twists your insides like paper chains, and turns glitter to ashes while you drift on into the night. Despair will turn your face skywards, away from that other world. Sadness will lift your chin with pride, striving to find something out there for you. And there it is, the Christmas Star, just for a few hours it will take you to a better place. It shall show you others in the same fold of life, people to share with, even if it is only for one night. The star may awaken a light within you, a chance to move away from your own dark shadows, to find a new reality.

But the star is also there for those who think their world is the shiniest of places, a soft cocoon, a world protected from all darkness. It can warn you that fires have to be kept burning or they will go out. It’s there to remind those who take life and love for granted, to make them remember there are others out there who are equally deserving of the things they have enjoyed so readily. So, if you are happy and full of the joys of the season and see a bright star shining in the heavens, look to your home and your family, give thanks to them for the life you enjoy and spare a thought for those that lurk in the shadows with only a star to light their way.

It’s been very cold this week, most unseasonal as we usually get wet, muggy weather at this time of year, in fact last year I remember digging t-shirts out of the drawer again. Early this morning as I walked along, the wind whistled past my ears and I really regretted deciding not to wear a hat in case my newly washed hair experienced ‘hat-hair’. My ears became deep frozen and my toes tingled with the cold. I marvelled in wonder when I saw girls walking along in ballet shoes and short skirts, seemingly impervious to the weather. I often wonder how they can not notice they are soaking wet or freezing with cold.

Later on my journey this morning, as I stood at the traffic lights waiting to cross the busy road in rush hour traffic, a blonde woman dashed up to the kerb, teetered on the edge for a nano second then hurled herself in front of a car, she just made it safely past when a bus pulled in front of her blocking her way, and she was forced to run back to the kerbside. The woman had only just landed when a girl (another blonde, although that means little these days) ran as fast as she could in front of a taxi, it skimmed a thread’s-width behind her as a heavy lorry slammed on his brakes to avoid crushing her, she dodged round another car and sped away towards the train station. The rest of us all stood ruminating on what we had just seen. One chap summed it up with ‘what is it? chicken for blonde’s day’, making us all titter as we crossed safely on the green man signal.

This weekend, the forecast is for impending snow, we may yet get a snowy Christmas! I believe the last time we enjoyed a white Christmas day was 1999. My favourite snow boots finally rotted away in the snows of last spring. I bought them, very appropriately, at a car boot sale about ten years ago for the princely sum of £4. My invading Poland boots, one of my friends always called them. They felt like seven league boots to me as I traversed the icy pavements during the coldest months of the year, they were big, chunky and sturdy, it was horrid having to put them in the re-cycling box for someone in Tibet to glue back together. Yes, I think I shall buy another pair; only the cheapest ones of course as sadly, my meagre budget won’t stretch to the leather version.

Silly season is upon us once more. I haven’t stopped whizzing about since the calendar flipped over to December 1^st. It’s still only mid-month and there’s a way to go before the goose is cooked. Friday night was the Christmas stable doo, this year the event was held in a manor house hotel in the middle of no-where. I pointed my little car into a mess of lanes, put on full beam and hunted desperately for any useful road signs - of which there seemed to be precious few. After driving around in circles for about half an hour I whizzed out of a lane and happened upon the hotel by sheer luck. As I turned onto the road, my headlights picked out some pale stone pillars and a long driveway, luckily, there were no other cars around, so, I trickled slowly by, squinting at the entrance for a better look. Hurrah! It was the right place, and in I drove. The hotel had until recently been a monastic sanctuary, all was newly refurbished, pristine and ultra modern, with not a monk in sight. Some of our party (including me) were staying the night, having worked out that the price of a room roughly equated to the taxi fare home.

