And what have you done to my beautiful self?

Diablo the crow in Malificent, quite loved himself as he was, it's one of my favourite quotes from a movie.

My other favorite is "Never give in, never surrender." From Galaxy Quest.

Both of them are difficult to do, how many of us really think we're beautiful ? Diablo as a human, has skin scarred from his life as crow. But he knows he is beautiful.  He loves who he is.

Never give in, never surrender, is I think the most difficult to do.  Many times in my life I have felt like giving up. The worst time of all was after my first husband and I split up. I was left with my little boy to care for.  

I'd had a hard day at work, I'd been working as a camera operator all day with a giggling actress in a bonnet, not the main lead I might add. Getting two lines wrong until midnight.
I'd also taken tape typing - transcription from radio programmes - home to do to earn extra
money to pay the mortgage. I was going to start that early next day.

I was in the bath, with candles burning and perfumed bubbles, my son was sleeping. His father had left after an argument. He'd called the police to search for me as I was so late home from work.  You have to understand this was the 1980s - nobody really had mobile phones - except people who worked in the City.

So as I left work I ran into my current husband, who was there to pick up his girlfriend, she was a trainee producer, also working late, two policeman and an angry confused security guard.

I drove home in tears, not because the police were horrible, they weren't they were lovely, glad to find me safe. Not because Stan the security guard was confused and angry, he was
okay when I explained everything.  Not even because the baby seat in my battered old car
was loaded with radio tapes to transcribe by 10 am the next day.

It was because I felt worthless. That morning I had grabbed the first jumper off the top of the laundry that morning in a hurry, the studio gallery was always cold because of the air conditioning. So I was wearing a padded shouldered burgundy leopard skin jumper on top of a summery white and red flowered dress. 

I was always doing everything for everybody else except me. Paying the mortgage and the nursery fees,all the other bills left me at break even point. There was no spare money at all. So I worked and worked to give my son little luxuries and outings.

That day I felt I looked like I'd just jumped out of a skip. Then I saw myself with the black rings under my eyes, and the unbrushed hair. Not only that I had CSO blue ankles. I had painted my worn out scuffed white stillettos with CSO blue paint to make myself look a bit smarter. The paint came off.

So  "What had I done to my beautiful self?"

As I lay in the bath, I went under the water, I used to have a thing about being able to hold my breath under water, see how long I could do it. Then I suddenly thought - what if I didn't bother holding my breath, what if I just lay there and let go.  So I did.

Didn't last long, as soon as the water started to do it's work, I suddenly thought about my son. I couldn't leave him on his own, I sat up coughing and spluttering.

So "Never give up never surrender."

Shouldn't look back, people tell me.  But it's history. MY history and it's made me who I am today. I look back, forward and to the present.

I now appreciate my beautiful self, scars and all, like Diablo the Crow.  I will not give up and never surrender, after all I am on another amazing adventure.  That of being an author.

I've been reading various autobiographies recently, they are amazing. I won't write mine yet. Too busy with writing Hilary Long's adventures and promoting my Women of the English Civil War book, I've only just started.



 



 
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Terry Wogan and Frank Finlay

When I worked at Television Centre, I had the pleasure of meeting Sir Terry. I always volunteered to do the captions and answer the phones for Children in Need. He would blow in to the studio or the green room smiling and genial and chat to everyone, helping himself to glasses of the good stuff. By the end of the evening he was full of the good stuff, a little whirly and swirly God bless him,forgetful of his script but always the gentleman, always affable, always the lovable Sir Terry. He'd thank us all and wave goodbye to go back home to the current Mrs Wogan - his little joke - they had been married for many years. The following morning as if nothing had happened, he would be back at work Fighting the Flab on his early morning radio show.

As I drove to work I'd listen every day, he always made me laugh, especially when TOGs 
(Terry's Old Gits- his fan club) got on to speak to him.  

This January has been a cruel January in many ways to many people. A January that other January's will be measured by, my dear husband said this morning.

