I have read two books this week (and yes,okay, they are new books that I have acquired since the Great Book Back Log of a couple of weeks ago, but one was a must-have book by a favourite writer purchased with the remains of a Waterstones voucher received for Christmas, and the other was a Valentine's gift).
So, firstly I read, and wholeheartedly recommend 'Toby's Room' by Pat Barker. Pat Barker has such a delicious simplicity about her writing, such an ease with which she expresses herself, that I sometimes wish I could write like her. But I can't imagine Pat Barker writing about characters like Nearly King Jimbo and mad bonkers chickens any more than I would enjoy writing about World War I, so I shall continue to admire her writing, read and enjoy her writing and stick to my own style.
And the book I have just this minute finished is 'Pirates in an Adventure with the Romantics' the fifth in the 'Pirates in an Adventure with...' series by Gideon Defoe. Hilarious, laugh-out-loud, slap my thigh and call me parrot escapism. Guaranteed to brighten up the gloomiest of days. I am hoping this series will run like the music album series 'Now That's What I Call Music...' (I have the very first one from 1980 - whatever it was when they first started) because I think it's now up to over 100 and I am more than happy to read more than 100 assorted adventures with pirates, so keep 'em rolling Mr Defoe!
And now I am about to start the latest Paul Torday, which again was a Valentine gift and doesn't count in the Great Book Back Log.
Corr, I love reading!
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Monday, 18 February 2013
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Tat's Away!
I continue my war against extraneous tat chez le Manoir, but instead of 'War By Frenzied Flinging' which featured a lot in 2010, I have adopted the more subtle approach of 'War By Subtle Nuance.' This involves a more day-to-day process whereby I chip away in a 'drip, drip,drip' kind of way rather than having to wind myself up for an eight hour sift 'n' sort marathon which generally leaves me physically and emotionally exhausted (I still can't bring myself to get rid of my wedding dress), covered in dust and smelling like a musty cupboard in a second-hand bookshop.
What I do is this:
1) if I open a cupboard or drawer, I think, 'What is in here that I can get shot of?' and I have a quick shufti and select something, then consign it to either rubbish bin/ recycle bin/ charity bag.
2) if I go past a book shelf, I stop and think, 'Which book have I read and am never going to read again?' and I select one and consign it to the charity bag/ pile for other people to have a look at in case they want to read it. Obviously, I adopt this approach only if it's one of my bookshelves. I daren't 'relocate' any of Andy's books because I suspect that even though he has several hundred, he knows exactly where each and every one is and if one went missing he would know and I would have A LOT to answer for, m'lud
3) once a week I look in my wardrobe or chest of drawers and think, 'what haven't I worn for ages/ am too fat or thin to wear/ makes me look like a bag lady or tart' and I put an item in the charity bag
Just before Christmas, we made £115 by selling old DVDs, CDs and a mobile phone on line by using this process.
Today, I have turfed out three things from a cupboard in the kitchen, and a book.
Yesterday, I bought 4 books, which slightly negates the purpose of cutting down on my book collection, but I console myself that a) I had Waterstone's vouchers to spend from Christmas and b) at least I've got a bit of space on my bookshelves to put them in.
So I bought a book on making soft toys for I have a whim to create in 3-D all the characters from Nearly King Jimbo. I can see them now - NKJ himself, Alice, the Queen and King Andy, Mr Jobble, Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff, Farmer Seed and his wife Annie, Bob the Cat, Prince Jimbo of Titbury von Streudelheim the prize-winning angora goat and Mick the Dog. Don't ask me why; I have these thoughts sometimes and whilst I ought to learn to say 'Avaunt ye, crazy thought! Get back to the dark recesses of mine mind,' because these thoughts often result in the acquisition of more extraneous tat, this one got past my internal tat filter. Besides, I like sewing.
And I bought Janet Street-Porter's latest book 'Don't Let The B*****ds Get You Down,' because her last book 'Life's Too F*****g Short,' was very entertaining and I find JSP quite inspirational in an odd sort of way. And she, too, is very keen on getting rid of extraneous tat.
And I bought two novels which promise to be funny and entertaining, yet ever-so-slightly literary at the same time.
So my Waterstone's vouchers are spent. No more book buying for a while. No more tat.
What I do is this:
1) if I open a cupboard or drawer, I think, 'What is in here that I can get shot of?' and I have a quick shufti and select something, then consign it to either rubbish bin/ recycle bin/ charity bag.
2) if I go past a book shelf, I stop and think, 'Which book have I read and am never going to read again?' and I select one and consign it to the charity bag/ pile for other people to have a look at in case they want to read it. Obviously, I adopt this approach only if it's one of my bookshelves. I daren't 'relocate' any of Andy's books because I suspect that even though he has several hundred, he knows exactly where each and every one is and if one went missing he would know and I would have A LOT to answer for, m'lud
3) once a week I look in my wardrobe or chest of drawers and think, 'what haven't I worn for ages/ am too fat or thin to wear/ makes me look like a bag lady or tart' and I put an item in the charity bag
Just before Christmas, we made £115 by selling old DVDs, CDs and a mobile phone on line by using this process.
Today, I have turfed out three things from a cupboard in the kitchen, and a book.
Yesterday, I bought 4 books, which slightly negates the purpose of cutting down on my book collection, but I console myself that a) I had Waterstone's vouchers to spend from Christmas and b) at least I've got a bit of space on my bookshelves to put them in.
So I bought a book on making soft toys for I have a whim to create in 3-D all the characters from Nearly King Jimbo. I can see them now - NKJ himself, Alice, the Queen and King Andy, Mr Jobble, Mrs Bobbinflaxenfluff, Farmer Seed and his wife Annie, Bob the Cat, Prince Jimbo of Titbury von Streudelheim the prize-winning angora goat and Mick the Dog. Don't ask me why; I have these thoughts sometimes and whilst I ought to learn to say 'Avaunt ye, crazy thought! Get back to the dark recesses of mine mind,' because these thoughts often result in the acquisition of more extraneous tat, this one got past my internal tat filter. Besides, I like sewing.
And I bought Janet Street-Porter's latest book 'Don't Let The B*****ds Get You Down,' because her last book 'Life's Too F*****g Short,' was very entertaining and I find JSP quite inspirational in an odd sort of way. And she, too, is very keen on getting rid of extraneous tat.
And I bought two novels which promise to be funny and entertaining, yet ever-so-slightly literary at the same time.
So my Waterstone's vouchers are spent. No more book buying for a while. No more tat.
Wednesday, 3 November 2010
Cover Girl
We've done the text, we've done the illustrations. We've done the 'About the Author and Illustrator' pages, we've done the back of book blurb. We've done even done a dedication.
'How about putting a Much Malarkey Manor logo on the back cover?' I say to Andy. 'You know, like Penguin Books has a tiny penguin and Faber and Faber have funny fuffs.'
'Yes,' says Andy. 'It could be our trade mark.'
So we have a think about what we could use as our trademark logo. It didn't take a lot of thinking about, of course, because the obvious choice was chickens.
'All of them, or one of them?' says Andy.
'Well,' I say, 'I have always been rather fond of the cartoon you do of Mrs Miggins. The one with her wearing her Dame Edna spectacles. And Mrs Miggins was our very first chicken and she is the best chicken, isn't she?'
'Yes I am,' says Mrs Miggins, who is listening in like she does. She's popped into the kitchen to warm up her chest embrocation on the hob. Although her feathers are re-growing after this year's moult, they are taking a little longer to reach their full fluffage and she's doing her best to keep warm now the Winter drawers are on.
'Would you like to be our cover girl?' I say.
'Would it be tasteful?' say Mrs Miggins.
'Of course,' I say. 'Tasteful and dignified.'
'No tassles or cleavage?' she says.
