Lazy Bride?

My wedding planning has been going very smoothly.
Mostly because I haven’t done any.
I don’t think I really like it.
Now I bet you’re wondering if I’ve got cold feet.
I haven’t.
My feet are under a cosy duvet because I’m in bed early.
Early because I’d rather snooze than examine the wedding menu that’s just been sent to me.
I catch myself worrying that I’m not obsessing enough about my big day.
I think I should be doodling designs for place names, gluing crystals to table decorations, flicking through catalogues of colossal cakes.
But I just picture all my friends and family eating outside in the sun and I feel satisfied.
The problem is they won’t be eating if I don’t sort out the food.
At least I have a venue and a church.
I even have a dress.
I walked into the shop, tried on four, and bought one.
Done and dusted far too efficiently. Even though it’s the perfect dress, surely I should’ve been traipsing around London for months looking for it.
This evening I told myself that wedding planning is like packing for a holiday.
I’m obviously excited about the holiday but I’m much less enthusiastic about the hard bit, the
choosing what to wear for more than one day in a row or in this case, deciding what menu, flowers, ribbons, readings perfectly reflect our true characters.
Then there’s the music.
I’ve just received a reply from a band which I contacted about playing at the wedding.
I press play and it’s like I switch on again.
I feel the enthusiasm tickling my toes.
The sun is setting over the coast and my family, who have finished eating the food that did arrive, are getting up to dance.
Panic over.
I’ve still got time to obsess.

A Novel and 12 Guinea Pigs

So now that I’m not a Shop Girl I’m working at being a novelist.

Last week I sent off my first five chapters to an agent.

I’d met up with her last May after I’d won a Blog Award.

“I was actually thinking you might be good at teenage novels,” she said, after reading my synopsis.

I thought of snogging and slang and my mind went blank.

I said I’d try it out but instead I continued with my original plan.

The chapters I’ve sent are not for a teenage novel. This might prove problematic.

I’m hoping she miraculously finds some hidden genius in it worth pursuing.

I assume, being a pessimist, that she will give it a half-hearted tick and write, ‘better luck next time,’ at the bottom in pencil.

I rang her up before I sent them.

Sending off submissions without phoning first is for cowards. It’s what I’ve always done.

“Is today a good day?” I said, sitting on the dusty stairs of my shop, feeling butterflies in my stomach.

“I might take a while to get back to you,” she said.

“Take as long as you like,” I heard myself say and cringed.

She only takes one new client on a year which sounds far too discerning if you ask me.

The thing is not to believe that Agents are Gods with the power to make or break you.

They need writers as much as we need them, right?

Right?

I’ve got to play my part and get it written regardless.

So here goes.

I bought a half-price calendar covered in guinea pigs on the weekend to mark out my aims. (It was guinea pigs or nothing).

The difference between a writer and a successful writer is the first spends a lot of time buying stationary and talking about writing and the latter actually writes.

I will endeavour for this next crucial month not to get distracted by the usual temptations or the twelve guinea pigs.

So the blurb: Once upon a time in a land far away (depending on where you), there was a boy (well, he starts as a boy then becomes a man) who in a moment of incredible coincidence discovers that in a land far, far away (again, depending on your current geographical position) there is a girl he needs to meet....

Haha, look, the guinea pig is hiding under a book!

Is it tea time yet?

The Grand Finale

I’m fired up.

I’ve never had such a strong desire to sell lights in my life.

That’s really saying something considering I’ve spent most of my life in a light shop.

The joke is this is our last week.

This Saturday we close our doors to the public.

And then we open them again on Sunday to pack up, and if a few members of the public fancy a quick purchase then we will let them in.

But then we really, truly close our doors.

It’s probably because these are our last 4 days that I’m so motivated to make the most of them.

Petra and I are assembling crystal non-stop from the moment we arrive in the morning till the moment we force ourselves to say ‘enough is enough’, which can be any time after 7pm.

Lunch break is a vegetable pasty up a ladder.

To keep us going Mum supplies us with the occasional melt-in-your-mouth Lindt chocolate that a customer gave us at Christmas.

“Good job I’ve hidden them or we’d eat them all,” she says, which doesn’t make much sense since she must know where they are to be giving them to us.

Already this week chandeliers have been bought for houses in China, Jamaica, Ghana, Nigeria and Wales.

