Call me when you get this…cont.

Call me when you get this….part 2

The first thing you think of when you read, ‘Call me when you get this…’ is that somebody’s died. The second thing is that you don’t want to know who it is, not yet anyway. I pressed the buttons one by one by one.
‘I’ve just been in to feed the goldfish…’ she said.
One of the goldfish has died?
‘..and I have bad news…’
Oh bother, both goldfish.
‘I think you’ve been burgled.’
Dammit. I’d have preferred the fish. For the next hour she talked me through the house, room by room so that we’d have an idea what was missing, what she could tell the police. The study was strewn with papers; cards were ripped open; my jewellery box was in F’s room, upturned. By the time she reached T’s room she began to cry.
‘Oh Lord,’ she said,’ this is really bad. The other rooms are a mess but this is totally ransacked.’ Poor T. He’s very private, likes his own space….has an x-box 360 that he got for his birthday last month hidden in his bed. We took a deep breath, pinned on brave faces and headed for the airport.

The plane journey was fraught. All the way we were silent, each dreading what mightn’t be there when we got home. I thought of the presents we’d got my husband for his 50th; presents for his twin sister and his parents who were coming to stay; presents for our boys who hadn’t asked for much – just a couple of special things – all in a bag in the spare room, convenient if you’re a burglar in a hurry. Our happy Christmas plans ruined. We were livid at this violation of our home, angry at the thought of how this would upset out families. And then I remembered my mother.

My mother loves good jewellery. She has beautiful rings and one of them has my name on it. She asked me once if I liked it, and I said I did but I wouldn’t when it was mine. She was taken aback but I explained that by then, it would have come at too high a cost. It would always be beautiful but it would always be cold.
I did, of course, suggest that if she wanted to give it to me now…

She was here on holiday in early December. The evening before she left this visit, she came into the study and said she’d been thinking, had decided to give me something ‘warm’. She pulled back her sleeve and took off a bracelet that she’s been wearing as long as I can remember.
‘It’ll be too wide but you can have it adjusted,’ she said, and handed it to me.
It was warm.
I put it on and knew that it always would be.
But she was right about it being too wide. The following day the local jeweller said he was inundated with Christmas orders, bring it back after Christmas and he’d do it then. I hid it safely in my jewellery box. The one that was on F’s floor, upturned.

It was seven that evening before we got home. Ignoring the fact the the boys are 18, 17 and 14, we pullled maturity rank and insisted on going in first. The initial reaction was stunned silence, the second relief. A window was broken and glass and paper everywhere but the car was there, the computers were untouched; wallets were strewn but no cards appeared to have been taken; downstairs was ramshackle but beyond the mess, things were there. A note from Sue said, ‘I tidied a bit – I couldn’t have left you to arrive home to it as it was.’

Then we remembered. It wasn’t till she went upstairs that she’d started to cry. We ascended. One by one, we ticked off missing, present, missing – the bracelet, various pieces of jewellery that had been gifts over the years – my wardrobe completely emptied on the floor. I wanted to cry but even more than that I wanted to phone Sue and tell her, ‘Sue, you’ll be my friend forever – you know that saying, ‘You have to be – you know too much…..’

Then T’s room. He was still downstairs bewailing the fact that all the DVD’s were gone. I’d already bewailed the fact that the only one they’d left was Fight Club. What’s wrong with these people – why couldn’t they have had the wit to check the machine and take that too? We called him upstairs and before pushing the door open, told him what Sue had said. He took it like a man, inhaled deeply and went inside.

I have never pitied burglars so much. Imagine. They’d broken through double glazed windows, jemmied two doors, ransacked the entire ground floor of a house, four not very productive bedrooms and then arrived in this one to find that someone might have got there first.
They’d be mistaken.

My son is 17.

You can tell from his bedroom.

A good option….

Last week I was sent an email advising me to listen to a song by Lisa Koch on www.heylisa.com – MUSIC.  The song was entitled, ‘Middle Aged Woman’ and it was highly irreverent. It made me laugh out loud.  The message that came with the email was, “I hope this doesn’t offend you. ”

The first three lines didn’ t hold out much promise, referring as they did to being ‘in my prime/looking mighty fine/mature and sexy, healthy and fit…’  I hate things that promise to empower me as they suggest I’m currently on half cylinders so I was tempted to stop listening but just in time, it picked up.  I won’t quote the rest but be assured, there was no perimenopausal symptom left unmentioned.  Grateful for the laughter, I forwarded it to suitable candidates ( they qualified by virtue of sense of humour rather than age or medical condition – mostly).

