One on her own

This week has been without question, a trifle moist. Day on day it seemed to get wetter, the showers longer and stronger. I have been soaked to the undercrackers so many times I dug the full length wax coat out for maximum coverage. I gave up styling my hair, stuffed it under a hat and ventured forth as I prepared for yet another ducking. My preference for suede boots has not been helpful, and little pairs of soggy boots have been drying by the radiators all week. Likewise, with umbrellas (before I gave them up in favour of the hat – waxed, of course), I have one umbrella up, one drying by a radiator - thank heavens for radiators! How do people manage without them? At least in the summer showers, the air is sufficiently warm enough to dry things off quite quickly.

I swear all this soggy weather is a conspiracy by the God of rain (I checked: in Greek mythology it’s Zeus: King of the gods, sky and thunder, he’s a busy boy – or, if you prefer, the other gods of rain are Tlaloc the Aztec version and Addad the Assyrian). The showers are always perfectly timed for maximum inconvenience; every time I step into my garden intent on cutting down the (now skeletal) runner beans, the heavens open. This also happens when I go to the dustbin, the recycling bins or the shed! And as for grubbing up the last of the carrots – well, they will have to stay in their troughs for the time being. The car needs washing too (no, rain doesn’t help – it just makes it dirtier) it now resembles a little cube of mud, with added moss where the rain has saturated the window rubber. My ancient vehicle seems to fog up more quickly than the large modern cars. I grumble under my breath as all the massive SUVs whiz past me, their occupants wearing summer clothes (due to selecting the tropical setting on the in-car acclimatisation facility), smoking and gabbling into their blue-tooth mobiles, while I sit shivering in three sweaters and a coat with the blowers on full blast, my eyes all dried out like an experimental rhesus monkey, as I constantly wipe a little visibility hole with my yellow fluffy duster, at the same time as using my elbow to clear the driver’s side window. But worst of all is having to wind down the window, in pouring rain, to clear the wing mirror of it’s fogginess, this is done to facilitate my view of other car drivers, pedestrians with headphones on, and cyclists in those stupid hats with earflaps, meaning they have no peripheral vision and veer into cars, trees, dogs and me!

Gosh! I think the rain has got into my brain and turned me into Mrs Crankypants, I may need to go and have a sherry to calm down!

After the gushing rain of the previous few days, Sunday was lighter and brighter. The family and I headed off for a surprise birthday lunch at a country house hotel. And very super duper it was too. The hotel looked lovely, all soft buttery stone with trailing creepers. The car park was full of Mercs, Jags and Bentleys – my poor dented, elderly little hatch-back looked a sorry sight up against all the gleaming motors. We arrived at 11:45, enjoyed aperitifs in a lovely drawing room while staring at the vast imposing paintings on the walls. The rest of the family turned up and before long we were all shown into the private dinning room. There were splendid horse’s doofers (quails eggs, and fois gras on little crackers) then extra special ‘birthday’ hors d’oeuvres (truffle and artichoke soup - yummy). I had an oxtail ragout for a starter, followed by mallard on a bed of leeks with a squash reduction, pudding for moi was buttermilk mousse, apple coulis and mini doughnuts. This took us up to 4:00pm when we retired to the lounge for coffee, and petit fours. The rest of the family also guzzled copious quantities of sherry, champagne, white wine, red wine and yet more red wine - I was driving, so I had to be content with drinking sparkling water. Pah!

There was one short burst of rain mid-afternoon, when the wind whipped up and tore a few more leaves from the trees outside the window. The sun shone brightly, the day continued dry until it was time to leave, then it hammered down with rain.

There was a further tale of the dopey spaniel. It had arrived the night before with his long-suffering owners for a meal with my family. While the food was served and the wine flowed, the spaniel promptly scoffed his master’s car keys. Every time he barked, ‘bip, bip’ the car opened. The spaniel was duly followed around with a bowl for the next day or so until the car keys made a reappearance. Both the dog and the car keys are still intact and fully functioning!

As you may have noticed if you have been reading my blog, I’m very partial to a mention or two regarding the weather. Today, having already rained all night the torrents reached saturation point. The rain came down relentlessly all day, which was such a shame as it was the Totterdown Art Trail. At 12 noon I tottered off with a friend to walk the trail, looking out for the bright orange flags waving people in to the participating houses on the trail. Firstly, it was fascinating to see within some of the local houses, as they all differ so much. Totterdown is full of higgledy piggledy brightly coloured houses and the whole area is alive with artists, musicians, writers and creative types in general, I’ve often thought there must be something in the air around here to make everyone so, well, eccentrically skilled . We moved from display to installation, as the rain poured down our necks, soaking us to the skin, even my mobile phone got drenched, made one plaintive little blip and died. We wandered through the Gospel Hall; built around 1870 it seems to have had little work done to it to hold back the passage of time. The long straight passage that links it from one street to another bulges at the seams, tongue and groove cladding hangs drunkenly from the wall, and in the actual Gospel Hall, parts of the wall are crumbled down to the bare lathe and plaster, waving threateningly towards the pews. It needs some serious money spent on the building to stop it collapsing in on itself - which would be such a shame, if another landmark were to be lost.