'No tassles or cleavage,' I say. 'Your portrait is an exemplar of the height of decorum. It's the one Andy drew of you wearing your Dame Edna spectacles and looking superior.'
'That's because I am superior,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Would I get paid to be the cover girl?'
'No,' I say. 'Because the copyright of Andy's drawing belongs to him. I could ask him to get a bag of sunflower seeds next time he goes to Pets R Us At Home City if you like.'
Mrs Miggins gives this some thought. 'Okay,' she says. 'And some corn as well. We haven't had corn for a while.'
'I'm a bit loathe to let you have corn,' I say. 'On account of it turning Mrs Slocombe into a nut case.'
'It does make her a bit wild, doesn't it?' says Mrs Miggins.
'Like feeding meat to Oliver Twist,' I say.
'Okay, perhaps not corn,' says Miggins. 'Extra apples then. And grapes.'
'Done,' I say for I am just thankful she hasn't mentioned getting her agent involved in the negotiations.
So, we are ready to roll with the publication of Nearly King Jimbo. We have been so motivated by the project that we are even thinking about next year.
'We could do a Christmas Annual,' says Andy.
'Like a Much Malarkey Manor Almanac?' I say.
'Indeed,' says Andy. 'In fact, we could put together Much Malarkey Manor Hampers for everyone. We could include a bottle of dodgy home-made wine or sloe gin, a jar of marmalade, a jar of chilli jam...'
'A calendar, 'I say, catching onto the whole merchandise thing. 'I could knit novelty chickens and bees and make cakes and biscuits.'
'Oh, the possibilities are endless,' says Andy.
'Indeed they are,' I say.
We are soooo excited about the whole enterprise it's ridiculous!
Let the consumer beware!
'How about putting a Much Malarkey Manor logo on the back cover?' I say to Andy. 'You know, like Penguin Books has a tiny penguin and Faber and Faber have funny fuffs.'
'Yes,' says Andy. 'It could be our trade mark.'
So we have a think about what we could use as our trademark logo. It didn't take a lot of thinking about, of course, because the obvious choice was chickens.
'All of them, or one of them?' says Andy.
'Well,' I say, 'I have always been rather fond of the cartoon you do of Mrs Miggins. The one with her wearing her Dame Edna spectacles. And Mrs Miggins was our very first chicken and she is the best chicken, isn't she?'
'Yes I am,' says Mrs Miggins, who is listening in like she does. She's popped into the kitchen to warm up her chest embrocation on the hob. Although her feathers are re-growing after this year's moult, they are taking a little longer to reach their full fluffage and she's doing her best to keep warm now the Winter drawers are on.
'Would you like to be our cover girl?' I say.
'Would it be tasteful?' say Mrs Miggins.
'Of course,' I say. 'Tasteful and dignified.'
'No tassles or cleavage?' she says.
'No tassles or cleavage,' I say. 'Your portrait is an exemplar of the height of decorum. It's the one Andy drew of you wearing your Dame Edna spectacles and looking superior.'
'That's because I am superior,' says Mrs Miggins. 'Would I get paid to be the cover girl?'
'No,' I say. 'Because the copyright of Andy's drawing belongs to him. I could ask him to get a bag of sunflower seeds next time he goes to Pets R Us At Home City if you like.'
Mrs Miggins gives this some thought. 'Okay,' she says. 'And some corn as well. We haven't had corn for a while.'
'I'm a bit loathe to let you have corn,' I say. 'On account of it turning Mrs Slocombe into a nut case.'
'It does make her a bit wild, doesn't it?' says Mrs Miggins.
'Like feeding meat to Oliver Twist,' I say.
'Okay, perhaps not corn,' says Miggins. 'Extra apples then. And grapes.'
'Done,' I say for I am just thankful she hasn't mentioned getting her agent involved in the negotiations.
So, we are ready to roll with the publication of Nearly King Jimbo. We have been so motivated by the project that we are even thinking about next year.
'We could do a Christmas Annual,' says Andy.
'Like a Much Malarkey Manor Almanac?' I say.
'Indeed,' says Andy. 'In fact, we could put together Much Malarkey Manor Hampers for everyone. We could include a bottle of dodgy home-made wine or sloe gin, a jar of marmalade, a jar of chilli jam...'
'A calendar, 'I say, catching onto the whole merchandise thing. 'I could knit novelty chickens and bees and make cakes and biscuits.'
'Oh, the possibilities are endless,' says Andy.
'Indeed they are,' I say.
We are soooo excited about the whole enterprise it's ridiculous!
Let the consumer beware!
Monday, 1 November 2010
Proper Books
I write today in a tone of reverential hush, because upstairs a work of genius is occurring. Over the weekend, Andy the Pen completed the illustrations for 'Nearly King Jimbo' and today he is constructing the book in some kind of a file that will be accepted by Lulu, the self-publishing company.
Well, every now and then Andy appears downstairs where I have been skulking, doing rivetting stuff such as cleaning out the fridge and my reflexology homework, and he asks me VERY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS about things like page numbering, chapter headings and the placing of illustrations within the body of the text. It's all very publishy and booky and proper! And I've just taken him a cup of tea, and had a sneaky peak over his shoulder, and there are pages with numbers and text and pictures on his computer screen that look like they are from a PROPER book!!
Corr!!
We had a discussion about ISBN numbers over the weekend. And Andy made some more wine and I knitted a pig, but that's two different stories altogether. We've found out where you buy the numbers from, and that they come in blocks of ten. Do we really need an ISBN number, we wondered? According to Lulu, we don't. We can publish through them, and people can order copies without the need for an official number. But if you want to make your book available through somewhere like Amazon, you need an ISBN. And, get this, if you publish with an ISBN number you have to donate a copy of your book to the British Library Archives for free. Ha! What if you don't want to, eh? Do they send round a librarian to shout in your kitchen or something??
Okay, so if we splash the cash (£115 and something pee) for 10 ISBN numbers, what do we do with the other 9? Do they go off? I mean, do we have to use them within a certain period of time, or can we save them ad infinitum? Could I, for example, have one stamped on the side of my coffin, to go with the inscription of 'See, She Was A Proper Writer' on the headstone?' I said we could publish 'The Chicken Blogs' next year. That'd use up two. And I feel I could write more Nearly King Jimbo adventures, in fact once I get started I'm going to be difficult to stop given the potential goings-on in Titbury von Streudelheim.
Anyway, more research vis a vis ISBN numbers is required. And of course a lot of the issue depends on how cocky we feel that people are actually going to want to buy a copy of the book. I mean, it's all well and good handing them out as freebie Christmas presents, but getting people to actually part with cash for them is another pot of ink altogether. Except for my friend Sarah who is still determined to buy copies for her friends and relatives. And I can't imagine anything more depressing than checking your book for sales and feedback and seeing it surrounded by balls of tumbleweed, a lone coyote howling in the background.
Right, I'm going to check on progress at Much Malarkey Manor Publishing House; Andy has just informed me he is uploading a test copy to see how much it's all going to cost.
And apparently there is a difference between vanity publishing and self-publishing. I think I'm going to have to look up that one, too...
Well, every now and then Andy appears downstairs where I have been skulking, doing rivetting stuff such as cleaning out the fridge and my reflexology homework, and he asks me VERY IMPORTANT QUESTIONS about things like page numbering, chapter headings and the placing of illustrations within the body of the text. It's all very publishy and booky and proper! And I've just taken him a cup of tea, and had a sneaky peak over his shoulder, and there are pages with numbers and text and pictures on his computer screen that look like they are from a PROPER book!!
Corr!!
