Brendan at the Chelsea…

First the article in the Times supplement, then the Radio 4 interview with Janet Behan, capped by years of hearing of and about Brendan Behan left me with little choice – I had to go and see this at The Riverside Studios in Hammersmith last week.  Adrian Dunbar was the main man so I expected a queue.

There wasn’t one. The auditorium was only partially occupied and I felt bad for the cast.  The play covered Behan’s last few weeks in the Chelsea Hotel in NY and charted his fall off the wagon into the grave.  It should have been sombre but it wasn’t. The language was expletive, profane even, but the humour, the wit, the sheer joy of it made you laugh when you should have been crying.

And Adrian Dunbar was transformed. Brilliant.   I wrote the cast a note the next day saying they should have had a bigger audience – not to let the number that attended on the Wed night make them lose heart.  If it comes on again, anywhere, go see it.

Honestly.  Tie the heartstrings tight first and leave the expletive filter at home.

Mea culpa

I lied.

It was a quandary – both times – which answers that old question: do you have to be a good speller to be a good writer?

No…but it helps.

Thanks to Linda Gillard for getting me back on track

Getting into Prison

So I find myself in a quandry.

I need to write the scene where the fellow comes out of prison.  It’ll be a moving scene – he thinks he’s alone, he can’t go back, he doesn’t know how to go forward, he isn’t exactly sure where he is at the minute ( you’re not the only one, sweetheart, trust me...). It sounds easy.

It’s not. In my varied career I have been a waitress, barmaid, chambermaid, dutch bulb packer, horticultural shop assistant, teacher, catechist, public speaker and writer. I’ve been in all sorts of obscure places but never, in jail.

And for the first time in my life, that’s a pity.

To be a good writer you have to have A-U-T-H-E-N-T-I-C-I-T-Y.  The only person I’ve even seen coming out of jail was Clint Eastwood and that was not at all suitable. It was dry, dusty and you could hear the crickets whirrupping. There are no crickets in Dublin, even on a good day.  Hence the quandry.

Well, thank God for AA ads.  You know the one: person in trouble asks if friend can help, friend says, ‘No, but I know a fellow who can…’ and next thing there’s the AA man. He can and he does. That’s what sprang to mind this morning.  I scoured Google for prisons in Ireland and eventually rang one.  The chap at the end of the phone said, ‘A writer, that’s a good one.  And you need information…let me think now…’ and he pressed buttons. ‘Right,’ he said, ‘I know the very woman, hold on.’  The phone was silent for a minute then a woman’s voice asked what I wanted. I told her.  I expected that she would be too busy, not in a position to give out such information but no, she said, ‘Have you email?  Send me all the questions and I’ll get the Governor to answer them and get back to you. Will that be okay?’

Would that be okay? 

The AA would be proud of her.

Surrey Life Magazine is proud of me and of my good friend, Meg Gardiner. Here’s the link

http://www.surreylife.co.uk/the-magazine-surrey-people-literary-surrey-so-you-want-to-become-a-novelist–22755

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.

“Call me when you get this…”

My husband was 50 this Christmas. A ski-ing holiday was his idea of a good present; ski-ing holiday is my idea of a contradiction in terms – an oxymoron, if you like.

We had a Ski-ing holiday a few years ago. The first night the chalet we were in burned down and we escaped with only minutes to spare. It explained why half the population of Morzine was outside, in the freezing air, screaming “Allez! Vite!” at three o’ clock in the morning; why the other half looked on in amazement the following day while I stood in the supermarket trying to work out my bra size in centimetres (good Irish Catholics don’t mind going through Geneva airport in pyjamas and a ski jacket but I’m damned if I was going to travel without a bra).

Two year later, we braved it again. On the second to last day, I had a series of text messages – my father had had a stroke, he was stable, he was unstable, don’t worry, come home quickly…and no idea which came in what order. We drove home. Thankfully, he’s made steady progress over the ensuing years and so, when Birthday Boy said what he’d really like was a week’s kamikazi bolting down mountains and teenage sons did their oh Mum, what do you mean tempting fate, I mean pur-lease routine, I fell for it.

Until we got to the top of the first chair lift. On the first day.

There we were, all kitted out, on the top of a piste in heavenly Saalbach after a fire free night, having ascertained that all the relatives and even their neighbours were in good health and I had a panic attack. Convinced that something dreadful was imminent I struggled woe-manfully (ie, like a complete wuss) through the week, coping with the terror only by diluting it in generous measures of gluwein at every opportunity.

And nothing bad happened. The weather was glorious, the hotel (Neuhaus) flawless, the bones intact and the lift broke down only once. That was on the last day, the day when I was feeling so good I went up on my own. Just as I skimmed the highest trees it ground to a halt, deathly silence all round and the only people I could see were my husband and sons whizzing underneath, oblivious. Then the loudspeaker on the pylon beside me crackled into action, in German. I don’t know what it said but the first words were, ‘Achtung! Achtung!’ and the rest sounded ominous. I have seldom prayed so hard…

Twenty minutes later we were off again and I can honestly say that the speed with which I travelled back down that mountain broke records.

The following morning we had a leisurely breakfast then wandered over to ski hire to return the equipment. Once the exhausted credit card was slipped back into the wallet and the efficient Austrian doors whirred open to let us back onto the street I was elated. Safe! It was over! I could pack and go home! Hurrah!

Then my mobile bleeped. It was a message from my dear friend, Sue. It said, Call me when you get this.

I did…

(to be continued……)

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.