The fashion in the art world seems, at the moment, to favour canvas blocks, we saw so many of the darn things, I may have nightmares where chunky white squares fly at me, splattering brightly coloured paint on their way past. But having said that, there were some wonderful innovations to enjoy such as Fimo designs rolled through a pasta machine to create fabulously detailed buttons and jewellery. A few ceramic artists had made use of some very innovative techniques to make their pieces unique and along with the photographers, there were some talented artists, who bizarrely were the most modest and mild mannered of the bunch. We also visited the Dolls Hospital where some of the dolls being restored were over a hundred years old, using an epoxy mixture the doll doctors rebuild missing limbs and faces, which are all painstakingly rebuilt, recoloured and eventually brought back to their former glory.

It seems that for one weekend a year, the good people of Totterdown give over their houses for the purpose of sharing art with the general public. I’m sure Big Yellow Storage must be doing jolly well this weekend with all the furniture stashed away until Monday. When I got home I was so wet, I made a puddle in the hallway, took one look in the mirror at the dripping, bedraggled creature staring back at me, before I hared up the stairs, hooked out the hairdryer and a complete set of dry clobber before I started to look even slightly human again.

It has been one of those weeks for me this week. First of all the most vital of all my domestic services broke (the lav!) then my phone died, then the landline service provider decide to chop through a cable leaving the zone without a phone connection - it took twenty four hours to fix it. I was lying in bed wide-eyed with terror imagining cross-eyed slavering rapists breaking in and me unable to use a phone to summon the cavalry. At every sound downstairs I sat up panicking, now having moved on from rapists to imagining a gang of big fat sweaty burglars making off with my priceless collection of Observer books, particularly the one on Bird’s Eggs. Luckily, dawn broke and my home security system was still intact (and so was I) the phone line came back on at 9am, I went to Curry’s to buy a new phone, the lav was fixed for a nominal sum and my mental equilibrium returned to normal.

All this bad luck made me think about fate. They say that bad things come in threes, I’m hoping those three things will see me through a month without another disaster (I’m crossing my fingers, legs and eyes as I type) so why do good things come rarely, if at all? Where in the scheme of all things fine and fair does fate get off by throwing so much hinky luck at us? Fate must have heard me because when I emptied the washing machine all my lovely 200 thread count pristine white sheets had come out ice blue! Rats! Is there no end to this accursed run of bad luck?

But on a happier note (you’ll have to read to the end to get to the happy bit), the Writers Group to which I belong recently lost its long term venue, which was very sad for us all as they had been most accommodating where we used to meet. Anyway, the hunt was on for a new venue! I tottered off to a meeting in the city at one of the nicer public buildings. It was crumbling and ancient, just like me. The guy I was meeting with couldn’t have been nicer or more helpful (he even brought along a colleague to help out with the room selection for suitability). After quite a lengthy discussion, a deal was struck, the venue was secured and all was settled. Being naturally nosy (an essential attribute for any writer) I asked if the building had any secret passages and was told it was positively labyrinthine with them! They let me fix up a tour for our group, if they want one that is, they may not all be quite as ‘Famous Five’ as I am. I’ve spent the best part of my life knocking on walls hoping they’re hollow.

Maybe those fates sit up there waiting for people to say stupid phrases like ‘gosh nothing in my house has broken for ages!’ I should add that I’m almost totally positive I never uttered those words and it was pure dumb bad, stinky, rotten luck everything (three things, oops no four things – I forgot the sheets!) broke this week. Good luck tends to be from our own making: hard work, diligence and dogged determination plus a bit of cheek usually stirs up a visit from the fairy of fortune.

And on that note I’m off for coffee with a good friend of mine, and mayhaps, if I smile very nicely, a slice of cake.

A trip to Dorset visiting family plunged me into a mobile phone black-spot where no signal can penetrate the surrounding ancient hills. It was a wonderfully bucolic day, eight of us slavering before a mouth-watering side of beef as the sky-scape shifted by the minute outside the picture windows. In between storms we roamed the garden, and visited the tousled chickens before scuttling back inside as the raindrops began to fall. The wood burning stove was stuffed with hefty logs, the fire gathered pace and was soon hissing and spitting as the inferno raged within. The skies darkened, the curtains were swished across and we sank gratefully into the Chesterfields sipping our beverages. A late ring on the doorbell announced a wax-coated, rosy cheeked fellow bearing a brace of partridge, at his heels was a delightfully excitable chocolate brown spaniel which prompted peed all over the oak floor. As we headed home up the dual carriageway my mobile phone began to ring again, backed up with calls after a day away.