We had a discussion about ISBN numbers over the weekend. And Andy made some more wine and I knitted a pig, but that's two different stories altogether. We've found out where you buy the numbers from, and that they come in blocks of ten. Do we really need an ISBN number, we wondered? According to Lulu, we don't. We can publish through them, and people can order copies without the need for an official number. But if you want to make your book available through somewhere like Amazon, you need an ISBN. And, get this, if you publish with an ISBN number you have to donate a copy of your book to the British Library Archives for free. Ha! What if you don't want to, eh? Do they send round a librarian to shout in your kitchen or something??
Okay, so if we splash the cash (£115 and something pee) for 10 ISBN numbers, what do we do with the other 9? Do they go off? I mean, do we have to use them within a certain period of time, or can we save them ad infinitum? Could I, for example, have one stamped on the side of my coffin, to go with the inscription of 'See, She Was A Proper Writer' on the headstone?' I said we could publish 'The Chicken Blogs' next year. That'd use up two. And I feel I could write more Nearly King Jimbo adventures, in fact once I get started I'm going to be difficult to stop given the potential goings-on in Titbury von Streudelheim.
Anyway, more research vis a vis ISBN numbers is required. And of course a lot of the issue depends on how cocky we feel that people are actually going to want to buy a copy of the book. I mean, it's all well and good handing them out as freebie Christmas presents, but getting people to actually part with cash for them is another pot of ink altogether. Except for my friend Sarah who is still determined to buy copies for her friends and relatives. And I can't imagine anything more depressing than checking your book for sales and feedback and seeing it surrounded by balls of tumbleweed, a lone coyote howling in the background.
Right, I'm going to check on progress at Much Malarkey Manor Publishing House; Andy has just informed me he is uploading a test copy to see how much it's all going to cost.
And apparently there is a difference between vanity publishing and self-publishing. I think I'm going to have to look up that one, too...
Saturday, 4 September 2010
Cats on Heads
There is a picture on the front of the Guardian magazine today of Morrissey with a tabby cat perched on his head.
'Do you think that cat is really sitting on Morrissey's head, or has it been superimposed in some kind of digital camera trickery?' I say to Andy, studying the picture carefully.
Andy didn't know. I had a thought.
'I could start a new web-site called www.catsonyourhead.com,' I say. 'Where people could send in pictures of themselves with cats on their heads. '
'Yes,' says Andy. 'It could be the new global phenomenon. You could write a book about it, too, called 'A Cat on My Head. A bit like when Tony Hawkes travelled around Europe with a fridge.'
'Don't expect me to sit on your head,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I don't know where you've been.'
'Talking of books,' I say, 'next Christmas, not this one because this year is Nearly King Jimbo year, we could do a book based on all the chicken blogs.'
'Yes,' says Andy.
'I'll pass you the name of our agent,' says Mrs Miggins. 'You can negotiate publication rights with him.'
'It's not Tango Pete, is it?' I say. 'Besides, I am your agent. And you chickens would be nothing without me and my writing talent.'
'HA!' says Miggins. 'Don't you believe it. If us chickens weren't around you'd be staring into the back garden writing about the rotary drier or that flipping buddleia you try to murder ever year which still keeps coming back.'
'I could write a story about a rotary drier,' I say.
'It wouldn't be very entertaining,' says Mrs Miggins.
'It might be if it had a cat or two pegged to it in a force ten gale,' says Mrs Slocombe, who, I have to say, got a little too much pleasure from that story a couple of weeks ago about the woman who put the cat in the bin.
I go back to studying the picture of Morrissey and the cat. It looks real. The shadow on the wall behind them looks very convincing. The cat looks a little like Pandora. I toy with the idea of putting Pandora on my head and getting Andy to take a picture. But she can be a little too useful with her claws during the dismount process, can Pandora, and I'm wearing a nice white blousy thing today.
Phoebe would stay put if balanced on my head, because she rarely moves these days unless the vacuum cleaner is after her. But I fear putting Phoebe on my head would be akin to balancing a heavy concrete ball, and it would put my neck out. Tybalt would probably stay put,too; petrified with fear and wondering what in the name of Beelzebub I was doing.
Balancing a bee on my head would just be asking for trouble.
And I don't want to be responsible for encouraging people to force cats to sit on their heads when the cats don't want to. Looking at Morrissey and his cat, they are clearly in tune with each other and the cat is used to perching and staying put . It looks a bit bandy legged; perhaps it is a particularly old cat that will sit anywhere and can't be bothered to move a la Phoebe but not so fat. Or perhaps it's a cat with vertigo and is clinging on to Morrissey's scalp for dear life and the look on Morrissey's face isn't one of concentrated benigness, it's one of 'This friggin' hurts but I can't scream because I don't want Guardian readers to think I'm a great big wuss, especially given my history of gladioli swinging.'
Ah well. Perhaps I'll try it later. After all, I am feeling slightly numb on paint fumes at the moment. Andy has added to the undercoat aroma by transferring three gallons of wine from the bucket where it's been fermenting all week into the demi-johns where it will continue to ferment, for despite the exploding wine episode of last Saturday, he is still determined to build up a sizeable wine cellar for Christmas and no doubt get totally rat-arsed whilst watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special.
Which is understandable. I think I'd have to be pretty drunk to watch any more of Matt 'Potato Head' Smith playing the Doctor. Bring back Tennant, that's what I say.
Now, where have all the cats gone?
So that's our Christmas shopping dilemma sorted out for the next two years.
'Do you think that cat is really sitting on Morrissey's head, or has it been superimposed in some kind of digital camera trickery?' I say to Andy, studying the picture carefully.
Andy didn't know. I had a thought.
'I could start a new web-site called www.catsonyourhead.com,' I say. 'Where people could send in pictures of themselves with cats on their heads. '
'Yes,' says Andy. 'It could be the new global phenomenon. You could write a book about it, too, called 'A Cat on My Head. A bit like when Tony Hawkes travelled around Europe with a fridge.'
'Don't expect me to sit on your head,' says Mrs Miggins. 'I don't know where you've been.'
'Talking of books,' I say, 'next Christmas, not this one because this year is Nearly King Jimbo year, we could do a book based on all the chicken blogs.'
'Yes,' says Andy.
'I'll pass you the name of our agent,' says Mrs Miggins. 'You can negotiate publication rights with him.'
'It's not Tango Pete, is it?' I say. 'Besides, I am your agent. And you chickens would be nothing without me and my writing talent.'
'HA!' says Miggins. 'Don't you believe it. If us chickens weren't around you'd be staring into the back garden writing about the rotary drier or that flipping buddleia you try to murder ever year which still keeps coming back.'
'I could write a story about a rotary drier,' I say.
'It wouldn't be very entertaining,' says Mrs Miggins.
'It might be if it had a cat or two pegged to it in a force ten gale,' says Mrs Slocombe, who, I have to say, got a little too much pleasure from that story a couple of weeks ago about the woman who put the cat in the bin.
I go back to studying the picture of Morrissey and the cat. It looks real. The shadow on the wall behind them looks very convincing. The cat looks a little like Pandora. I toy with the idea of putting Pandora on my head and getting Andy to take a picture. But she can be a little too useful with her claws during the dismount process, can Pandora, and I'm wearing a nice white blousy thing today.
Phoebe would stay put if balanced on my head, because she rarely moves these days unless the vacuum cleaner is after her. But I fear putting Phoebe on my head would be akin to balancing a heavy concrete ball, and it would put my neck out. Tybalt would probably stay put,too; petrified with fear and wondering what in the name of Beelzebub I was doing.
Balancing a bee on my head would just be asking for trouble.
And I don't want to be responsible for encouraging people to force cats to sit on their heads when the cats don't want to. Looking at Morrissey and his cat, they are clearly in tune with each other and the cat is used to perching and staying put . It looks a bit bandy legged; perhaps it is a particularly old cat that will sit anywhere and can't be bothered to move a la Phoebe but not so fat. Or perhaps it's a cat with vertigo and is clinging on to Morrissey's scalp for dear life and the look on Morrissey's face isn't one of concentrated benigness, it's one of 'This friggin' hurts but I can't scream because I don't want Guardian readers to think I'm a great big wuss, especially given my history of gladioli swinging.'
