Why I won't become a Hermit

Image from London Attractions Info

Last week I was surprised to overhear myself ranting about the horrors of London.

Without quite realising it, I’d started to think life would be better if I never left the flat.

“I don’t feel like going out anymore,” I said, feeling wrinkles spread prematurely across my face and my red boots turning into orthopaedic grey lace ups. “Everyone’s so aggressive and horrible to each other.”

At some point my view of the dynamic city had flipped on its head.

Perhaps it was all the depressing bus journeys.

Every time I’ve got on a bus recently, it has jerked to an abrupt halt because passengers are shrieking at each other.

Last time there was toxic abuse and a bloody head, all because of an accidental nudge.

I’d cowered on the top deck, absorbing the terrible tension until I couldn’t take any more and got off.

“Really? Is that how you see it?” my cousin said. “I just find everything so amazing at the moment... perhaps because I’m going away and won’t have any of it anymore.”

Soon she’ll be heading to Nepal with VSO (Voluntary Services Overseas). There’ll be kids sniffing glue on street corners and sewage running down the roads and London buses will be a distant luxury.

After listening to her I realised I had to change my view.

Determined to get out I searched online for something to do and ended up in the British Library at a free exhibition on Charles Dickens.

I had no idea he’d been sent to a boot-blacking factory at the age of 12 when his father was sent to jail for not paying his debts. He’d written about the great social injustices of his time but I hadn’t known he’d had firsthand experience.

The Victorians had a fascination with the macabre and the supernatural and Dickens attended evenings of spirit tapping and table turning, weaving these realities into his books.

Imagine if Mr Dickens had never left his front room.

It became clear as I walked round that temple of books that if I was going to be a writer I had to observe life!

The ideas for my short stories have always arrived like gifts when I’ve been out and about.

Some external impulse sets my imagination off. It might be something unremarkable, a man asking for change, a woman crying quietly on the tube.

If I hide from the world, my stories will dry up. And that really would be terrifying, much more terrifying than a journey on a London bus.

Collaboration with a Cat & Other Stories

Photo by Oriol 'Oli' Benet

I’m back!

And I've got a good feeling about 2012.

My year began with the news that my short story ‘Five Pounds Short’ is to be published in the Earlyworks Press anthology. It’s about the domino effect that occurs when a woman loses a fiver.

Ironically, I shaved a thousand words off it so I wouldn't have to pay an extra fiver for submitting such a long piece.

I’ve also just spent two weeks in Barcelona working on my novel.

It’s had a few false starts and I’ve thrown away at least two novels worth of words but finally my first draft is done.

I stayed in my brother’s flat while I was away since he was on holiday and looked after his little cat.

It was the first time I’d ever looked after a cat. In my mind I fully expected it to be as easy as looking after a house plant.

The cat, called Kitty, (pronounced Kiddy due to my brother’s fiancée being American), insisted on collaborating with my novel. As soon as I began to write she’d walk nonchalantly over my keyboard.

You'll be able to differentiate our writing styles quite easily.

Her sentences read something like this: jrierhvkw;lmnvfjfjdfdm

Occasionally mine aren’t much better.

Apart from her eagerness to play at 4am, our time together was enjoyable and productive.

I wrote more in two weeks than I would normally write in two months.

Now I’m faced with the fresh challenge of editing the whole book and I expect it will take a few months

But I've lots of short stories up my sleeves and on my hard drive. I’m thinking it’s time they got together in a short and sweet compilation, a perfect little read before bedtime.

Be it the end of the world or not, I'm going to make 2012 a year of action.

By Bizarrocomic.blogspot.com

Merry Christmas!

Dear readers

I've decided to take a break from my blog until the new year.

It's been running reasonably smoothly since June 2008, so I think I deserve a little holiday from it, don't you?

I'll be using that time to concentrate solely on my novel, which takes significantly longer than a tweet or a blog to complete!

Thank you all for reading this year. Have a wonderful Christmas and I'll be back posting blogs in the Happy New Year.

Shop Girl X

Dodgy Diagnosis

It was my brother's 30th birthday and we were discussing aches and pains in a restaurant in Barcelona.

“I went to a chiropractor the other day and he said I’d need to see him for 6 months," my brother said. "When I said ‘no’ he messed my back up out of spite.”

