There doesn't seem enough of it around. Years ago before people could phone each other, twitter, insta, or facebook, there was the chance for lovers to express themselves on pen and paper.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "How do I love thee, let me count the ways."
Carol Anne Downing "Warming my lady's pearls."
William Shakespeare's "Sonnet 116 " the one that starts - Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Love is not love which alters when alteration finds..."
Recently I have been thinking about my husband.
In my minds' eye, I see him steadfast, tall, holding his dying brother's hand. A hand that looked exactly like his own. Looking into the far distance and keeping his brother company in his last moments.
I loved him so much at that time.
I watch him sleep. When we first got together it was because I was frightened he would hear me snore. But now I watch his chest rise and fall silently, listening to the comforting purr of his breathing.
He is my good sense, my touchstone, my best friend and collaborator in all things.
We have our secret world.
His smile makes me smile. He is kind, clever, loving and capable.
Yet doesn't see it.
He has sat with me many hours in the Hospital holding my hand. Comforting me, making me laugh, making me brave enough to face all the tests I had to undergo.
We wake and look at the sunrise together, we shower together, recently this, as I have problems with balance.
I look in his olive green eyes and I still see the young man I fell in love with, the young man who bought me lunch at work when I was living on Mars bars, so that I could pay a mortgage and bring up my son on my own.
It's been twenty two years since he walked into the BBC Studio where I worked and we were introduced to each other.
We were fast friends almost immediately. Confiding in each other, and being stupid together, going for long drives after work, so long at one time that we were reported missing to the police!
I love him more every day, even though the times have been hard these past three years for us. Illness, bereavements, estrangements from those we loved.
So many memories now, and so many more to make.
I was lucky to find the love of my life, and as dear Jane Austen says in Pride and Prejudice, 'Reader, I married him.'
Tuesday, 31 July 2018
Friday, 27 July 2018
Short Story freebie
Copyright
© Margaret Cooper-Evans
The right
of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been
asserted in accordance with the
Copyright,
Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights
reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a
retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without
the prior permission of he copyright owners.
This is a
work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents
is purely coincidental.
CLARA ROCK
It had been a year since Danny died.
I still go over that day in my mind every morning as I squeeze onto the 7.45 train with hundreds of familiar strangers. We jolt along in the sufforcatingly hot carriage,the air conditioning never seems to work on this line. As we move towards Marylebone Station, that day starts inside my head - again, as it has done for the past twelve months.PTSD I suppose. It's not likely I can ever forget.
I changed my name to Clara Rock, the place he died, so I wouldn't.
Thinking back, it was an easy climb, we'd done it a couple of times before. He was roped, for some reason he didn't want to wear a harness like the rest of us. Not exciting enough for him, I suppose.
Clive was above him,I was below.
I see him falling, smiling, laughing - almost like he was on a ride at Alton Towers.
He'd slipped before. Done this before. Big joke. But this time he had unscrewed his carbiners. He had done it. On purpose.
He grinned up at us as he fell.
The shock was terrible for all of us.
Especially me.
What should have been a stunning dream holiday in the Far West of Cornwall had suddenly turned into a nightmare.
The train shuddered to a halt, bringing me back to the moment, I thought I should have got the fast train, but it had been cancelled. As I walked out of the station towards Baker Street,
I felt choked as the memories flooded back. I made my way to work as usual, along the hot pavements.
I had to crowd fund his funeral. He had no money. None.
He didn't own anything of value. His flat was a mess, we just put everything in the skip across the road by the demolition site. His Landlady said she wouldn't charge us back rent if we could leave it as it was when he moved in.
Immaculate.
It took three weeks; cleaning, painting the walls, taking the bottles,newspapers, girly mags, and clothes to the recycling.
How could a twenty six year old guy have so much crap in his flat?
His parents came down to help. His father stared disbelievingly at the remnants of his son's life, trying to make sense of it. His mother cleaned and tidied as if he was coming back that day, and she had to have it ready for him. She stood, red eyed in the kitchen amongst the take away trays and burger wrappings, tears falling. The only thing he had in the fridge was a fine growth of green furry mould.
I walked into the office. Executive Travel. My job was to shovel would be tourists onto over booked planes. I got well paid for it, but it was boring. My RayBans blocked the flare from the car windows in the street, and disguised my tears from passers by.
I wanted to take today off, but Olivia had beaten me to it. So I wasn't allowed. Fucking Olivia. who had only met Danny through me, had taken a week off.