There is no escape!

Saturday night I entered another world, the World of Warcraft – at least, I met some of its inhabitants when I attended a curry night in celebration of an elf lord’s 40^th birthday. I was expecting a few pointed ears or even some battle armour, but they were all low key, good company and quietly deferential to the host. I expect they save their fiendishly belligerent personas for online. We had a very pleasant evening, until we left the restaurant in search of a taxi home, when we had to pass through the thronging hordes waiting to enter a nearby club. Does no-one wear coats anymore? It was a cold November night, a forceful wind whipped us, the threat of rain hung heavily in the air as we hastened on our way to the taxi, and yet in spite of the inclement weather, several hundred females had decided it would be a good idea to go out in their underwear. I noticed there also seems to be a fashion for alarmingly vertiginous shoes. On closer observation I noted they have a two inch (minimum) platform which slopes to the front, resulting in the wearer tipping forwards as she tries to teeter along on the six to eight inch heels holding up the rest of the shoe. The shoes are covered in straps to ensure the wearer doesn’t fall out of them even if she does pitch downwards into a kebab strewn oblivion. The men I was with all had their eyes out on stalks staring at these noisy, but colourful characters, but I did notice they kept a safe distance, clustering together for protection, particularly when several of the heeled ones ran past shrieking with much waving of bare limbs.

Looking at the crowd of fun-seekers, I didn’t notice many males in high dress, most were content to be garbed in muted shades, with a few exceptions in fancy dress. The males moved about in packs, shoulder to shoulder they travelled from one watering hole to the next, even the group of buzz-lightyears we saw were subdued as they trooped past. We saw many males waiting their turn to enter clubs, skulking in the shadows, as the females pranced about, shrieking and cavorting around them. I guess the girls have a lower tolerance of alcohol, when the booze kicks in, their energy will fade and the males will spring to life, fighting over fallen females. I think I prefer the inhabitants of the World of Warcraft.

It’s curious how just about anything can germinate a story in a writer’s mind. The weather here in the West Country this week has been brutal, all the trees are now stripped of their leaves, and there is not a recycling bin left standing. We also have an interesting phenomenon of twirling birds, the wind takes them as they try to dart off to their next destination between gusts. A quick blast will hurl them beak first through the air, they twirl rapidly downwards and disappear, I wonder if this is the oscine version of the ejector seat?

Anyway, back to the idea - the gale the other morning whistled through my window, drawing me slowly from my slumbers into that odd state where you think you are still dreaming but really you are starting to wake. The wind sounded like singing, eerie descanted voices rising manically. An idea popped into my head, reaching for the notepad I scribbled it down, ready to type up later. Sometimes a story wants to come out all in one go, and other times it gets stuck halfway. This one came out all in a rush, three thousand words in an hour, obviously this tale couldn’t wait to escape from my mind – it can be a scary place in there, so I don’t blame it. I really ought to do something with all these stories, I occasionally send one off to a competition. But generally, once finished I just tend to save them and forget about them. Unless of course someone asks me to write a story for a website, children’s party etc, then I write it, pass it on and forget it.

I’ve got to the stage with the novel where it’s so near the end, I’ve forgotten the beginning and I’d started to doubt my plot. I pressed ‘control’+ ‘home’, and began reading from chapter one. I was soon drawn in and read seven chapters without stopping. It gave me a good chance to remember why I’d created certain characters and why I’d shaped the chapter structure the way I had. Maybe that’s a useful modus operandi, don’t forget why you started! Novel writing really is a fabulous venture to undertake, how often can an adult create their own world, then vanish within it for up to ten hours a day? The hard bit is coming back down to earth after a scribbling marathon. I’m sure my friends think I’m talking in tongues sometimes!

The wind is howling outside, the rain is lashing against the window (again!) and I’ve got to go out tonight! I’ve picked an outfit – I look like a curious cross between Stevie Nicks and Marilyn Manson. But never mind, no one will notice because they will all be too busy hanging onto their own hats!

Tonight I spent a pleasant evening in an upstairs room of a crumbling ancient inn with a sloping floor, a ceiling painted with scenes from the battle of Trafalgar and unexplained noises emanating from within the walls. It was a script reading night – what a hoot! And so very illuminating from various angles – some more enlightening than others.