Ah well. Perhaps I'll try it later. After all, I am feeling slightly numb on paint fumes at the moment. Andy has added to the undercoat aroma by transferring three gallons of wine from the bucket where it's been fermenting all week into the demi-johns where it will continue to ferment, for despite the exploding wine episode of last Saturday, he is still determined to build up a sizeable wine cellar for Christmas and no doubt get totally rat-arsed whilst watching the Doctor Who Christmas Special.
Which is understandable. I think I'd have to be pretty drunk to watch any more of Matt 'Potato Head' Smith playing the Doctor. Bring back Tennant, that's what I say.
Now, where have all the cats gone?
So that's our Christmas shopping dilemma sorted out for the next two years.
Saturday, 29 August 2009
Title in Deed
'We've been thinking about a title for our book,' say the hens, excitedly.
They have worked out that by standing on each other's heads and using a clever combination of levers and pulleys, they can get into the house via the 'conservatory' windows that I leave permanently open during the day to lessen the aromatic effect that occasionally escapes the cats' poop trays. They no longer need to wait for me to open the door to let them in.
'Invitations are so passe,' says Mrs Miggins when I question their sudden arrival. I was in the shower, you see and the last thing you need as you make your morning ablutions is to turn around and find three wild-eyed hens peering through the cubicle door at you. It was one of those occasions when I wished I hadn't been so thorough in banishing the lime scale that had previously graced the glass, thus forming a hazy veil of privacy.
'Can I get dressed first?' I say, as Mrs Slocombe waves an A4 loose leaf file at me.
'If you must,' says Miggins.
'Have you thought of using a minimising body scrub?' asks Mrs Pumphrey, peering closely at my thighs. 'I can give you some of mine, if you like. Does wonders for the cellulite.'
'She makes it herself,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'From bananas, apricots, oyster shell and ground up snails.'
'I'll pass, thank you kindly,' I say, reaching for a towel.
'Suit yourself,' says Pumphrey. 'But it'd cut back your excess wobble no end and...'
'GO AWAY!' I shriek.
When I go into the bedroom to get dressed I find the hens lounging across the bed draping themselves in my collection of floaty scarves.
'Can you wait in the kitchen please?' I say. 'Just whilst I get dressed.'
'Oh, we're all girls here,' says Miggins. 'Modesty is very passe, you know. Besides, we have lots of ideas about our book that we want to share with you. We've been working on them all night and we're very excited.'
As she says this, she bounces up and down on the pillows.
'Please don't do that,' I say, as feathers fly into the air. Actually, when I take a closer look, the pillows seem rather flat.
'Mrs Slocombe,' I say as sternly as I can whilst wrapped in a bath towel. 'Have you been eating feathers from my pillows?'
'Mmmmmm, mmmm,' denies Mrs Slocombe, shaking her head. A tiny feather drifts from the corner of her beak and her comb turns a slightly darker shade of red.
'Okay,' I say. 'Tell me these great ideas for my book.'
'Our book,' says Miggins. 'Let's get that straight from the start. You'd be nothing as a writer without us.'
I give this concept a moment's thought. I'd certainly have less eggs without them, but would I be a lesser writer, let alone a nothing? Hhmmmm...
'Fire away,' I say.
'Right,' says Mrs Pumphrey, balancing her pince nez on the end of her beak. She opens the file and coughs.
'You haven't caught Mrs Slocombe's cough have you?' I ask.
'No, I am merely clearing my throat in preparation for the enormity of the genius I am about to digress,' says Pumphrey.
'I see,' I say.
'Firstly, the title. We've come up with a selection, but the one we like best is this one,' says Mrs Pumphrey, and she hands me the file, pointing to where a line of text has been highlighted in luminescent green.
'Cluckinghen Palace - Our Life of Servitude,' I read. 'You are joking, aren't you?'
The hens look at me. Not a glimmer of irony tickles their faces.
'I think it sums up the premise of the book exactly,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Me too,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'We had a vote. We all agree.'
'So that's the title sorted!' says Miggins brightly. 'Now, the dedications page. We thought that...'
'Woah,' I say. 'I think I need to consider the other titles first before we commit to this one.'
The hens give a collective sigh.
'If you must,' says Miggins. She hops from the bed, quickly followed by the other two. 'We'll be back later to check on progress.'
And off they trail, down the stairs, bump, bump, bump. Just as I think they've gone, Mrs Miggins shouts back up the stairs. 'By the way,' she calls, 'the eucalyptus has shed all over the lawns again. Clean it up, will you, there's a good girl.'
'Our life of servitude indeed,' I mutter. 'Pah!'
They have worked out that by standing on each other's heads and using a clever combination of levers and pulleys, they can get into the house via the 'conservatory' windows that I leave permanently open during the day to lessen the aromatic effect that occasionally escapes the cats' poop trays. They no longer need to wait for me to open the door to let them in.
'Invitations are so passe,' says Mrs Miggins when I question their sudden arrival. I was in the shower, you see and the last thing you need as you make your morning ablutions is to turn around and find three wild-eyed hens peering through the cubicle door at you. It was one of those occasions when I wished I hadn't been so thorough in banishing the lime scale that had previously graced the glass, thus forming a hazy veil of privacy.
'Can I get dressed first?' I say, as Mrs Slocombe waves an A4 loose leaf file at me.
'If you must,' says Miggins.
'Have you thought of using a minimising body scrub?' asks Mrs Pumphrey, peering closely at my thighs. 'I can give you some of mine, if you like. Does wonders for the cellulite.'
'She makes it herself,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'From bananas, apricots, oyster shell and ground up snails.'
'I'll pass, thank you kindly,' I say, reaching for a towel.
'Suit yourself,' says Pumphrey. 'But it'd cut back your excess wobble no end and...'
'GO AWAY!' I shriek.
When I go into the bedroom to get dressed I find the hens lounging across the bed draping themselves in my collection of floaty scarves.
'Can you wait in the kitchen please?' I say. 'Just whilst I get dressed.'
'Oh, we're all girls here,' says Miggins. 'Modesty is very passe, you know. Besides, we have lots of ideas about our book that we want to share with you. We've been working on them all night and we're very excited.'
As she says this, she bounces up and down on the pillows.
'Please don't do that,' I say, as feathers fly into the air. Actually, when I take a closer look, the pillows seem rather flat.
'Mrs Slocombe,' I say as sternly as I can whilst wrapped in a bath towel. 'Have you been eating feathers from my pillows?'
'Mmmmmm, mmmm,' denies Mrs Slocombe, shaking her head. A tiny feather drifts from the corner of her beak and her comb turns a slightly darker shade of red.
'Okay,' I say. 'Tell me these great ideas for my book.'
'Our book,' says Miggins. 'Let's get that straight from the start. You'd be nothing as a writer without us.'
I give this concept a moment's thought. I'd certainly have less eggs without them, but would I be a lesser writer, let alone a nothing? Hhmmmm...
'Fire away,' I say.
'Right,' says Mrs Pumphrey, balancing her pince nez on the end of her beak. She opens the file and coughs.
'You haven't caught Mrs Slocombe's cough have you?' I ask.
'No, I am merely clearing my throat in preparation for the enormity of the genius I am about to digress,' says Pumphrey.
'I see,' I say.
'Firstly, the title. We've come up with a selection, but the one we like best is this one,' says Mrs Pumphrey, and she hands me the file, pointing to where a line of text has been highlighted in luminescent green.
'Cluckinghen Palace - Our Life of Servitude,' I read. 'You are joking, aren't you?'