I had been his girlfriend.
I turned my computer on and went into the back to make the coffees.
"Mawning darling." Clive drawled, dropping his manbag by his seat, and walking into the back to get his coffee."How are we on the first anniversary of Danny's death?"
"Oh you know." I handed him his black, no sugar. "Fucked up."
He smiled, "He was a bastard wasn't he?"
"The best kind." I sat at my computer and opened up the bookings screen.
Danny's face popped up as an emoji waving at me.
"I suppose you think that's funny!" I snarled at Clive turning the screen towards him.
"Not me darling, I'm surprised you think it was." He came to look over my shoulder as I turned the screen back towards me.
He fiddled with the keyboard. He was wearing expensive aftershave that filled my nostrils.
Clive was tall, handsome, well manicured. I wondered for a moment why all the really good looking guys were gay.
"Look at this, he sent this the week before we went to Cornwall."
"So he knew what he was going to do?" I asked.
"Obviously." Clive squatted beside my chair, "Perhaps there's more."
"He didn't leave a note at the flat." I said feeling weird.
Suddenly the shop door opened with the bell ringing. A fat middle aged woman with dyed purple hair, wearing an oversized orange tee shirt opened the door for her even fatter husband. She had tattoos of her grandchildren on both arms.
"Can Coon." She breathed heavily as she waddled into the shop. "Got any fing for Can Coon?" She elongated the word as Cockneys do.
Clive stood up. Suddenly very masculine. "When are you thinking of going?" He asked.
I took the cups back to the kitchen. Danny had joined us last year as a temp, but as he could sell snow to Eskimos, he was very quickly made permanent.
So the four of us, Clive, Danny, Olivia and me became not just a sales team, but a kind of disfunctional family. That sometimes included Clive's partner Miffy.
Danny was the life and soul of our party, he dared us to go on adventures. All on staff discount. So weekends were spent caving, bungee jumping, canoeing, paragliding, you name it. Week after week with Danny and his dares. We were getting exhausted, but no one wanted to be the first to give in.
More and more excessive adventures followed until one day, in the pub after work, Clive said, "darlings, I'm suffering from adrenalin overload, and my poor Miffy hasn't spent any real time with me in weeks." He sipped his drink. "What about doing something a little safer? Miffy can watch us from a Hotel balcony by the sea as he sips his cocktails." He smiled, "we can still go out and try and kill ourselves."
"Clara Rock." Danny spurted enthusiastically. "I've always wanted to climb Clara Rock since I was a kid."
"Where is it?" I asked sipping my Margarita, "I can't afford a long haul flight this month."
I remembered the pile of brown envelopes containing bills, mounting up on my table at home, waiting to be paid.
"Cornwall," he grinned. He was handsome when he smiled."We can drive down, a road trip. What do you think?"
"I'm in!" Oliva fluttered her eyelashes at Danny as she smiled. She'd fancied the pants off him from the moment he came into work for us.
She didn't know it, but I was the one he was sleeping with.
"Sounds lovely." Clive finished his drink. "We need to learn the ropes so to speak, what say we go to the climbing wall at CMK on Sunday? Miffy can do a bit of shopping."
"CMK?" Danny smiled puzzled, "what's that?"
"Central Milton Keynes," I answered. "It's got a ski slope, a climbing wall, a sky diving air tunnel."
Danny was immediately enthusiastic. "Lets do the lot! Come on guys, you only live once."
"Climbing." Clive pursed his lips. "We need to learn how to climb, to practice. That's all I'm doing."
So we practised, we learned the ropes, the techniques, the equipment. We climbed plastic walls, we climbed Mam Tor in the Peak district, we even climbed Clara Rock a couple of times, though not quite to the top.
What was different that day, I couldn't tell you. We were all up for it. Danny more than the rest of us.
It was now a year later and he was gone.
That evening Clive invited Olivia and me to his flat in Finchley. His Miffy made us cocktails and we toasted Danny's life, laughing about the dares he got us to do.
"Is it time to see the film I shot that day?" Miffy asked slightly worried."Are you ready?"
We all nodded in agreement.
The huge flat screen tv was switched on and the memory card inserted into it's side.
We watched ourselves climbing the huge stack of rock. Seagulls circling us screeching through the bright blue sky, thinking we were after their eggs. The scenery was stunning, the sea was a beautiful turquoise green against the white sand on the beach.