My memories of Frank Finlay are a lot calmer, a lovely quiet professional man. I was doing my meet and greet job at Television Centre the time he was making Casanova. I used to walk through the sets to pick up my visitors. I didn't have to. I just wanted to.

Every set had a security guard sitting in it, as the furniture and antiques were for real, the other thing I remember was it was the first time that scenery design provided ceilings for a set. As poor Frank spent most of his time in bed looking up! So there were ornate half and quarter ceilings stacked in the corners of the studios.

I was surprised that his efforts were never taken more seriously, Bouquet of Barbed Wire
was an amazingly brave series for him to star in.  I wish he had won many awards for his work.  Even recently as a jobbing actor, he did an amazing portrayal of an altzeimers victim in Caroline Quentin and Alexander Armstrong's little series, Life Begins.

I have been priviledge in my life to meet and work with some amazing people. I am so very lucky to have had that opportunity.



 

Never what you think it is!

After having a few sessions yesterday of being unable to breathe, and feeling like I'd been punched in the chest I got a late Doctors appointment, turns out I have a chest infection.

I thought I was doing my allergy inhaler wrong or something like that. I thought I was just tired after doing a whole week of marching, walking, book promoting and going to the gym. I'd been fighting this all week, but I got really light headed and couldn't catch my breath.

So I have to go collect antibiotics, they don't give you antibiotics unless it's serious.
I didn't think it was. Now I know it is, I feel worse. Funny that.

I have to "try" the antibiotics and hope they don't cause an allergic reaction, because of all the stupid allergies I have. So that in itself is a pleasure to look forward to. If I do have a reaction - it's hospital again.

Ummm die of pneumonia or anaphalaxsis?  What a choice.

Yes I know I'm being over dramatic. I'm a writer for God's sake. 

As they said to me at the allergy clinic about trying new foods, just because it happened before, doesn't mean it'll happen again.

Done ranting now. Been told to rest - forgotten how - keeping busy is all I know.

Perhaps I'll just make up next years filing system.  That's easy.
Write a bit more Hilary Long.
 

One of those days

Chasing around today, getting my puncture fixed, second time in 4 weeks. Oh well.

Feeling rather off, breathless, unable to sleep, longing to move and I can't find a single house I'd want to move to. Getting book orders processed, creating an author page,and working on lots of book stuff.  

Now if I was in an office and getting paid for this it would be work. But I'm not, I work from home, with random knocks at the door for double glazing or to take in other people's parcels as the post office has closed in the village.

Multitudenous phone calls about random investments and pensions.

Cats coming in/out - hungry/wet - angry/tired - needing cat biscuits or whenever I open the fridge to make some tea or coffee there's a little furry face pleading for something, anything,
probably meaty, to come out of the white box and magically float into their little mouths.

Rubbish in the post, funeral arrangements, leave my loved ones an investment, a will writing
service. 

Wouldn't get that in a proper office.   God I miss work.

I miss lining up the camera cards and doing the run throughs.
I miss dragging pups, redheads and blondes into the studio to cable up the lighting.
I miss offering shots to the director and producer.
I even miss the machine room, but not that much.
I miss fetching the rich & famous from the green room 
and taking them where they're supposed to go.
I miss making the end credit rollers.
I miss being creative and graphicy
I miss working all hours on loads of different things.
I really miss the money.
I miss the laughs and drinks at the BBC Club at the end of the day.

I miss who I used to be.

Just one of those days I suppose. In a strange sort of limbo waiting for things to happen,
after all the highs of the book being accepted, comes the what do I do now? Gruntwork.
is the answer. I am my own secretary, finance dept, admin, as well as everything else.

Mustn't crib about all this, it's all a bit Parson's egg, good in parts, the good bits are really
very good.  I've always wanted to write.  Somehow I thought it would be less lonely.
But all writers I've spoken to say the same.

Oh is that the laundry finished?  I think I can hear the dishwasher doing it's last rinse.
Raining torrents now.  I still have to go back and do the author page again.