The hens look at me. Not a glimmer of irony tickles their faces.
'I think it sums up the premise of the book exactly,' says Mrs Miggins.
'Me too,' says Mrs Slocombe. 'We had a vote. We all agree.'
'So that's the title sorted!' says Miggins brightly. 'Now, the dedications page. We thought that...'
'Woah,' I say. 'I think I need to consider the other titles first before we commit to this one.'
The hens give a collective sigh.
'If you must,' says Miggins. She hops from the bed, quickly followed by the other two. 'We'll be back later to check on progress.'
And off they trail, down the stairs, bump, bump, bump. Just as I think they've gone, Mrs Miggins shouts back up the stairs. 'By the way,' she calls, 'the eucalyptus has shed all over the lawns again. Clean it up, will you, there's a good girl.'
'Our life of servitude indeed,' I mutter. 'Pah!'
Friday, 28 August 2009
Going publico-loco (Part 2)
Trying to crank up the creative writing muse yesterday was hard work. There was a lot of staring at the laptop screen until I started seeing floaters before my eyes. So I switched off the laptop and stared at an A4 notebook until I started seeing lines before my eyes. I tried wandering around the house a bit, flicking imaginary dust off the cats with my multi-coloured extendable handle feather duster. But nothing doing.
So I gave up and did some embroidery instead.
A hen appeared just after lunch. I was concentrating on a particularly tricky piece of brickwork on my farmhouse- many different shades of one colour, putting one stitch here, and two there, then changing colour for another couple there and one way over there, you know how it is with embroidery, anyway I didn't notice her coming into the living room and when Mrs Slocombe coughed, I jumped out of my skin and stabbed myself in the thigh with my needle and 'Light Tangerine 067'.
'I thought you were on holiday,' I said.
'I was,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'But I came home because I caught a cough from a pig.'
'So you weren't just trying to attract my attention to your presence then?' I said. Stabbing myself in the thigh had caused me to leap up from the sofa and it was at this point I discovered I'd embroidered myself to my needlework.
'No,' said Mrs Slocombe, coughing again like a consumptive Romantic poet. 'If I wanted to attract your attention I'd do this,' and she flung herself at my other thigh and gave it a good hard peck.
'OW!' I yelled. 'What was that for?'
'I wanted to attract your attention,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'I want to know about this book you're writing about us.'
'Oh, I tried to get started on that this morning,' I said. 'But the power of creative thought isn't home today, I'm afraid.'
'Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey said you'd already been writing about us in your blog. What's a blog?'
'Well,' I said. 'It's like an on-line interwebbly diary. Blog is an abbreviation for 'web log.'
'Oh,' said Mrs Slocombe. She hopped onto the sofa and started fiddling with the TV remote control. 'Like in Star Trek. Captain's log, star date 2746 and all that jazz.'
'That's right,' I said.
'So is a Captain's log a clog?' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Ooooh, 'A Home in the Sun,' my favourite.'
'No,' I said. 'A clog is a type of shoe. From Holland, I believe.'
'I've been to Amsterdam,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Got a mouse friend there. Lives in a windmill.'
'Nice, ' I said.
Mrs Slocombe turned to me. I could hear her brain ticking on over-time.
'So if the Captain was a pirate and had a trunk, would it be called a caplunk?'
'I think,' I said, 'you are getting confused with a children's game that uses marbles and sharp pointy sticks.'
'Oooh, you shouldn't give children marbles and sharp pointy sticks to play with,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'According to the Health and Safety course I went on when I was thinking of opening my 'Bagel and Schnitzel Bar', if you give a child a marble and a pointy stick, all amount of trouble will ensue.'
'I can imagine,' I said. 'Heather pushed a marble up her nose when she was 3. Or was it a dice? Anyway, it got well and truly stuck.'
'You didn't use a pointy stick to get it out, did you?' said Mrs Slocombe, clearly horrified at the thought.
'No,' I said. 'But only because I didn't have one to hand at the time.'
'No Kerplunk?'
'Only Hungry Hippos,' I said. 'And Chicken Limbo.'
'Tango Pete does a good chicken limbo,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Apparently it's all in the cunning blend of secret herbs and spices.'
'Anyway,' I said. 'Back to the book.'
'Ah yes,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Is this a new series of 'How Clean is Your House?' or just one in a series of interminable repeats?'
'Repeats,' I said. 'The new series is on this evening.'
'I do like Kim and Aggie,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'I'd give anything to have legs and hair like Kim.'
I give an involuntary shudder at the thought of Mrs Slocombe, small black hen, wearing a blonde plaited bun atop her mad little head and with a pair of long legs clad in spangly tights peeping out from 'neath a pencil skirt.
'I'm not sure they'd suit you,' I said.
'So, the book,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'Yes,' I said. 'I think there's quite a good market for anthropomorphic fiction.'
'Say again,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'Anthropomorphism,' I said. 'It's where human attributes are given to animals. For example, the ability to speak English, or to experience abstract thought. Or be able to flower arrange, ice skate or hold antique sales in a front garden.'
'But we can talk,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'And ice skate. We made £2, 467 at our antique auction.'
'Yes, but only in my mind,' I said. Oh Lord, I thought, this is going to be difficult.
'So you are saying that everything we hens say and do is a product of your over-active imagination?' said Mrs Slocombe. She picked up the embroidery I'd managed to extricate from my trousers. 'You've missed a bit there,' she said. 'By the chimney.'
'What I am saying,' I said, already realising I was about to open my mouth and say way too much, 'is that in order to make you hens more, er, interesting to my readers, I employ anthropomorphic techniques to your daily activities.'
'Oh,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'I see. What you are saying is that we are BORING!'
And she got me in the thigh with her beak again.
I'd upset the mad hen.
'Well, just for that I'm not going to let you have the present I brought you back from Heaven, ' said Mrs Slocombe.
'Devon,' I sighed.
'You say Devon, I say Heaven,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Whatever. All I know is that wherever it is they make bloomin' good fudge!'
'I'm sorry,' I said, trying to make a desperate apology. 'I didn't mean to upset you. You're all very interesting, really you are and I love you all to bits.'
'Too late, too late!' sang Mrs S. 'I'm off to tell the others exactly what's going on in this so-called book of yours. Over a nice box of fudge! Hmmpphh!!'
And off she strutted, pausing to cough on my knee on her way past.
You see, it's not easy being a writer. Especially when you find yourself working with a sensitive and temperamental subject. Not easy. But quite fun.
So I gave up and did some embroidery instead.
A hen appeared just after lunch. I was concentrating on a particularly tricky piece of brickwork on my farmhouse- many different shades of one colour, putting one stitch here, and two there, then changing colour for another couple there and one way over there, you know how it is with embroidery, anyway I didn't notice her coming into the living room and when Mrs Slocombe coughed, I jumped out of my skin and stabbed myself in the thigh with my needle and 'Light Tangerine 067'.
'I thought you were on holiday,' I said.
'I was,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'But I came home because I caught a cough from a pig.'
'So you weren't just trying to attract my attention to your presence then?' I said. Stabbing myself in the thigh had caused me to leap up from the sofa and it was at this point I discovered I'd embroidered myself to my needlework.
'No,' said Mrs Slocombe, coughing again like a consumptive Romantic poet. 'If I wanted to attract your attention I'd do this,' and she flung herself at my other thigh and gave it a good hard peck.
'OW!' I yelled. 'What was that for?'
'I wanted to attract your attention,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'I want to know about this book you're writing about us.'
'Oh, I tried to get started on that this morning,' I said. 'But the power of creative thought isn't home today, I'm afraid.'
'Mrs Miggins and Mrs Pumphrey said you'd already been writing about us in your blog. What's a blog?'
'Well,' I said. 'It's like an on-line interwebbly diary. Blog is an abbreviation for 'web log.'