The reactions were fascinating.  They ranged from ‘Loved it..’ through ‘you’re off/on my Christmas list’ to ‘Was this intended for my mother?’   One suggested I blog it for the entertainment of all; another that it would offend younger women.  I don’t enjoy all the symptoms on offer yet but I wondered about that. 

I have watched Grumpy Old Women on tv and am torn between laughter and nodding – usually simultaneously – while my husband and teenage sons sigh loudly and ask pointed questions about when the next Top Gear is on.  When questioned, they tell me that women like that aren’t funny, they admit things about themselves that should be kept secret.

Why? 

Why is it an admission?  That has negative connotations.  I think it’s an observation and acute observations are always worthy of note.  In an article in TIME magazine in February 2006, there was a photo of me with the title Women of a certain age…, in Writers’ Forum I was referred to as a Wily Old Bird.  I’m 47, for goodness sake:  it’s amusing to be considered a bird, interesting to be considered wily; and subjective to be considered old.  In thirty years time, I hope to qualify for all three; in forty years, I want a badge; if I make it to fifty years time, nothing less than a medal.

I came to Britain 27 years ago to take up a temporary teaching post.  The day I went home six months later my best friend died of leukaemia, just as the plane landed and I realised that despite the fact that I had spent that six months counting the hours before I went home, there was no going back now.  I still miss Ireland but with a husband and three sons, and despite having to sit through regular repeats of Top Gear, this is home now.  I will grow old here.

Perimenopause, menopause, geriatric ambitions and all  – aging is a fine option.

I’m looking forward to it.

More wobs…

The article was written by Helene Parry, a very friendly interviewer who came one hot summer’s day and asked lots of questions.  She’d done her research and was familiar with both my work and my publishers – Transita.  I thought she was nice; she thought I was a wily old bird.

Wily old birds….

When Sandra held up the Writers Forum Magazine and said, ‘Have you seen this?’ I nodded.  I’ve seen it lots of times and think it’s a good read.  She looked surprised as if my reaction was odd.  Then I saw why.

On the front cover a photo of yours truly smiled out at me and above it, the caption Wily old birds hit out at chick-lit. Oh dear – is that what I am now – a wob?

Blasts from the past…hello Cyril

So it works.

For weeks I’ve been drip feeding the blog, wondering if anyone really looks at blogs that crop up in the ether and suddenly someone from the past appears.  Wonderful!  Cyril is a friend from Aberdeen days who worked in the same school as I did – I was the Irish supply teacher; he was the French assistant.  Good to have you back.

So, a weekend in Ireland and I’m out of kilter.  If home is where the heart is then mine is split.  26 years in the Uk hasn’t dulled my passion for Ireland or my feeling that it’s home but 26 years in the Uk has brought a husband, three sons and a cirle of good friends…and that’s home too.

Guess I’m lucky.

Ireland….and the next story

 I travel to Ireland Wed.to meet the pr lady who will help me launch Soft Voices Whispering in Ireland.  Reviews so far from this side of the water are positive so my hopes are high for a response in the counrty where these stories are set.  Then there’ll be a frenetic three months before I have to settle down and begin to think of what happens after Polishing off the Cherries is finished.   

Actually, I know already.

Just before christmas I visited a woman I met and liked at her workplace. She restores church furniture in a huge warehouse/barn in Molesley.  There’s something very disturbing about wandering around amidst altars, tabernacles and pulpits.  What I really wanted was a confessional – a must for a writer who cannot escape her spiritual awareness however hard she tries.  Some of the stuff was beautiful, some distressed and forlorn.  I fell in love everytime I turned my head but it was the small dusty item shoved under a stool that caught my eye.  The owner was amused at my choice but I recognised it straight away.

About ten years ago I watched an old lady comb the candle tray in a church with her fingers.  I wasn’t a writer them but I knew straightaway that one day this would mean something.  When I bent down in that warehouse in Molesley to pick up my find, I knew what it was.

 I’ll tell you once I get the first three chapters written.