It was lovely having rooms in which to get ready for the dinner dance, we had a bottle of Champagne and some nibbles while trying to winch ourselves into tight dresses and heels (upon reflection, maybe the nibbles weren’t such a good idea as our zips were already straining at the seams). But, at last we were ready, looking all glossy and sleek (beer goggles are good but Champagne glasses are better!) It was fun seeing everyone all dressed up to the nines. All the little stable girls were sparkly and combed instead of jodphured and grubby, all the owners were looking marvellously sumptuous in velvets and furs. Food time arrived and who, at a Christmas bash ever remembers what they ordered? I certainly didn’t and had to ask for a list of the menu choices. The lamb sounded the most likely option of what I would have chosen all those long months ago. Time wore on and the meals all started arriving - except for the lamb. People were finishing their meals and still the lamb was a no-show. I could see quite a few hungry people waiting for plates which never arrived. I stalked hungrily towards the kitchen to enquire after our grub, only to discover lamb had never been an option and the kitchen staff were trying to decide what to do for us starving mis-informed diners. I was told an emergency option was being prepared and would soon be on its way out to us. Sure enough, a few minutes later, a procession of waiters marched in with steaming plates, my eager anticipation turned to bitter disappointment when I saw what was on my plate - a mound of vegetables and one miniscule cube of meat! I picked up the plate and returned it to the kitchen, holding aloft my meatless platter with a woebegone look. A waitress ran in search of the chef, and soon came scurrying out again with a bowl of meat. I was by this time so hungry, I noshed the lot regardless of its origin, it was meat and hot and it vanished faster than ice in a sauna. Apart from that hiccup the rest of the meal was fine. I always find it pays to remain pleasant even when things do go wrong, people are far more likely to resolve a problem in the face of reason rather than one full of red screaming anger. Later, being amiable paid off once again, when I sent back my coffee cup with its blob of suspect ooze lurking in the bottom. The waiter fell over himself to get a clean cup and replenished my coffee at regular intervals. We all had a good night and I slept the sleep of the blissfully inebriated, dreaming happily of roaming monks and mountains of food. I awoke to a cold, crisp wintry morning with icy puddles on the ground and amber sunshine blurring the branches on the trees. My car will need a good wash, covered as it is, in several shades of mud.

And that was meal two this week, the first was a lunch at a rather swanky Italian restaurant with fabulous food and extremely handsome, charming waiters – I wasn’t sure which was more delicious, the veal or the staff! At one point I was mincing down the stairs after availing myself of the facilities, and I was acutely aware the best looking of the waiters was behind me on the staircase. As I tripped lightly down the treads, I repeated to myself ‘don’t fall, you’re not that drunk. Don’t fall, skirts over the head in a heap at the bottom of the stairs is never a good look!’ And thankfully I didn’t fall over and managed to return to my seat to enjoy my fabulous calypso coffee.

Saturday was our regular gathering of literary types. We had decided to mark the festive season by scoffing some mince pies and sausage rolls, while quaffing mulled wine prior to settling down to the more serious task of reading out our work. This month, we were meeting in a private house, it was an interim measure having recently changed venues for our monthly get-together. The kind hostess had tidied the room, supplied a ring of chairs and shut her large fluffy Samoyed dog in a bedroom. As soon as the stories began, the nibbles were forgotten, the mulled wine was abandoned and we concentrated on our latest creations. We had attempted scripts, and it was good to have tried something different, a real stretch for us to exercise our dialogue skills. Anyway, all was proceeding smoothly, the scripts were well received, the stories told and critiqued, when suddenly, there was a crash. The door burst open and the canine of the house pounded in, his feathery tail whisking about in a wide arc on either side of him. With each thwack, half full mugs of mulled wine sailed into the air, mince pies landed on laps, sausage rolls vanished under the chairs. Umbrellas and bags were hurled ceilingwards in the excitement and notepads were scattered all over the floor. Chaos reigned for quite some minutes as we fought to restore order. At last peace settled upon us, the dog was safely caught and restrained, all the food and higgledy piggledy possessions were gathered up. The literary mood was broken, we said our goodbyes, dispersing into a dreary, wet evening, clicking open our umbrellas and heading home. After the excitement of the dog getting loose, several pairs of gloves found themselves in the wrong hands and I was lucky enough to discover a sausage roll in my handbag which did very nicely for my supper.

The ticket for the carol concert advised: dress warmly in thick coat, hat, gloves and a scarf, and bring a good torch. I dug out my full length black afghan, a black fur hat, gloves and three torches because you never know when you will need back-up. I had a last look in the mirror and decided I looked like a big Russian bear. As I turned away from the looking glass, I spotted something dangling behind me and to my horror I found my afghan coat had picked up several cacti from the window sill, lifted them clean out of their pots and caught them in the thick furriness of the coat. What a good job I checked, it’s true what they say – you should always look before you leave!