'Oh,' said Mrs Slocombe. She hopped onto the sofa and started fiddling with the TV remote control. 'Like in Star Trek. Captain's log, star date 2746 and all that jazz.'
'That's right,' I said.
'So is a Captain's log a clog?' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Ooooh, 'A Home in the Sun,' my favourite.'
'No,' I said. 'A clog is a type of shoe. From Holland, I believe.'
'I've been to Amsterdam,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Got a mouse friend there. Lives in a windmill.'
'Nice, ' I said.
Mrs Slocombe turned to me. I could hear her brain ticking on over-time.
'So if the Captain was a pirate and had a trunk, would it be called a caplunk?'
'I think,' I said, 'you are getting confused with a children's game that uses marbles and sharp pointy sticks.'
'Oooh, you shouldn't give children marbles and sharp pointy sticks to play with,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'According to the Health and Safety course I went on when I was thinking of opening my 'Bagel and Schnitzel Bar', if you give a child a marble and a pointy stick, all amount of trouble will ensue.'
'I can imagine,' I said. 'Heather pushed a marble up her nose when she was 3. Or was it a dice? Anyway, it got well and truly stuck.'
'You didn't use a pointy stick to get it out, did you?' said Mrs Slocombe, clearly horrified at the thought.
'No,' I said. 'But only because I didn't have one to hand at the time.'
'No Kerplunk?'
'Only Hungry Hippos,' I said. 'And Chicken Limbo.'
'Tango Pete does a good chicken limbo,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Apparently it's all in the cunning blend of secret herbs and spices.'
'Anyway,' I said. 'Back to the book.'
'Ah yes,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Is this a new series of 'How Clean is Your House?' or just one in a series of interminable repeats?'
'Repeats,' I said. 'The new series is on this evening.'
'I do like Kim and Aggie,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'I'd give anything to have legs and hair like Kim.'
I give an involuntary shudder at the thought of Mrs Slocombe, small black hen, wearing a blonde plaited bun atop her mad little head and with a pair of long legs clad in spangly tights peeping out from 'neath a pencil skirt.
'I'm not sure they'd suit you,' I said.
'So, the book,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'Yes,' I said. 'I think there's quite a good market for anthropomorphic fiction.'
'Say again,' said Mrs Slocombe.
'Anthropomorphism,' I said. 'It's where human attributes are given to animals. For example, the ability to speak English, or to experience abstract thought. Or be able to flower arrange, ice skate or hold antique sales in a front garden.'
'But we can talk,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'And ice skate. We made £2, 467 at our antique auction.'
'Yes, but only in my mind,' I said. Oh Lord, I thought, this is going to be difficult.
'So you are saying that everything we hens say and do is a product of your over-active imagination?' said Mrs Slocombe. She picked up the embroidery I'd managed to extricate from my trousers. 'You've missed a bit there,' she said. 'By the chimney.'
'What I am saying,' I said, already realising I was about to open my mouth and say way too much, 'is that in order to make you hens more, er, interesting to my readers, I employ anthropomorphic techniques to your daily activities.'
'Oh,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'I see. What you are saying is that we are BORING!'
And she got me in the thigh with her beak again.
I'd upset the mad hen.
'Well, just for that I'm not going to let you have the present I brought you back from Heaven, ' said Mrs Slocombe.
'Devon,' I sighed.
'You say Devon, I say Heaven,' said Mrs Slocombe. 'Whatever. All I know is that wherever it is they make bloomin' good fudge!'
'I'm sorry,' I said, trying to make a desperate apology. 'I didn't mean to upset you. You're all very interesting, really you are and I love you all to bits.'
'Too late, too late!' sang Mrs S. 'I'm off to tell the others exactly what's going on in this so-called book of yours. Over a nice box of fudge! Hmmpphh!!'
And off she strutted, pausing to cough on my knee on her way past.
You see, it's not easy being a writer. Especially when you find yourself working with a sensitive and temperamental subject. Not easy. But quite fun.
Thursday, 27 August 2009
Going Publico-loco
'We're ready to go public,' says Mrs Miggins. She is standing on a garden chair, peering though the kitchen window where I am standing on the other side at the sink wrestling with a pumpkin. 'What exactly are you doing?'
'Don't ask,' I say. Dismembering a pumpkin is a tricky business. I've toyed with standing on a chair myself and dropping the pumpkin from a great height, but the thought of the resulting mess that would need cleaning up is too much for me to bear, so I battle on bravely with assorted knives, mashers and rolling pins.
'Anyway,' said Mrs Miggins, who can tell my thoughts are in danger of running away with themselves, 'back to us going public.'
I put the pumpkin to one side and give Miggo my full attention. If I don't, she'll paint over the kitchen window with whitewash. It's the chicken equivalent of giving someone the silent treatment and it takes an age to scrape off.
'How do you mean?' I say.
'Well, I've been talking to Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Pumphrey,' says Mrs Miggins. 'And I would have drawn Mrs Poo into the conversation, too, only she seems to have disappeared.'
I hold up my hand. 'Now hang on,' I say. 'I've explained what happened to Mrs Poo. You remember? When I sat you all down and told you she'd gone to Chicken Heaven?'
'You mean Paignton?' says Mrs Pumphrey, appearing suddenly besides Miggo. There is a minor pause in the conversation whilst they tussle for ownership of the garden chair, then they reappear clinging onto each other like that film still of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in 'Some Like It Hot.'
'No, not Paignton,' I say. 'Heaven.'
'Well, my Aunt Florence told me she was hatched in Paignton and she said it was in Heaven,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'In Devon,' I say. 'Paignton is in Devon.'
'Is it?' says Pumphrey.
'Yes...look, come inside,' I say. Call me psychic, but I can already sense this is going to be a complex discussion requiring sitting down with tea, cake and paracetemol.
'RESULT!' yells Mrs Miggins. 'See, I told you she always gives in to absurdism!'
'Where's Mrs Slocombe?' I say, opening the back door for Miggo and Pumphrey.
'Gone to Heaven,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I mean, Paignton. In Devon.'
For a moment, I panic. Is Mrs Pumphrey being ironic? Is she beating me at the game of puns? Or is she trying to tell me that Mrs Slocombe is demised, no more, an ex-chicken?
I rush into the garden and run around. 'Mrs Slocombe!' I call. 'Mrs Slocombe! Betty!! Where are you?'
'I've told you,' says Mrs Pumphrey from the back door. 'She's gone to Paignton. On holiday. To recover her sanity. She reckons a week'll do it but I'm not so sure.'
'Really?' I say because I am suspicious of this news. Since Mrs Poo died, and Cluckinghen Palace has been undivided allowing the remaining three girls access to the entire grounds, Mrs Slocombe has been unable to prevent herself from annoying the other two and I wouldn't put it past either Miggo or Pumphrey to accidentally bury her under the patio and ornamental fountain. It's a nice fountain though. A replica of the one at the front of the Palace of Versailles. If I was going to be buried alive under a fountain, it's the kind I'd choose. Unless I could get a copy of the one in Copenhagen harbour with the mermaid and...
'Oi!' says Mrs Miggins. 'Will you pay attention? It seems to be escaping your notice that WE are the MOST IMPORTANT thing at the moment. And our plan to GO PUBLIC.'
I return to the kitchen. The contents of the cake and biscuit tins are already on plates on the table and on the front of Mrs Slocombe's feather bosoms.
'I'm not sure eating flapjack is a good thing if you want to hold an important discussion,' I say, seeing Mrs Pumphrey's beak all ready clogged with stickiness.
'Mmpphh, mmmgggrrbbble, hmppphhg, burp,' says Pumphrey.
'Ignore her,' says Miggo. 'She's talking rubbish. Basically, we want you to write a book about us.'