C'est ma vie.

 


 



 

The Return of Bebber Nuggins

Last night I watched Moon Boy, a really funny comedy about a wee Irish boy and his imaginary friend. It had us in stitches!  Such a supportive imaginary friend, who after his lad was beaten up by the school bullies said "Ah well, that wasn't so bad was it? We're still  alive."

It was then I remembered my middle sister's imaginary friend, Beanie Booker, she always wore a beret and when she was interested in anything or tried to be funny, she'd twist her lips into funny shapes. Not that I ever saw it, but Carol would be creased up with laughter watching Beanie pull her faces, standing alone in the bedroom having a long conversation with her imaginary friend.

Bebber Nuggins however was a different kettle of fish, he appeared to my son when he was about four and stayed with him until he was nearly nine. Then, The Bebber as we called him, retired to Spain to live on his favourite food Brandy Floss.

I had to set a dinner place for The Bebber, make room for him in the car, apologise if I accidentally trod on him. He grew very quickly apparently and was as big as me by the time Matt was nine.  The Bebber had eight skinny arms two skinny legs, was round like a ball and had a bald round head like a snowman, two beady eyes, a button nose and a great big mouth. On his head he always wore a bright yellow straw boater with red and white ribbon.

Matt drew him for me once or twice, Bebber wasn't a good influence as imaginary friends go, he was quite often drunk on Brandy floss and wrecked things, now this is the weird bit.
Bebber would wreck things in a different room sometimes while Matt and I were talking together, then come in and tell Matt what he'd done.

Then he left for a month to go and get married. He and his new wife lived in Spain.
When he came back from his honeymoon to carry on the tough work of imagining
as he called it, he wasn't exactly a changed man.

One day Matt and I were sitting at the table and as usual I laid a place for the Bebber.
"Don't need to do that, he's gone." Matt said seriously.
"Is he coming back?" I asked,
"No, he's retired to Spain to live in the sun and eat Brandy Floss with his wife."
After that Matt never mentioned him again.

But what if he did come back?  That got me thinking Matt is 33 now, how would the
deal with the Bebber now?

So last night I started a little imagining of my own. A little book called "The Return of
Bebber Nuggins."  Should be out soon.

Strangely while writing this, the page cleared itself and was very hard to get back,
so perhaps he's here already! 

Another Brilliant Nantwich

The weather was good. I say good, not too cold, not raining, as about 1,000 Sealed Knot re-enactors marched through the High Street.I'm a member of the Kings Guard and we were at the front of the march.The Royalist chants rang loud and clear through the streets:
For God and the Cause, the Church and the Laws, Charles King of England, and Prince Rupert of the Rhine.  To be answered by the Parliamentarians chanting from the
back. 

Some stunningly beautiful horses were leading the march down and following on behind.
I turned to look behind me as we marched down. It was a magnificent sight, it would be in small measure what a real army would have looked like, the flags rolled ready for action,
the armies wearing their black armbands for young mum Stacie Jordan and the 100 years young Andrew Gillett.He was the organiser of Nantwich Holly Holy Day, and appeared every year in full 17c dress, even commentating in his nineties.But both lost their own battles last year. So the armbands were worn as a mark of respect for them.
 
Hundreds of visitors lined the route to the Millfield.  I felt proud to be back and marching with the Kings Guard again. I could see the back of my husband's head, and wondered what it would have been like for the real civilian wives following the armies.

We were told not to smile, we were after all marching off to war. Husbands and wives might
die in the fray to come. At the end of the day the real 17c Nantwich may lay in ruins.

It was difficult not to enjoy the moment, we knew we weren't going to die, at least the possibility was very low. We knew that the curry houses and chinese restaurants and pubs that served food would be full of regiments that evening gossiping about the battle and exchanging stories of battles past.

Later the pubs would resound to really bad singing or shouting to music,as many merry
Knotters celebrated yet another brilliant Nantwich weekend.