On venturing outside the door, I found it to be a drizzly night, but not that cold; I wondered whether to jettison the hat. I set off in the car to pick up my friends and headed down to the little chapel on the Tyntesfield Estate. My poor car struggled to keep going with a full load of passengers, it coughed and wheezed its way up the hills, taking ages to even reach the speed limit on the flat. There were several drivers of large 4×4’s getting very ticked off behind me. As we got deeper into the countryside it got darker and colder. It was touch and go, direction wise, but we found the turning to the estate in the dark and drove along a lonely drive in pitch blackness. We crawled along, looking for the sign which said ‘parking’. It was all so different in the dark, all the familiar signs were shrouded in deepest shadow, and there were no lights, nothing. Suddenly from out of the gloom one single swinging beam of a torch swished about. We decided it must be coming from the car park, heartened that there were others on this same mission, we followed the beam and at last found it. Reluctantly we crept out into inky blackness, abandoned the car in the dark rainy spot. The rain was falling steadily and a chill wind whispered around our ankles, I was glad of the hat as the rain dripped down my neck. We grabbed umbrellas and torches and carefully inched our way towards the reception area – it seemed so very far away. The beams of our torches stretched out feeble yellow fingers pointing towards deepening puddles. But every two minutes – clunk, clunk crunch! One of my friends had a wind-up torch, the beam would falter and she could be heard spinning the handle to get more power backed by gentle grumbling. At last the lights of reception could be seen and in we marched. Only to be swiftly marched out again and deposited in the barn by the staff for being early. At least the barn had a roof on it to stop the heavy, all pervasive rain that had already seeped into every nook and cranny. I was now more of a large dripping Russian bear. A few more bedraggled music lovers joined us until a small group was herded down the path towards the chapel. We were a soggy little bunch, keeping close together, torch beams swinging crazily over the ground to check for hidden pitfalls. We reached the chapel and hastened gratefully underneath the scaffolding into the dry. The chapel was decorated with traditional colours; the intricate stained glass windows absorbed the lights from below and twinkled down on us. In marched the choir all dressed in black, with accents of red, a jaunty scarf here, a red waistcoat there. We were regaled for the next hour or so by carols from pubs, and societies across the country. They were lovely adaptations of traditional carols, familiar and yet strange. The choir were a cheery bunch: The Barley Rye from Nailsea, all real characters, full of vivacity, encouraging us to sing along with them. Eventually, when our fingers thawed, and the rain on our faces dried, we did try to sing, the acoustics in the chapel taking our voices, throwing them high into the vaults of the roof. We tried to imagine the Gibbs family of long ago, all dressed in Christmas finery singing the songs of Yule in the seats where we now rested, slowly drying under warming red lights. It was a lovely start to the Christmas season. Not garish, tawdry or lavish, but heart warming and thought provoking instead.

On Sunday it was off to Dorset for another family birthday, this time it was a far less grand affair round the pub, very different to the profligate bounty of last Sunday’s meal (but the food was delicious all the same). The landlord of the pub joined us for our meal, he told me he had lived in Bristol for a time and we discussed the dire state of the club scene in the 1980s, when for a time, there were only two places that offered any nightlife. What a difference now, with bars, small clubs, medium clubs and large ones littering the radius of the city centre. It’s a shame really that I grew out of clubbing a long time ago, and its funny because I remember my younger self swearing I would never give up clubbing! How things change. Nowadays, I would far rather enjoy a nice meal with friends and family than teeter round a dance-floor in wildly inappropriate clothing. I’m far more at home in cosy knits and corduroy.

My brother had been shooting and I was presented with a magnificent cock pheasant to take home. I called the pheasant, George, and hung him on a meat hook on my back door. There he stayed becoming increasingly yummier, until preparation day dawned. I’ve never prepared a pheasant from scratch, I’ve bought breast and a prepared birds from Sainsbury’s but this was an entirely different kettle of fish, or rather a basin of bird. The Internet offered me lots of video clips, showing manly men in the fields, doing very clever things like stepping on the wings and pulling the legs, whoosh within seconds they were holding a feathery jacket. I watched about twenty of these video clips until I felt familiar with the procedures, then I went and hooked down George. The best and easiest of the clips showed a bird on a board, the breast feathers were then plucked away, the skin peeled back by hand. It can’t be that easy, I thought, – but by George, it was! The skin just came away like a butter paper, exposing lovely pink meat with a smattering of bright yellow fat; this bird was clearly a healthy eater. Had I looked, I’m sure there wouldn’t have been any remnants of fast food in George’s crop. Ensuring I didn’t burst the gut bag, I quickly hacked off all the meat, rinsed it, bagged it and froze it. I tidied up the carcass, but those feathers sure do get everywhere – especially the really annoying, little tiny grey ones, I was literally spitting feathers! I’m sure I’ll be finding them for weeks. Who knows the next time I get a game bird to prepare, I may well hoick out the liver and kidneys and do something with exciting with them, maybe I’ll make a terrine or pate.  But in the meantime, I’ve got some lovely, long feathers to stick in my hat!