“They don’t recognize it as a treatment here in Spain,” his girlfriend said.

“It hurts every morning now,” my brother said. “I was fine before, I only went because I thought it was good for you.”

The waitress came over and my brother’s vegetarian girlfriend asked if the rigatoni a la putanesca contained meat.

The waitress shook her head, “No…only bacon”

We exchanged baffled looks. Only in Spain, we all thought. His girlfriend chose a salad instead and the topic moved onto dentists.

On my last visit the dentist had said there was decay under my fillings and I’d need to replace them.

I had one nice white filling and one nasty grey filling. To spread the cost I decided to have one done now and one later.

By the time I realized he’d chosen to replace the nice white filling instead of the more obvious antique grey one, he was already poking metal instruments in my mouth and I couldn’t talk.

“When will I need to do the other one?” I’d asked, once he’d finished.

“Soon,” he’d said. “The other filling is worse than the one I’ve just done.”

The table shared my frustration and we all ‘grrrd’ in unison.

“Well when we went to the dentist he told us we had to sleep with special gum guards on,” my brother’s girlfriend said. “Apparently we grind our teeth in our sleep.”

“Can you imagine how sexy that’d be drooling everywhere when we said goodnight to eachother?” my brother said and he pretended he had the gum guards on as he leant over to his girlfriend, “Goo’ ni’ daaa’ ing”

“Goo’ niii’” she mock spluttered back.

My cousin then recounted the time when her dentist had recorded her oral problems into his dictorphone as she sat in the chair beside him.

“The teeth will return to their position after two years,” he’d said, “as the patient has a GINORMOUS tongue.”

To make it worse, an osteopath had then told her that her head was too big for her neck.

“But that’s ridiculous, what are you supposed to do about that?” I cried.

“Take steroids,” my husband said, “to get a body builder’s neck.”

My husband’s own dentist had told him when he was little, that he would need a chin implant when he got older.

“Not that I might need a chin plant, that I would have to have one.”

My husband’s chin is just as a chin should be.

“The problem is we don’t know any better!” I said. “We don’t know when they’re right or wrong.”

The rigatoni a la putanesca arrived.

At least in food we could make a correct diagnosis.

My husband looked at it with great disappointment.

The plate of pasta twirls was covered in pesto and grated Parmesan; there was no rigatoni, no putanesca and not a bit of bacon in sight.

A Cup of Wi-Fi

In the olden days neighbours used to come over to borrow some salt, or a spoonful of sugar, a cup of milk, maybe even an egg.

Last week we got a note through the door from our teenage neighbour’s parents.

It went like this: ‘Sorry to ask, but can we have the code for your Wi-Fi so my boy can play X-box-live.’

Judging by the details that followed about the game in question, we guessed that the note was a forgery, and that the ‘boy’ had written it himself.

We mused that the neighbours downstairs would’ve gone for a different approach. They would’ve said their son was doing a very important assignment for school and desperately needed to use the internet for a few days. With that excuse we wouldn’t have thought twice.

A game on X-box live doesn’t inspire the same generosity of spirit. Neither does spit on the front door step, beer cans in the hallway and bits of dismantled bike everywhere.

The evening wore on and the note was left unanswered.

Then it came; the inevitable drum of teenage feet on the stairs and the tentative knock on our door.

“I wish they’d just asked for an egg!” I whined.

I was fretting because I’m not very good at saying no. I was worried that if we upset them there’d be tension and hostility and spit in our mail box.

My husband opened the door while I listened from the kitchen.

“Did you get my... (pause)...the note?”

“Yeah I did, but we pay monthly for our connection.”

“Yeah but it won’t cost you anything!” the boy cried.

“Okay then, let’s turn it around,” my husband said, calmly. “You pay for it and I’ll get it off you for free.”

“Uh...”

“Now if you want to go halves, then that’s a different story.”

The boy sounded pleased about this possibility and said he’d asked his Dad.

I felt relieved by the encounter. Even before the London Riots I’d had a pressing desire to be at peace with these neighbours, but there’d only been monosyllables and wary glances.

The following evening, we anticipated the knock on the door as we heard the telltale thud on the stairs.

The teenager was back with a five pound note.

My husband gave him the password and the deal was done.

After a year living alongside our neighbours, this was our first bonding experience.

It isn’t the romantic notion I had of neighbourly love, but in these times of turmoil you can’t be picky.