I look from one hen to the other. I can feel my limbic system failing and my mouth starting to hang open in disbelief.
'You do have the interwebbly in Cluckinghen Palace, don't you?' I say.
'Oh yes,' says Miggo. 'And Freeview, Sky Sports, Sky Film, Sky Rocket and Way Up Sky.'
'We like Sky Sports,' says Pumphrey, swallowing down the last of her flapjack and starting on a Jaffa cake. 'Especially beach volleyball. All those buff cocks in tight trunks and...'
'Hush!' I say. 'Way too much information.'
'So will you write a book about us?' says Miggins. 'We won't pay you, of course, because our entertainment value should be payment enough but...'
'I've been writing about you for the last year,' I interrupt.
There is a silence.
'You've been what?' says Miggins.
'In my blog. I've been catalogueing your adventures in my blog on the interwebbly. Andy has been saving the entries in a file and we've already talked about putting them together with new material into a book,' I say.' And cartoons.'
'Well!' says Miggins. She sounds a tad affronted. 'I hope you've been telling the truth.'
'Every single word,' I say. 'I'm not going to compromise my integrity as a writer by writing anything untrue or libellous, am I?'
'You were hitting a pumpkin with a rolling pin earlier,' says Miggins. 'I wouldn't put anything past you.'
'So the book project is already underway, you see,' I say.
Miggins chews thoughtfully on a cheese scone. 'We'll have to read what you've done so far,' she says.
'Of course,' I say.
'Have you written about the time when you had to replace my prolapsed bottom?' says Miggins.
''Fraid so,' I say.
'Hmmmmm...' says Miggins. 'And do all the blog entries ramble on for as long as this blog entry?'
'No,' I say. 'This has been an especially long ramble.'
'Thank goodness for that,' says Miggins. 'We don't want the readers falling asleep with boredom do we, Mrs Pumphrey?'
'Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...' says Mrs Pumphrey.
Mrs Miggins and I let out simultaneous sighs. We're so alike, I think.
'We most certainly are not,' says Miggins.
'Did I think that out loud?' I say.
'No. I can mind read,' says Miggins. 'A skill I learned from Sky Par-hen-ormal. And if you're going to put cartoons in this book, I insist on being portrayed from my left profile. In fact,' she continues, giving Mrs Pumphrey a kick as she jumps from her chair to wake her up, 'I think I'd better consult Tango Pete vis a vis the legal aspect of being in a book.'
'I thought Tango Pete was a ballroom dancer?' I say, walking with them to the back door.
'He is,' says Miggins, 'but he has to do something else to earn a living when Strictly Hen Dancing is off air, doesn't he?'
'Don't ask,' I say. Dismembering a pumpkin is a tricky business. I've toyed with standing on a chair myself and dropping the pumpkin from a great height, but the thought of the resulting mess that would need cleaning up is too much for me to bear, so I battle on bravely with assorted knives, mashers and rolling pins.
'Anyway,' said Mrs Miggins, who can tell my thoughts are in danger of running away with themselves, 'back to us going public.'
I put the pumpkin to one side and give Miggo my full attention. If I don't, she'll paint over the kitchen window with whitewash. It's the chicken equivalent of giving someone the silent treatment and it takes an age to scrape off.
'How do you mean?' I say.
'Well, I've been talking to Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Pumphrey,' says Mrs Miggins. 'And I would have drawn Mrs Poo into the conversation, too, only she seems to have disappeared.'
I hold up my hand. 'Now hang on,' I say. 'I've explained what happened to Mrs Poo. You remember? When I sat you all down and told you she'd gone to Chicken Heaven?'
'You mean Paignton?' says Mrs Pumphrey, appearing suddenly besides Miggo. There is a minor pause in the conversation whilst they tussle for ownership of the garden chair, then they reappear clinging onto each other like that film still of Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon in 'Some Like It Hot.'
'No, not Paignton,' I say. 'Heaven.'
'Well, my Aunt Florence told me she was hatched in Paignton and she said it was in Heaven,' says Mrs Pumphrey.
'In Devon,' I say. 'Paignton is in Devon.'
'Is it?' says Pumphrey.
'Yes...look, come inside,' I say. Call me psychic, but I can already sense this is going to be a complex discussion requiring sitting down with tea, cake and paracetemol.
'RESULT!' yells Mrs Miggins. 'See, I told you she always gives in to absurdism!'
'Where's Mrs Slocombe?' I say, opening the back door for Miggo and Pumphrey.
'Gone to Heaven,' says Mrs Pumphrey. 'I mean, Paignton. In Devon.'
For a moment, I panic. Is Mrs Pumphrey being ironic? Is she beating me at the game of puns? Or is she trying to tell me that Mrs Slocombe is demised, no more, an ex-chicken?
I rush into the garden and run around. 'Mrs Slocombe!' I call. 'Mrs Slocombe! Betty!! Where are you?'
'I've told you,' says Mrs Pumphrey from the back door. 'She's gone to Paignton. On holiday. To recover her sanity. She reckons a week'll do it but I'm not so sure.'
'Really?' I say because I am suspicious of this news. Since Mrs Poo died, and Cluckinghen Palace has been undivided allowing the remaining three girls access to the entire grounds, Mrs Slocombe has been unable to prevent herself from annoying the other two and I wouldn't put it past either Miggo or Pumphrey to accidentally bury her under the patio and ornamental fountain. It's a nice fountain though. A replica of the one at the front of the Palace of Versailles. If I was going to be buried alive under a fountain, it's the kind I'd choose. Unless I could get a copy of the one in Copenhagen harbour with the mermaid and...
'Oi!' says Mrs Miggins. 'Will you pay attention? It seems to be escaping your notice that WE are the MOST IMPORTANT thing at the moment. And our plan to GO PUBLIC.'
I return to the kitchen. The contents of the cake and biscuit tins are already on plates on the table and on the front of Mrs Slocombe's feather bosoms.
'I'm not sure eating flapjack is a good thing if you want to hold an important discussion,' I say, seeing Mrs Pumphrey's beak all ready clogged with stickiness.
'Mmpphh, mmmgggrrbbble, hmppphhg, burp,' says Pumphrey.
'Ignore her,' says Miggo. 'She's talking rubbish. Basically, we want you to write a book about us.'
I look from one hen to the other. I can feel my limbic system failing and my mouth starting to hang open in disbelief.
'You do have the interwebbly in Cluckinghen Palace, don't you?' I say.
'Oh yes,' says Miggo. 'And Freeview, Sky Sports, Sky Film, Sky Rocket and Way Up Sky.'
'We like Sky Sports,' says Pumphrey, swallowing down the last of her flapjack and starting on a Jaffa cake. 'Especially beach volleyball. All those buff cocks in tight trunks and...'
'Hush!' I say. 'Way too much information.'
'So will you write a book about us?' says Miggins. 'We won't pay you, of course, because our entertainment value should be payment enough but...'
'I've been writing about you for the last year,' I interrupt.
There is a silence.
'You've been what?' says Miggins.
'In my blog. I've been catalogueing your adventures in my blog on the interwebbly. Andy has been saving the entries in a file and we've already talked about putting them together with new material into a book,' I say.' And cartoons.'
'Well!' says Miggins. She sounds a tad affronted. 'I hope you've been telling the truth.'
'Every single word,' I say. 'I'm not going to compromise my integrity as a writer by writing anything untrue or libellous, am I?'
'You were hitting a pumpkin with a rolling pin earlier,' says Miggins. 'I wouldn't put anything past you.'
'So the book project is already underway, you see,' I say.
Miggins chews thoughtfully on a cheese scone. 'We'll have to read what you've done so far,' she says.
'Of course,' I say.
'Have you written about the time when you had to replace my prolapsed bottom?' says Miggins.
''Fraid so,' I say.