We looked quite professional, roped together, a steady climb. Lots of easy foot and hand holds. This time we reached the top and stood taking in the view. Clive waved to Miffy on the opposite cliff top and blew him kisses. So we all did and fell about laughing.
Danny had bought our picnic from M&S, salmon in pink gin, creme caramels and a bottle of raspberry and elderberry wine. An explosion of tastes that didn't go together. Just like us.
Just like Danny.
We watched hawk eyed as we made our descent. Danny was unscrewing his caribiners as we absailed down, he freed the rope, and fell. He passed us, smiling and waving.
He said something as he fell.
Miffy stopped the shot so that we could make it out.
It wasn't goodbye.
It was YouTube.
We stared at each other for a moment. Clive picked up his laptop and went on to YouTube.
"What do I look for?" He asked frustrated.
"Danny Seagull." I suggested, "It's his work log in."
Miffy took the laptop and typed it in. After scrolling through films of seagulls nicking ice creams and chips, he found it. Danny Seagull adventures.
Danny's bright tanned handsome face popped up.
"Hi guys, took you long enough." He was sitting on the balcony of our hired villa in Cornwall.
The sea was bright blue against the white of the walls of the villa. "So, I'd better tell you then, hadn't I? Clive. Stop frowning, your forehead will look like a bum crack!" He laughed.
Clive rubbed a hand over his face.
"I just wanted to say I couldn't have spent my last year with better people." He sipped a cloudy lemonade he had on the table and smiled.
"Oh, Clive and Claire, thanks for all the sex!"
Miffy frowned at Clive, who looked puzzled, and Olivia frowned at me because she thought it was true.
Danny laughed loudly. "I wish I could see you faces, what a joke!"
"Turn it off!" Olivia pouted.
"No!" Clive, Miffy and I stared at her.
"OK, time to get serious. I have a brain tumour. Cancer. Inoperable. I'm going to slowly lose my marbles, my bodily functions, and myself." He sighed, but he was still smiling. "So I spent every penny I earned, probably more, and had as many adventures as I could with you guys." His eyes softened, "but today is the day I say goodbye. Yesterday I couldn't pick up my razor, today I have a massive headache, so I know what's coming next."
We all gasped in shock.
"See this?" He picked up the cloudy lemonade."It's so full of drugs that I won't feel a thing. Just pleasure." He laughed again. "Yeah, I'm a great big shit. I hope you'll all forgive me, extenuating circumstances and all that." He stood up. "Well, time to go, you're all waiting for me by the car." He looked straight into the camera. "Really love you guys."
He switched off.
Silence.
Miffy picked up his cocktail "To that great big shit Danny Seagull."
"Danny Seagull." we echoed, laughing and crying at the same time.
Tuesday, 24 July 2018
Standing on my Shoulders
In 2014 about this time of year I fell ill with a mysterious virus. For while it was touch and go. I was told to lie in bed and not move, as I started my recovery.
I had bad days, very bad days, and days when I could just about manage.
It was at this time I wrote my first history book. The Women of the English Civil War. During my travels with the Sealed Knot re-enactment society, over the previous fifteen years, I had gathered information and researched the lives of the women of the 17th Century. As I thought my time was coming to a close, and was told I must not get out of bed, I'd use the time to write the book I always meant to get round to doing.
Obviously I'm still here. Despite the last two years of recurring illness, I'm making headway again. This is me on the right last week. Happy, being a lady who lunches with my friend.
My book is still selling well, in fact I have written quite a few books now, some for fun, some were requested, some for competitions.
My 'The Women of the English Civil War' has been used in research for PHD study, for dissertations, parts of it copied and sold on by people who thought I wouldn't find out.
A Guardian article a couple of days ago, The BBC History Magazine, a few months ago.
Now books are being written and sold, on various ladies, from my Women of the English Civil War using my research. Is it serendipity? Is it the Zeitgheist? Or is it that History is the same story told again and again?
Now I might have believed any of the above, if I hadn't actually spoken to the relatives of the women in my book, from whom I got my information. If I hadn't found information hidden for years in the Ashmolean where I worked, doing research on the exhibits, as part of my job.
At the time (2014) there was hardly any recognition of the contribution that women made during the English Civil Wars, which was why I'd written my book. So,I self published on Amazon. Later I started Nuova Stella Publishing with my husband Andrew to promote my books and other rising new stars.