Note to Self

I realise I’m procrastinating when I find myself wiping down my keyboard with a cotton bud.

Don’t try it at home. It just spreads dust from one key to the other.

When I set myself an amount of words to write, I get those words written. If I don’t set myself a deadline, no one else will.

I’m fifty words away from completing my target but I’ve stopped to play with a cotton bud.

It’s because I’m feeling hypersensitive about a comment I received on my blog.

The reader wrote that he didn’t agree with my recent views and that I was getting sloppy.

It’s good that people have different opinions and express them. In fact I wish the author of the comment would get a blog going so I could read what he has to say more fully.

Alas, not everyone has time to write a blog. You’d be surprised how many hours they take.

Which is why it’s irritating when a reader only comments when they don’t like the post.

Criticism doesn’t succeed in its aims without encouragement.

My writers group (who meet monthly) is ruthless with their feedback but when I leave, though I may want to temporarily burn my manuscript, I feel good because I know and they know it’s because I can do better.

To help me get through my novel, I began the ‘Enough is Enough Writing Group’ with a fellow writer, who was fed up of procrastinating. It consists literally in the two of us getting together every two weeks and reading through each other’s chapters.

The energy that our meetings produce and the motivation we feel afterwards is enough for us to power through to the next stage.

I really recommend to anyone struggling through a project, whatever it may be, to join forces with someone like-minded.

But choose wisely.

If you find yourself coming away from a session with them, feeling as flat as road kill in the middle of the motorway, then they are not the right people for you.

Find someone who’ll make you fight for what you want, not someone who’ll leave you pondering the efficacy of a cotton bud.

Occupy London - Day 1

Photo by Elizabeth Hacker

‘There are none so hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free’ - Goethe

Saturday marked the beginning of Occupy London.

My cousin and I sat alongside thousands of other people in front of St Paul’s Cathedral.

A People’s Assembly was set in motion.

These assemblies have been taking place in Spain and Greece since spring.

They discuss the reasons why we are there and the practicalities of occupying the space.

With only a weak loudspeaker, it was difficult to hear so people echoed the speaker and passed the words through the crowd.

Why were we all there?

For some people the catalyst was the bail-out of the banks, others have been feeling uneasy about the system for much longer.

What unite the protesters are the questions and answers they are waking up to.

Is our democracy a real democracy?

Does our government work for us or for financial corporations?

We’re told that cuts need to be made to our public services because of massive national debt and yet there’s no law in place to stop an estimated 18 billion pounds being lost in tax havens ever year.

The Assembly suggested splitting into different groups: Shelter, Toilet, Food and Drink, Internal Affairs, External Affairs, Media, Legal Advice and Liaison.

“This movement is about empowering each one of us,” a girl said, in our group.

On one level, the message is simple. We need to take care of each other.

“People over Profits!” the protesters chanted in America.

Across the world people from of all walks of life came out to protest.

‘This is the Ethical revolution,’ a sign said.

My cousin and I didn’t camp out at St Paul’s. We were ill-equipped and went to leave at 6 o’clock.

Three lines of police refused to let us go home, though there were only a handful of us in the alley way.

“It’s not kettling,” one snapped at us. “It’s containment.”

It looked more like a power trip to us.

We waited patiently, knowing that if we were calm, they would have nothing to react against.

“Why did you come here?” one said to us. “You know protests all end up with you all getting kettled.”

“Contained,” his colleague corrected.

My cousin quickly reminded him that, without protests, we wouldn’t have the rights we have today. She reminded him women may not have got the vote.

“Women got the vote but they still can’t drive,” the second policeman scoffed.

“It was new back then,” the first policeman said, referring to demonstrations. “Now it’s old hat.”

“I just don’t know why you came,” the first one said.

His statement summed up what he thought a protester was; a scruffy, aggressive, negative, trouble maker whose actions were uncalled for.

In the demonstrations in Barcelona, I saw a sign that read, ‘You don’t have to have dreadlocks to join this revolution.’

This is a global movement. It is open to and for all humanity and no one should feel intimidated if they choose to show their solidarity.

Frankly, I hope standing up for what you believe in never becomes old hat.

Demonstrations around the World on 15th October:

SPAIN - Madrid

PORTUGAL - Lisbon

USA - New York