Thank you spam…

It was a matter of moral courage and fortiude that I did not turn on the computer over the Christmas break but devoted myself instead to family matters.  It was a good idea at the time and in years to came may well prove beneficial.  For the moment all it means is that the boys are fed, the cards are displayed (hey loookit everyone, I have friends ) and the underwear is out of the drier.  I was so smug.

Than I turned on the computer and realised that I also have have insider knowledge on the price of shares and leads on where to buy my viagra.

WHO IS SENDING THIS SPAM????

Someone in the ether is out to inform me….

Happy ‘007

Balls in the air…

..and I have no juggling skills

Isn’t Christmas wonderful?

Best wishes to all…. 

Stephen King and me

So it’s not just me.  Have any of you read Stephen King’s latest offering (www.stephenking.com)?  We’re not the only Meg Gardiner (www.meggardiner.com) fans, are we? He is profuse in his praise.  My dinner companion would have been MOST impressed  (you can get SK in hardback).

By the way, I don’t own Meg money either.

Paperback Writer

An experience to ponder – and I welcome your comments.

On Tuesday evening my husband and I had dinner with some colleagues of his and their companions. In the company was a woman I had never met before. When we sat down to talk, she leaned across the table and said, ‘I hear that you’re a…..wri-ter.’
She said the word slowly, struggled with both syllables and I had the distinct impression it was giving her mouth ulcers.
I said, ‘Yes, I am.’
She shook her head to clear her ears and then scanned the restaurant for the Bonjela nurse. ‘But…I’ve never heard of you.’
Neither has the pope. I do not doubt his credentials for a minute.
As nobody appeared to have a solution to this mystery, we started on the breadsticks.

After the third one, she had it figured out. ‘Em, are your books hardback?’
‘Apart for the large print editions, no, paperback.’
‘Ah ha!’ she said, wrinkling her nose in digust at the physical proximity to a person whose book cover bends. ‘That’s it – I only read
hardbacks. That’ll be why.’

I am a pacifist and generally save my ire for situations when it can actually do some good. Nevertheless, it was on the tip of my tongue to mention that Big Brother is so confident of its sales that all the spin-off books are in hardback, to my knowledge, and don’t require reading. All you have to do is look at the pictures. I don’t think that’s what she meant.
Instead I said, ‘Oh.’
Wuss.

After that, the food came and I have seldom seen a starter so assiduously chewed by grown men. They kept their heads down, I chewed my lip, she pontificated.

When the main course arrived she had another go.
‘So have you met Stephen Fry?’ she asked smugly.
I think the correct response to this is Omigod! You’ve met Spephen Fry, tell me all about it but the wine was lovely and the waiter was refilling so I just said. ‘No.’
‘Umm,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you move in literary circles.’
(Stephen Fry – if you’re out there I’m sorry about this. I think you’re very literary and I love Twinings Tea but she’d pushed it too far with the tone. )
I said, ‘Goodness, do you consider Stephen Fry literary? I always think of him as an actor/entertainer who writes rather than the other way round. And I love his tea commercials.’
(Stephen – I really am sorry – you’d have found her difficult too.)
I don’t think she’s a tea drinker. She said, ‘So who have you met?’
Ha! In the interests of brevity because we didn’t have all night (and I just knew we weren’t going to be invited back for a nightcap)
I offered just a few names.
‘At the Guildford Festival in October, I met Sarah Dunant, Nicholas Evans and Patrick Gale…’
She didn’t move a muscle.
‘…and Elizabeth Buchan, Santa Montefiore, Katherine McMahon…
Not a twitch.
‘…Harry Bingham?’
Nope.
‘Jane Yardley?’
There was deadly silence. For goodness sake – are any of you in hardback?
My husband, who doesn’t read fiction, ever, but can read people to within an inch of their last indiscretion, leaned forward and said, ‘Have you read Meg Gardiner?’
Alleluia! Her face cleared, her demeanour lightened and she beamed. ‘Ah, yes, I like Meg Gardiner.’
I didn’t pretend she is a friend of mine -that would have been pushing it.
I’ve read her books – that was enough.

For the rest of the meal we discussed Meg’s Evan Delaney series – the thrills, the high-octane action, the humour.
Even the men joined the conversation.

I didn’t have a dessert or a coffee.
I had Lady Gray.
A lively little number.