An agent told me recently that there was no call for women's history fictional or otherwise. The market was dropping. The following week The Witchfinders Sister, and the Apothecaries Daughter appeared and they went down a storm. One of them being a Richard and Judy's Bookclub of the week winner.
The book I have just finished is called "A Farthing for Oxford". It is about one woman's life during the English Civil War and the ensuing Protectorate. It has been written and re-written until it was perfect, and should be out on Amazon soon in book form.
This woman is not an appendage to a man. She is her own woman, as far as she is allowed to be, by the time she lives in.
Anne Farthing my central character is affected by a mixture of events in her life, that had actually happened to many of the women that I researched for Women of the English Civil War. An agent told me it was too realistic and people didn't want to know about everyday life in the 17th Century. It was too much like a history book.
So I concentrated on the story and took out the irrelevant historical facts (rewrite 3 & 4).
I stood on no-one's shoulders to give me an up with my recent book.
I copied nothing, I researched everything. I lived it in part, as a re-enactor for the past 20 years. I used 17thC diaries of various women, waded through outrageous spellings and hundreds of pages of what women thought was important to them at that time.
Most of my books have 4 or 5 star reviews.
None of my books are zombie books, all of them sell. So I hope Farthing will not only sell,
but be the first of my books to be reviewed by a newspaper, and BBC History Magazine, with whom I have a love hate relationship. Love the fact they use my work. Hate they put another person's name on it.
I had bad days, very bad days, and days when I could just about manage.
It was at this time I wrote my first history book. The Women of the English Civil War. During my travels with the Sealed Knot re-enactment society, over the previous fifteen years, I had gathered information and researched the lives of the women of the 17th Century. As I thought my time was coming to a close, and was told I must not get out of bed, I'd use the time to write the book I always meant to get round to doing.
Obviously I'm still here. Despite the last two years of recurring illness, I'm making headway again. This is me on the right last week. Happy, being a lady who lunches with my friend.
My book is still selling well, in fact I have written quite a few books now, some for fun, some were requested, some for competitions.
My 'The Women of the English Civil War' has been used in research for PHD study, for dissertations, parts of it copied and sold on by people who thought I wouldn't find out.
A Guardian article a couple of days ago, The BBC History Magazine, a few months ago.
Now books are being written and sold, on various ladies, from my Women of the English Civil War using my research. Is it serendipity? Is it the Zeitgheist? Or is it that History is the same story told again and again?
Now I might have believed any of the above, if I hadn't actually spoken to the relatives of the women in my book, from whom I got my information. If I hadn't found information hidden for years in the Ashmolean where I worked, doing research on the exhibits, as part of my job.
At the time (2014) there was hardly any recognition of the contribution that women made during the English Civil Wars, which was why I'd written my book. So,I self published on Amazon. Later I started Nuova Stella Publishing with my husband Andrew to promote my books and other rising new stars.
An agent told me recently that there was no call for women's history fictional or otherwise. The market was dropping. The following week The Witchfinders Sister, and the Apothecaries Daughter appeared and they went down a storm. One of them being a Richard and Judy's Bookclub of the week winner.
The book I have just finished is called "A Farthing for Oxford". It is about one woman's life during the English Civil War and the ensuing Protectorate. It has been written and re-written until it was perfect, and should be out on Amazon soon in book form.
This woman is not an appendage to a man. She is her own woman, as far as she is allowed to be, by the time she lives in.
Anne Farthing my central character is affected by a mixture of events in her life, that had actually happened to many of the women that I researched for Women of the English Civil War. An agent told me it was too realistic and people didn't want to know about everyday life in the 17th Century. It was too much like a history book.
So I concentrated on the story and took out the irrelevant historical facts (rewrite 3 & 4).
I stood on no-one's shoulders to give me an up with my recent book.
I copied nothing, I researched everything. I lived it in part, as a re-enactor for the past 20 years. I used 17thC diaries of various women, waded through outrageous spellings and hundreds of pages of what women thought was important to them at that time.
Most of my books have 4 or 5 star reviews.
None of my books are zombie books, all of them sell. So I hope Farthing will not only sell,
but be the first of my books to be reviewed by a newspaper, and BBC History Magazine, with whom I have a love hate relationship. Love the fact they use my work. Hate they put another person's name on it.
Friday, 20 July 2018
Life choices
Firstly I have to apologise for the adverts that appear on my blog. It seems I have no control on what rubbish they put up and I certainly don't get paid for it. I really must try to get some control of that.