We’re selling real beauties for half their usual price.

People that cried when they saw the prices in Selfridges are now crying for joy because they can afford a real crystal, gold or chrome-plated chandelier after all.

Mum has been working into the early hours to get orders wired up and customised for low and high ceilings. Next comes the packing of these purchases, which can take half a day if they are for shipping.

Some customers appreciate what we do and others don’t and that’s how it has always been.

I’ve moaned in the past but now we’ve reached the end of the journey I don’t feel like moaning at all.

I wake up and I want to be at the shop making things happen.

I want to be rushing around finding boxes, making sellotape handles, lighting up lights that have never been lit.

I wake up and I realise that I’m looking forward to going to work.

I wake up and I want to be with my fellow Shop Girls, because they are simply the brightest and the best.

Christmas Spirit and Olives

Christmas coupled with a Closing Down Sale makes life very busy.

My finger tips are sore after manic crystal pinning and I can barely zip up my vital fourth fleece which protects me from the arctic temperatures of our shop.

Fond memories of a nail salon in Bogotá come to mind and I push them away.

My hands currently resemble those of Santa’s great grandmother.

I’m not complaining. I love it when it’s busy like this.

When all the shop crew are together I feel happy.

There’s great banter and team work when Alfie is building lamps, Papa is throwing massive boxes down the stairs and Petra is laying out rows of crystal to pin. When Mum is going the extra mile by cleaning a half-price chandelier and I’m relishing the thought of a new space on the ceiling.

We’ve been working late to get our jobs done and on Thursday we reward ourselves with a bottle of wine and upgrade from a jar of Crespo olives to a superior pot of marinated ones.

It’s the little things in life, after all.

The little oily, herby things.

People believe we are closing now. Old customers bring us in chocolates and promise a drink that probably won't happen (but how nice anyway).

To make things a little more hectic, the Fiancé and I move north.

North of the river, that is.

I finally get the chance to be excited about having my own chandeliers.

Each time I come into the living room, I look up at the sparkly crystals and feel uplifted.

We get our first Christmas tree as soon as we move in and name it ‘Pepe the Great’.

We bring it home and find that its trunk is teeming with bugs.

The Fiancé grabs deodorant and a lighter, and the flames roar as he torches all the little beasties.

The smell is amazing. Pepe is less impressed.

Back at the shop, Christmas takes the form of a little bark crib in the window, complete with a mini fire that lights up.

Everyone wants to buy it.

“Sorry, I’m inheriting it,” I tell them.

What am I going to do after the shop?

The best I can!

As ever, at this time of year, I’m thinking it’s time for a revolution in my life.

Sometimes you get lost in the flow and you make excuses for not achieving your goals.

Lately I’ve been unable to get up early or squeeze writing time in at night.

I’ve been feeding my inner Spartan mince pies and half price sparkling wine and it’s all been very cosy.

The thing is, all the films on telly are insisting I spread the festive cheer and believe in Santa so his sleigh can take off.

I wouldn’t want to be a Bah! Humbug!

So...Ho ho ho, I think I’ll let the Christmas spirit bubble for the time being.

When January comes, a new story will begin.

Back to School

I contacted my old school to see if I could speak at an assembly about my journey from blogger to author.

I’d just booked a stall to sell copies of Shop Girl Diaries at their Christmas market but I knew I wouldn’t sell many if no one knew anything about it.

The date was set for the 29^th November.

The time: 8 am.

When the day arrived, there was a massive tube strike.

I got up at 6am to find all my tights had vanished.

The only tights I could find had fake suspenders outlined on them.

I pulled them up anyway, believing my skirt would hide the sexy pattern.

My local station was closed so I ended up having to take two buses and a tube to get there.

I was running late and phoned the head mistress to warn her.

“We’ll sing a hymn or something,” she said.

As I strode towards the school building I noticed with horror that my inappropriate tights were very visible.

I jumped the toilet queue as soon as I got there and yanked up my tights so hard I ripped them.

I couldn’t believe it. How on earth could I walk into a room of two hundred girls aged 10 to 18 wearing ripped suspender tights?

I took off my boots, pulled off my tights and hurried into assembly with bare legs.

On a raised stage I looked out across a room filled with girls dressed in blue.

Once I’d been one of them in that same uniform. Would I have been eager to listen to an author?

