De-blog

"But the room is too big." both my children declared - their excuse for persistently succeeding in destroying my efforts to tame their untidy bedroom. What was to be done about it? I plotted and planned, measured and sketched, then headed off to Firwood Timber , our local timber merchant. Nowadays I think I'm probably just 'that quirky woman who thinks she can do DIY', but initially the men in the yard treated me with a kind of revered contempt. I did a small stint in a timber yard myself, as a cashier, not in the yard itself. My manager-to-be explained at interview that he would not discriminate, of course, but there was a horror story of a girl who had once worked there that had to be told. Not that I wanted to work in a cold, windy timber yard: a warm office shared with a lovely accountant will do quite nicely thank you. So, the Firwood timber men got past the fact that I know my wood, mostly manage not to look too put out by their self-derived need to curb the...

When I started this blog, I was adamant that it would not be a 'blog': hence the title 'de-blog' - a play on words that allowed me to connect my name to this log of my life whilst at the same time condemning the shortening of the term web log / weblog. With this in mind it may be surprising to read that last night I received a ticking off for my use of 'ur' as instant message shorthand of 'your' in a writers' chat-room, and rightly so. Sometimes these things occur out of force of habit and it's one I wish I hadn't acquired. Modern methods of communication are obliterating our language and it seems that I, like everyone else, have succumbed to the necessity to 'get with it'. This is not to say that I despise new technology; far from it, I appreciate the simplicity and immediacy of email, something I have had far more success in using than I ever did with traditional postal mail. It is a long time since I had penpals, who undoubtedly we...

November 30th: it's a strange old day. The wind is starting to gust and darkness is descending, even though it is mid afternoon. In our family, Christmas starts on December 1st, with the tree and decorations in place on the first Sunday of the month. I have an extensive collection of Christmas socks, and tomorrow I get to wear the new pair I bought last year. There's no rhyme or reason to all of this. It's simply a case of tradition. Every year, as I leave November behind, I feel a sense of something beginning. I love Christmas: the build-up; the preparation; the excitement. Yet today, for the first time, I am sad that November is coming to a close, for it is the end of my first NaNoWriMo . It marks the return to reality. However, I have no intention of lamenting this event, for it has been the best thing I have done in a long time. I place it alongside my children and my degree in the sense of achievement and self I have gained from it. As the clock strikes midnight to...

As Steven Sondheim goes to great lengths to demonstrate, we really do need to be careful what we wish for. Wishes, like government policies, tend to bring about a whole heap of unintended consequences. The vast majority of my degree was spent dissecting past, present and future policy, and whilst I must confess that I am somewhat out of touch with these matters, I could still pick up any white paper and give it a good thrashing. I don't want to wed a prince, find perfection, be rich beyond the dreams of avarice (too much Tom Holt). Evidently there are aspects of my life that I would gladly give up, others I would cling to with all that I am, because they are all that I am. I've read enough fairy tales and fantasy novels to know that the wisher's obsession pushes rationality aside. The outcome is predictable: she marries the prince only to discover that, if she's really, really lucky, he's just a bit of a misogynist, but more likely than not it will transpire that he...

No time to stay, I have a novel to finish. Yes people, I have a new addiction, but this one is just perfect, for several reasons. Firstly, I have been sucked into a void over the past few weeks, one where deadlines and dates have ceased to have meaning, no-one has been cracking the whip in my direction, or indeed when they have it's not been cracked hard enough. No deadlines equals no progress or achievement. That's shockingly how this cookie crumbles. Secondly, I am a writer. There is a passion within me that just needs to put down words. Half the time I strangle my own creativity by being a petulant and indulgent self editor. Take that away and I go free-form, Beat, take the story where the story takes me. Admittedly right now that does appear to be into romance (uggh!), but who cares? Life is romance: love, sex, infatuation, lust. There's also some stuff to do with birth and death, biological functionality that we still somehow manage to romanticise. Thirdly, I a...

"Fish and chips?" "Yes. And a walk along the promenade." It is impossible to eat fried fish and walk and talk all at once, in the rain. "Just chips then? And a plastic fork?" "OK. Chips. And a plastic fork." The forks were wooden memories, then not now, but they, like all utensils, served their purpose for a walk along the promenade in the rain. Why people should choose such an occupation is not necessary to explain, for seaside towns, come hottest summer's day or bitterest January evening, maintain their promenades, like the sitting rooms of pretentious old ladies. A lone, crazy golfer putted a par four in five or more and tilted his cap against the downpour. We waved our forks in his direction though he did not see. He moved on to Henry's upturned bucket, painted red and yellow now, usurped of prior purpose. We moved along, our chips resisted spearing. A promenade is a piece of time, held together by parasols and begoni...

As I was waiting for the 'New Post' page to open I was contemplating possible titles for this post, and those that immediately came to mind all involved comment on this rain. Hence I have opted for a title that officially 'outs' me as one of those typically British sorts who talks about the weather when there is little else to make smalltalk of. In my defence, British weather is perhaps somewhat more interesting than that experienced elsewhere on the planet. I am led to believe that the Innuit have a considerable number of words to describe snow. Likewise we have rain, downpour, 'cats and dogs', drizzle, spitting, persistent rain, 'wet rain' and, thanks to Francis Wilson, 'mizzle'. The list goes on. Similarly we experience all manner of winds and strengths of sun, as well as a spot of sleet, hail and snow from time to time. The thing that makes British weather a talking point is its shear unpredictability, save for spring and summer bank holi...

... although I am not sure yet. Please take note that this is an honest account of my experience and sometimes the truth is harsh. It has been almost two months since I found a small lump in my right breast, and less than an hour ago it was confirmed as being a polyp, not malignant and, as it was removed two weeks ago, no longer a threat to my physical and mental wellbeing. I left the clinic, used the loo, left the hospital, turned my mobile 'phone back on whilst observing the beauty of a drift of bluebells in the hospital grounds and returned to my car, all the time thinking to myself "If I can just get out of this room, this hospital, get to my car, get home, then I will let the relief hit me." This has yet to happen and so here I am, writing what Nige said I should have written from the beginning. Perhaps I simply need to metaphorically 'get it off my chest' too. It began on a Sunday evening. I was sitting in bed and found the small lump during something vaguel...