Control - interesting word.
How much control do I actually have over anything?
When I left education I wanted to be a writer or an artist. My father pushed me towards secretarial work, as to him, money was more important than ambition. He filled in forms for me and got me an interview with the Civil Service Registry of Business names.
In my innocence I had been writing to apply for jobs with large newspapers, and advertising agencies my degree was Fine Art. Not really relevant to either, but with no other guidance I wrote on my little typewriter to people at the top. Not the personnel departments!
I have a lovely letter from Marjorie Proops who replied to the letter I wrote asking for a job at the Daily Mirror. She told me I'd have to do at least a year or more on a local paper, to get some experience. Then apply for junior jobs as they were advertised.
I was disappointed, there was no way I wanted to work for The Hackney Gazette for two years.
So I wrote to the CEO of a huge London Advertising agency, who when he'd finished laughing at the gall of a young woman straight out of Uni, phoned to say that there were more artists than jobs for them and to give up that line of enquiry.
I kept writing, had romances published in Jackie, Woman, and Woman's Own. I also illustrated other peoples articles and books, I sold paintings on a sell or return basis to an artists supply shop in Oxford Street. Apparently my innocent views of the Irish countryside where we used to holiday, were bought by quite a few Americans.
All money I earned had to go to my Mum and Dad. His reasoning being he'd kept me all these years, so now it was time to pay back. I told him I didn't ask to be born. Wow! Boy, that was a mistake, I think you could have heard his explosion in Australia!
So I worked for the Civil Service and hated it. Even applied for the Diplomatic Service, unfortunately my father's political views were unacceptable to the interview committee.
One day I saw a job in the Guardian for a job at ITN, applied and got it. Helped out in the newsroom and in the graphics department and had a great time learning the ropes. I wanted to move on, but ITN was a small company based in Wells Street in the West End, and there was no-where that was a "fit" for me.
However BBC Broadcasting House was just around the corner in Portland Place, I had an interview and worked for them in Staff Training, where I learnt heaps, doing a camera and radio course alongside the other trainees, after I had set up the equipment for them.
I found that in the BBC and my writing and artistic skills were appreciated through the camerawork and early computer generating caption machines.Even though in the BBC in the 80s a great deal of lipwork was given to equalities, if you were a woman, it really wasn't easy. It was the best and worst time of my life.
So here I am now. I have worked in the Tourist and Museum Industry for over 15 years after my BBC redundancy. I have been lucky that whoever had the control over what I did next had my best interests at heart (thank you Guardians/Angels/Universe). At times I have felt I have been in a bumper car on the Dodgems at the fair, crashing into this and that.
Now, I am actually doing what I love. Writing. History. Cooking. Making historical clothing.
So I got there in the end. I have the control.
Have a great weekend everybody. Much love.
Control - interesting word.
How much control do I actually have over anything?
When I left education I wanted to be a writer or an artist. My father pushed me towards secretarial work, as to him, money was more important than ambition. He filled in forms for me and got me an interview with the Civil Service Registry of Business names.
In my innocence I had been writing to apply for jobs with large newspapers, and advertising agencies my degree was Fine Art. Not really relevant to either, but with no other guidance I wrote on my little typewriter to people at the top. Not the personnel departments!
I have a lovely letter from Marjorie Proops who replied to the letter I wrote asking for a job at the Daily Mirror. She told me I'd have to do at least a year or more on a local paper, to get some experience. Then apply for junior jobs as they were advertised.
I was disappointed, there was no way I wanted to work for The Hackney Gazette for two years.
So I wrote to the CEO of a huge London Advertising agency, who when he'd finished laughing at the gall of a young woman straight out of Uni, phoned to say that there were more artists than jobs for them and to give up that line of enquiry.
I kept writing, had romances published in Jackie, Woman, and Woman's Own. I also illustrated other peoples articles and books, I sold paintings on a sell or return basis to an artists supply shop in Oxford Street. Apparently my innocent views of the Irish countryside where we used to holiday, were bought by quite a few Americans.
All money I earned had to go to my Mum and Dad. His reasoning being he'd kept me all these years, so now it was time to pay back. I told him I didn't ask to be born. Wow! Boy, that was a mistake, I think you could have heard his explosion in Australia!
So I worked for the Civil Service and hated it. Even applied for the Diplomatic Service, unfortunately my father's political views were unacceptable to the interview committee.