I like to think so.

We sang a lively hymn and one of the girls read out a prayer. There was such a positive vibe that despite my nerves and cold legs I felt happy to be there.

There was a lectern for my notes which gave me great comfort.

The lights dimmed and I showed my first picture.

It was a photo of me in my St James’ school uniform when I was 4 years old, writing on a slanted board that we used to use.

I relaxed pretty quickly and enjoyed telling my story.

“Fantastic,” my head mistress whispered when I’d finished and I felt really chuffed.

She continued her support after the assembly by lending me some tights.

It was impressive how many back-up tights she had; clearly the mark of a successful woman.

The Christmas Market took place on the following Sunday.

Petra and I spread out sparking crystals, little brass ornaments and of course, my books, on our stall.

Our prices suited a child’s pocket money and we had lots of little people pleased to be able to buy little brass baskets and sparkly beads.

The Fiancé stood close by cheekily bullying parents into buying my book.

I squirmed as he did it but I couldn’t complain as he got great results.

By the end of the day I wheeled my suitcase home 18 books lighter!

Brilliant.

*Thank you St James School and all those who wished me real good luck by buying my book!

Closing Down...Honest!

The shop has been closing down for two years and three months.

To be fair, it’s only been ‘closing’ most of that time. Mum thought writing ‘down’ on the window was too negative.

Last month she finally wrote the whole thing.

There was little reaction from the public so she painted around the letters in pink to make it stand out.

No one believes us but this time we’re not bluffing.

In fact we weren’t bluffing before. It just takes a long time to clear a three storey building that has been gathering stock for over thirty five years.

We put a sign on the door: 8 weeks to go.

That provoked a bit of panic.

“I better hurry up,” a customer said and then disappeared, leaving us wondering if he was talking about buying a light or catching the bus.

Inside the shop we put up the customary signs ‘Everything Must Go!’

Then we worried that the hagglers would be ruthless so Mum wrote ‘Nearly’ in front of each one so they wouldn’t think we were desperate.

There are lots of bargains so if you want a chandelier now is the time. You have eight weeks, honest.

Someone else is moving in so we can’t change our minds.

I’m not sure we can imagine life without the shop.

What will we all do?

“It must be magical working in here,” a customer said last week, her eyes widening with each sparkle of crystal and I didn’t know what to say.

Obviously it’s not magical working in a shop just because it sells sparkly things but you don’t want to dampen the mood.

We’ve had fun times but it’s exciting to be going.

It’s like being a baby bird about to be pushed off a cliff. Isn’t that how they learn to fly?

Harsh but effective.

I think we’re all ready to swoop off.

So hurry, if you don’t want a chandelier but still fancy a reminder of our lovely shop, my book is only a click away: Shop Girl Diaries

On the Third Day... (of job hunting)

Day 3 and still no job.

What a disaster!

I was secretly hoping for a top editor to pop out of nowhere and say,

“Hey kid, I’ll show you the ropes but don’t expect a million dollars...”

I’d turn up in her chaotic office and she’d give me a brisk once over, her eyes narrowing behind her chunky designer glasses.

“For starters I want you to get me a tall, extra dry mocha with a coat of cinnamon and no cardboard handle.”

“Why no cardboard handle?”

“Goddammit, do you need a reason for everything?”

It would be tough but that first task of getting a coffee would lead to numerous published features, vital contacts, invaluable confidence, excellent computer skills and ultimately a best-selling novel.

I know, too many films and not enough degrees!

Meanwhile I’m finding it difficult to begin looking for a flat before I’ve got a job.

Perhaps my Fiancé won’t mind living with his in-laws for a few more wee... mont...years?

Alternatively he could leave me behind for a posh studio and we could text each other from time to time.

We could be like one of those modern couples who have their own separate apartments.

Except my apartment would actually be my childhood bedroom in my Mum’s.

Chin up!

Day four is approaching and there’s bound to be a reply from somewhere soon.

Though I’m slightly worried that if I check my mail one more time the glare of my computer may reverse my laser eye surgery.

I must simply remember that Rome was not built in a day.

Although technically, if the world was only built in 7, then Rome should’ve taken much less than a day.

Like half a quarter of a millisecond.

The time it takes to make a decision to stop procrastinating and do something about not having a job!