It got me to thinking how amazingly different it is to experience the written word visually from audibly. How an audience perceives what it sees or hears, and the opportunity for the writer to portray and to imbed their idea in the minds of their intended targets. Listening to the points of views from around the room really showed just how differently each person sees and hears a story - and even more interestingly, after each point of view is aired how the previous spouters change their direction when they realise new view points. The mind creates a powerful picture from listening, while a projected image instils its own message.

Dialogue is such a different unit from the novel or the short story – a whole separate ball game with a very definite demographic. The plot has to grab, hook and ensnare within the shortest blip of time. Suck the audience in, believe the story, engage with the characters, always leave them wanting more. It’s got to be credible but incredible at the same time. What a wonderful challenge for any writer to create a plot that can do this.

Every year on the Saturday night nearest to Guy Fawkes night (when all the big firework parties fall) we all go up to the yard and have a barbeque to keep the horses company lest they be frightened by all the big scary bangs. I only ever eat sausages at barbeques and tonight I managed six, I think my record is ten, if I remember rightly – I was probably overcome by saturated fat by that point so it may have been more. The guy in charge of the barbeque tonight kept shouting ‘sausage monster, it’s time for your next one!’ But I refused to be pressurised into over sausaging and sensibly stopped at six.

It was another glamorous night up the yard. I returned home with dog vomit down one leg, dog slobber down the other, horse slobber on my coat and the ubiquitous horse and goose poo all over my boots. Yummy.

Its always good fun though, we scoff ourselves silly, do the rounds of the horses and then talk a load of old rubbish in the tack room when the fireworks have all died away.

I popped into Lidl to buy meat for the BBQ earlier. There was a cluster of people lurking outside looking awkward. Upon further investigation, I discovered an old guy on a mobility scooter stuck in the doorway, wedged in, in fact, where he’d totally screwed up his turning circle, poor ol’ geezer. The four men and two women on the periphery continued to lurk helplessly. So I said in strident tones ‘are you stuck? Need some help?’ I made all the right motions as if I was going to lift him out myself. Some hopes! Have you ever tried lifting one of those things? I’ve tried before so wasn’t going to cripple myself a second time - the engine alone weighs a ton. The very moment a fluffy female offered help, all four men shot forward and lifted the scooter out of its jam and Mr was on his way towards the tinned section in no time - which of course was exactly what I had planned.

A recent trip to the NT Tyntesfield Estate in Somerset was a marvel of autumn colours, scents and proved a most effective way of eliminating stress.

I drove off to pick up an equally stressed out friend. My little car crawled along, fighting its way through torrential, almost biblical, rain showers, out of the city we drove and into the countryside. At the very gates of the estate the sun emerged from behind a cloud bathing us in yellow light. We had decided to forsake another visit to the mansion whilst it was covered in Europe’s largest expanse of scaffolding while renovations are underway (yes, more scaffolding – I seem to be blighted by the stuff at the moment).

We walked up into the herb garden, basked in the sun on a worn wooden bench enjoying the buzzing of bees in the late flowering lavender. Suitably rested, we moved on down to the orangery and vegetable garden. The orangery was covered in – you guessed it – scaffolding! But the vegetable garden was like entering a hidden world; all the weather stayed outside its warm red brick walls, not a breath of wind was felt. Only soft sunshine was allowed to enter there. A trot around the perimeter path revealed lots of produce still waiting to be harvested, which was also evident by the groaning honesty table - I bagged loads of curly kale and turnips, after adding my money to the pot, of course. Then there was more basking to be enjoyed on yet another aged bench. I closed my eyes and enjoyed the scent of celery in the blanchers, listening to Jackdaws busily chacking in the trees above the greenhouses. I opened one eye as a loud ‘crack’ rent the air. I gathered my friend from taking photos of pompoms in a nearby dahlia bed and we went to investigate the strange noise. Through the vegetable garden we skulked, along by the green houses, listening. ‘CRACK’, another loud noise made us both jump in the air. We then laughed as we realised the huge horse chestnut tree was happily jettisoning its conkers down on the greenhouse glass with a noise like rifle fire. Another conker hit the glass with a velocity that made us run for it before it knocked us out.

All over the estate were vast quantities of sweet chestnuts lying in the damp grass waiting to be pocketed before an army of enterprising squirrels nabbed them. As we strolled along, we filled our coat pockets with enough sweet chestnuts to make some soup. The leaves on the trees were a wonderful palate of autumn hues; the rain had released a woody fresh scent that hung in the air making us feel quite giddy with its arboreal delights.

It’s incredible that this wonderful place is only a few miles away from the buzz of the city. Just hop in the car and escape for a couple of hours, feel all the stresses melt away into nothingness. Bliss. We drove out of the estate, and the rain turned back on.