One day I saw a job in the Guardian for a job at ITN, applied and got it. Helped out in the newsroom and in the graphics department and had a great time learning the ropes. I wanted to move on, but ITN was a small company based in Wells Street in the West End, and there was no-where that was a "fit" for me.
However BBC Broadcasting House was just around the corner in Portland Place, I had an interview and worked for them in Staff Training, where I learnt heaps, doing a camera and radio course alongside the other trainees, after I had set up the equipment for them.
I found that in the BBC and my writing and artistic skills were appreciated through the camerawork and early computer generating caption machines.Even though in the BBC in the 80s a great deal of lipwork was given to equalities, if you were a woman, it really wasn't easy. It was the best and worst time of my life.
So here I am now. I have worked in the Tourist and Museum Industry for over 15 years after my BBC redundancy. I have been lucky that whoever had the control over what I did next had my best interests at heart (thank you Guardians/Angels/Universe). At times I have felt I have been in a bumper car on the Dodgems at the fair, crashing into this and that.
Now, I am actually doing what I love. Writing. History. Cooking. Making historical clothing.
So I got there in the end. I have the control.
Have a great weekend everybody. Much love.
Wednesday, 11 July 2018
That time of year again
We worked on the garden till it got dark, it was cool after 7pm so we went and deadheaded the roses, cut the lavender, the savoury, pulled the weeds and couch grass out.
I bound the lavender and savoury to dry for my living history. I have made jams and jellies out of our big crop of strawberries. The pears are growing well and the blueberries. I have already stewed and frozen Rhubarb, and the garlic, sage and fennel have a little way to go yet before cropping.
Roses abound, this year I have made rose water from the deep red roses and I have dried bay leaves for cooking. Although the poor bay tree is scorched from the sun now.
Our next foray out with the Sealed Knot is coming soon. Almost everything is ready.
Could I live in the real 17th Century? People did, but they understood the rules and abided by them. I've never been good at rules, I'd probably be put in the stocks or burnt as a witch if I couldn't learn to keep my head down.
Some photos of our plants for you.
Have a good week everyone.
I bound the lavender and savoury to dry for my living history. I have made jams and jellies out of our big crop of strawberries. The pears are growing well and the blueberries. I have already stewed and frozen Rhubarb, and the garlic, sage and fennel have a little way to go yet before cropping.
Roses abound, this year I have made rose water from the deep red roses and I have dried bay leaves for cooking. Although the poor bay tree is scorched from the sun now.
Our next foray out with the Sealed Knot is coming soon. Almost everything is ready.
Could I live in the real 17th Century? People did, but they understood the rules and abided by them. I've never been good at rules, I'd probably be put in the stocks or burnt as a witch if I couldn't learn to keep my head down.
Some photos of our plants for you.
Have a good week everyone.
Monday, 9 July 2018
Mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the mid-day sun.
Wish I didn't read the news. Perhaps I'll stop.
The heat always makes the English go bonkers.
https://uk.video.search.yahoo.com/search/video?fr=mcafee&p=utube+mad+dogs+and+englishmen+go+out+in+the+midday+sun#id=1&vid=a0c13df4b079b9d18d5bf7ff02af3140&action=click
Nothing new really. However, I don't think they wrecked ambulances, shot at people in traffic jams, or crushed taxis for fun. I am totally ashamed of what's happening here.
Waiting for the spate of looting and burglaries when Trump comes over as we don't have enough police to go round.
Only good thing is that we have got rid of Boris Johnson and David Davis, perhaps they'll join Nigel Farage fishing for protected species of sharks.
See Farage's twitter.
What is the matter with us that we have turned into savages and that's an insult to savages
The heat always makes the English go bonkers.
https://uk.video.search.yahoo.com/search/video?fr=mcafee&p=utube+mad+dogs+and+englishmen+go+out+in+the+midday+sun#id=1&vid=a0c13df4b079b9d18d5bf7ff02af3140&action=click
Nothing new really. However, I don't think they wrecked ambulances, shot at people in traffic jams, or crushed taxis for fun. I am totally ashamed of what's happening here.
Waiting for the spate of looting and burglaries when Trump comes over as we don't have enough police to go round.
Only good thing is that we have got rid of Boris Johnson and David Davis, perhaps they'll join Nigel Farage fishing for protected species of sharks.
See Farage's twitter.
What is the matter with us that we have turned into savages and that's an insult to savages
Friday, 6 July 2018
Too hot to work 30 in the house!