I did about half the march last year, it has taken me two years to recover from a mystery virus that put me in hospital and nearly finished me off. Every year I try and do a bit more,
last year I walked as far as the Wilbrahim Arms.  I did make it to the church to see the
Rosebowl competition, but it took me a very long time. This year I did the whole march 
down and did crowd control as the Rosebowl was judged.

"Please don't walk through the muskets." I guided a  middle aged well dressed chap out of the way.
"Why not? They're not real." He snapped back.
"Yes they are, and they're loaded."  I smiled at him.

So after that I went to the Nantwich Bookshop to try and show my book to David Williams
and was told to come back on the Sunday.  Long story short. Steve the bookshop owner
is going to sell my book for me, even as he says, it was 365 days too late!

I was really pleased. Not only is my book now in the Bodlian, Oxford and Cambridge libraries and the National Library, it is also in Buckingham Palace's library as I sent a copy to
HRH Princess Anne, who it is rumoured was once in the Sealed Knot Cavalry in her younger days. 

Best of all it is in a bookshop!! One that I have visited and loved for years. When I was very ill and couldn't do any Nantwich thing, my husband and I sat in the bookshop's coffee shop.
We watched our friends march through a raging thunder and lightning storm to fight on the Millfield. The Tudor windows rattled and steamed up, as I watched the pikes and colours
go by, we were warm and cosy sipping tea and I was trying to eat a jacket potato.  At that time I couldn't eat very well.  I just wanted to be well enough to do a proper Nanters again.

I'm nearly three quarters there!  Just need to go on the field next year God willing.  One thing about being so ill is that I've started a bucket list something I never said I'd do.

Organise an SK  Event   TICK    Sealed Knot Trinity Oxford
Write my history Book     TICK    The Women of the English Civil War
Write a murder mystery   TICK   The Hilary Long Mysteries
Get well                           TICK    Very nearly!
See Richard III interred   TICK   This experience was part of history

So many more things achieved last year in a frenzy of I've got to do because...

Anyway must go.  

Speak soon.

Mx

 

Once more into the breeches dear friends

Nantwich this weekend, and a small Cheshire town opens it's doors and its heart to a rowdy bunch of well-meaning 17th Century re-enactors for Holly Holy day.  Signs saying SK OK will be in pub windows meaning that we can go into the pubs in kit (or our clothes as we call them!)

The Rosebowl tournament will be held outside the church - each regiment in turn will show their drill expertise, which changes year by year as more information is found out about the actual 17c drills, or for the sake of health and safety. So it will be practised, and the winner of the Rosebowl is chosen on turnout, expertise and not laughing or messing about.

http://www.battleofnantwich.co.uk/ 

Very hard the last part! It's the first fight of the season and everyone is raring to go, some get the 'red mist' and forget it's a re-enactment and have to be dragged off, but everyone has a smile on their faces.

Old friends are met and bear hugged, new friends are made, and old soldiers remembered.

We will be wearing black arm bands this time for a young mum called Stacie Jordan who leaves a husband and three small children. Also for the loss of a young man called Andy Gillet. 

We will think of friends fighting other battles, Don and Jean Stitchbury as Jean ambles off  the battlefield for the final time. 

Della Aylett, who used to drum and fight with pole arms as a Pioneer (women's regiment), struggling with dealing with an operation that went badly wrong, and making her look as if she had escaped the hangman's noose.

Sconces will be passed, tankards raised, for everyone everywhere who were part of the Sealed Knot.

The Carousing starts in the restaurants and curry houses, and finishes with lock ins in the 
Pubs.  There will be snogging, humping, and good natured ribaldry.  Like the real civil war there will be people from all walks of life taking part.  

I think of the people we re-enact, for which the Battle of Nantwich meant life or death.
It really wasn't a party for them. It isn't always a party for all of us. But the cameraderie
and warmth and common interests keep us together and we support each other.


Looking forward to it, I'll let you know what happens after the weekend.

Yours in the cause.