I did the housework from 7am to 9.30 am today while it was cool.
I've been writing ever since. It's been hard work I feel like I'm melting. My poor cats have stuffed themselves under the hedges in the garden.
I wish I was back in Cornwall. I could walk down to the beach and put my feet in the cool sea. Watch the tourists turn lobster red and blistery from a day in the sun.
The weekend is coming up, it's going to get hotter. I want to go back to my Cornish house with the cold granite walls and walk barefoot on the cold kitchen floor. I want to hear the gulls scream over the garden and see my laundry dry rock hard on the line.
All day here there has been drilling and sawing, I feel like I'm living on a Trading Estate not in a village. In a close with ten houses, we have a man who sells cars from his drive. A busy child-minder, a motorbike team, one empty house, and a person who seems to spend all day cutting granite with a saw. Ear splitting.
Apart from that there is the noise from the building site next to the school. Yet another new estate. Sometimes my paintings on my wall wobble when they are working there.
The front of the house is like a car park. 15/16 cars most days.
In Cornwall there were cows, a sea view, a blustery garden. Privacy. Room to breathe.Room to walk. Friends.
I have friends here but even though I am closer, visits are rare. I spend a lot of my time on my own writing. Trying to get my book finished and hoping that perhaps this one will be the one that makes the big money.
Falmouth earlier this year. We keep going back, time and again. Soothes the soul.
I need big skies, blue green seas, quiet. I need room to breathe I need the air not to burn.
I need to go home.
I've been writing ever since. It's been hard work I feel like I'm melting. My poor cats have stuffed themselves under the hedges in the garden.
I wish I was back in Cornwall. I could walk down to the beach and put my feet in the cool sea. Watch the tourists turn lobster red and blistery from a day in the sun.
The weekend is coming up, it's going to get hotter. I want to go back to my Cornish house with the cold granite walls and walk barefoot on the cold kitchen floor. I want to hear the gulls scream over the garden and see my laundry dry rock hard on the line.
All day here there has been drilling and sawing, I feel like I'm living on a Trading Estate not in a village. In a close with ten houses, we have a man who sells cars from his drive. A busy child-minder, a motorbike team, one empty house, and a person who seems to spend all day cutting granite with a saw. Ear splitting.
Apart from that there is the noise from the building site next to the school. Yet another new estate. Sometimes my paintings on my wall wobble when they are working there.
The front of the house is like a car park. 15/16 cars most days.
In Cornwall there were cows, a sea view, a blustery garden. Privacy. Room to breathe.Room to walk. Friends.
I have friends here but even though I am closer, visits are rare. I spend a lot of my time on my own writing. Trying to get my book finished and hoping that perhaps this one will be the one that makes the big money.
Falmouth earlier this year. We keep going back, time and again. Soothes the soul.
I need big skies, blue green seas, quiet. I need room to breathe I need the air not to burn.
I need to go home.
Wednesday, 4 July 2018
My new book.
Taking quite a bit of work this one. I haven't written historical faction before. I asked a few people to give me a critique.
Afterwards, (picks self off floor sobbing), massive re-write.
Not a history book -stop trying to teach people history.
OK I can do that.
Stick to the story.
Yes I can do that.
Adjust the punctuation.
I forced myself to do that, but I like my misuse of punctuation.
It's my style - like constantly splitting infinitives. Ok, I fixed that as well.
.
Shorter sentences. Yes.
Adjust timeline. Really? do I have to? Sighs - done it.
It's looking good. No really it is. Shocked myself.
So here's the cover:-
Take out the real life - like going to the toilet -medical/surgical details - war wounds etc.
No. Not happening.
One women's life during the English Civil War, loosely based on the life of Anne Halkett.
Nearly nearly done!
Afterwards, (picks self off floor sobbing), massive re-write.
Not a history book -stop trying to teach people history.
OK I can do that.
Stick to the story.
Yes I can do that.
Adjust the punctuation.
I forced myself to do that, but I like my misuse of punctuation.
It's my style - like constantly splitting infinitives. Ok, I fixed that as well.
.
Shorter sentences. Yes.
Adjust timeline. Really? do I have to? Sighs - done it.
It's looking good. No really it is. Shocked myself.
So here's the cover:-
Take out the real life - like going to the toilet -medical/surgical details - war wounds etc.
No. Not happening.
One women's life during the English Civil War, loosely based on the life of Anne Halkett.
Nearly nearly done!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)