'Hmmmmm...' says Miggins. 'And do all the blog entries ramble on for as long as this blog entry?'
'No,' I say. 'This has been an especially long ramble.'
'Thank goodness for that,' says Miggins. 'We don't want the readers falling asleep with boredom do we, Mrs Pumphrey?'
'Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz...' says Mrs Pumphrey.
Mrs Miggins and I let out simultaneous sighs. We're so alike, I think.
'We most certainly are not,' says Miggins.
'Did I think that out loud?' I say.
'No. I can mind read,' says Miggins. 'A skill I learned from Sky Par-hen-ormal. And if you're going to put cartoons in this book, I insist on being portrayed from my left profile. In fact,' she continues, giving Mrs Pumphrey a kick as she jumps from her chair to wake her up, 'I think I'd better consult Tango Pete vis a vis the legal aspect of being in a book.'
'I thought Tango Pete was a ballroom dancer?' I say, walking with them to the back door.
'He is,' says Miggins, 'but he has to do something else to earn a living when Strictly Hen Dancing is off air, doesn't he?'
Friday, 26 June 2009
Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue
Well, Michael Jackson has died, God bless him, and my fav TV prog of the mo (Doc Martin) has been cancelled for what I feel is an indecently quick showing of 'A tribute to Michael Jackson'. I mean, let him cool off first, for heaven's sake. What is wrong with people? Why the crazy mad rush to remember such a recently departed soul? Gotta make way for the next unfortunate in the world of the 21st century celeb, eh what?
So I've decided to put 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' on Authonomy. Authonomy, if you didn't know, is a website created by HarperCollins for aspiring authors to post their work and get feedback from site visitors and fellow authors. I've been on it before, back in October, when I posted 'Ginnungagaps' and then 'Nearly King Jimbo.' Both received positive comments but unfortunately I didn't have the stamina, determination and sheer cut throat approach to self-promotion needed if you are to keep your head above water on such a site where everyone is pushing and shoving to get noticed too.
However, now I do. I've received so many rejections for my first two books I can take whatever is thrown at me regarding my writing, especially if it a huge cheque for a three book advance. Andy has created a book cover for me because he is VERY clever at things like that. I edited the first 12 chapters for the umpty-millionth time, did a quick short pitch and a long pitch and BINGO! There she was in a matter of minutes and within the hour I had 2 positive comments and a bookshelving, and am on a couple of watchlists.
I am now suffering a rush of writer's ecstasy, hence the second blog of the day. (Either that or I'm having a hot flush which is possible as they've been getting quite nasty these last couple of months). Or perhaps it is the combination of a muggy thunderstorm on the horizon and a very hot cup of tea.
Anyway, what I want to say is that if anyone fancies having a read of 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue', then please visit http://www.authonomy.com/ and have a look and a read. And maybe leave a comment - good, bad, indifferent, all are welcome.
Thank you for suffering a shameless plug and thank you, Andy, for yet another wonderful book cover. (You should do graphics for a living!)
So I've decided to put 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' on Authonomy. Authonomy, if you didn't know, is a website created by HarperCollins for aspiring authors to post their work and get feedback from site visitors and fellow authors. I've been on it before, back in October, when I posted 'Ginnungagaps' and then 'Nearly King Jimbo.' Both received positive comments but unfortunately I didn't have the stamina, determination and sheer cut throat approach to self-promotion needed if you are to keep your head above water on such a site where everyone is pushing and shoving to get noticed too.
However, now I do. I've received so many rejections for my first two books I can take whatever is thrown at me regarding my writing, especially if it a huge cheque for a three book advance. Andy has created a book cover for me because he is VERY clever at things like that. I edited the first 12 chapters for the umpty-millionth time, did a quick short pitch and a long pitch and BINGO! There she was in a matter of minutes and within the hour I had 2 positive comments and a bookshelving, and am on a couple of watchlists.
I am now suffering a rush of writer's ecstasy, hence the second blog of the day. (Either that or I'm having a hot flush which is possible as they've been getting quite nasty these last couple of months). Or perhaps it is the combination of a muggy thunderstorm on the horizon and a very hot cup of tea.
Anyway, what I want to say is that if anyone fancies having a read of 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue', then please visit http://www.authonomy.com/ and have a look and a read. And maybe leave a comment - good, bad, indifferent, all are welcome.
Thank you for suffering a shameless plug and thank you, Andy, for yet another wonderful book cover. (You should do graphics for a living!)
Wednesday, 24 June 2009
Henceforth I am English
I've just finished reading a book called 'Real England' by Paul Kingsnorth, who is a young but very wise environmental writer. It is sub-titled 'The Battle Against the Bland,' and I finished it at 6 a.m having leapt out of bed at 5.30 because my bedside clock battery had expired which I hadn't noticed last night so I thought it was ten to eight instead. And once I was up and realised it was only 5.30 I was wide awake so thought I'd make the most of the quiet dawn time and some toast 'n' Marmite (Love it!) and finish reading the book.
It's all about how England (not Britain) is losing its identity and becoming a mass of clone towns; about how the big multi-national companies like Stirbugs and Cafe Nerd, and Tezzco and Aitch 'n' Em are stampeding small individual companies and turning our towns and villages into characterless and faceless blobs, all in the pursuit of 'progress' and 'development' and 'profit', or as Paul Kingsnorth calls it, 'The Thing.' The book covers a diverse range of topics from farming and orchards, through to our waterways and canals, to Chinatown in London, and markets and urbanisation. It is the kind of book that gets my dander up and makes me want to DO something about preserving my cultural identity. It is the kind of book that makes me want to shriek 'NO!' at Mr Big and shout 'Hurrah!' for Mr Small. (Not my old RE teacher I hasten to add, who was called Mr Small; ironic really as he was well over 6 feet tall).
It seems to me that you have to apologise for being English these days. That England has come to represent some undesirable pimple on the face of progress. That if you subscribe to nostalgia and tradition, which I do, then you are seen as being resistant to change and progress.
What I want to know is, who says that change and progress are necessarily good things? Take my local leisure centre. They've just introduced a new computer system. The old system of 'showing your membership card at Reception' has been replaced with a new barcoded membership card which has to be swiped and then a small picture of you appears on the computer screen and you are issued with a ticket. I don't really want the ticket. I throw it away immmediately. My old membership card had my picture on it.
The new system seemed to be causing some problem this morning by declaring that everyone was aged 5 years and 5 months, so the receptionist was having to write all the ticket details down on a piece of paper using a pen (you know, like in the old days before computers were invented).
'So what was wrong with the old system?' I asked, when I finally made it through the turnstile.
The receptionist shrugged. 'Nothing,' she said.
Meanwhile, three of the hairdryers in the ladies changing room are broken and the water this morning was freezing because the heating is up the creek. I am suspicious that these things can't be recitified at the moment because of budgetary constraints caused by the installation of a new computer system to replace the perfectly viable old one.
Ah well...
...but it is this 'ah well,' attitude that Paul Kingsnorth is railing against. He wants people to stand up against the bureaucracy that is suffocating the wonderful heritage and traditions of England. He is saying that 'The Thing' the Government want us to have that will (supposedly) bring us happiness and prosperity won't actually work, isn't actually working and that we shouldn't accept that Government (and I am talking national and local here) are right when they spout on about progress and change being important.
But I have thought this for a long, long time. Why can't we happy with the status quo? Why can't we be content with the small nuances of life, rather than the modern-day must-have pressures that turn living into existence? It's all target setting, models for progression, conforming, and being encouraged to want more and more and it is killing individuality and quirkiness.
It isn't good. But this book is. It is a thinker's book. It contains some pretty shocking facts about what really goes on in local government to pander to the whims of companies like Tezzco. Actually, in the old days this kind of behaviour was called bullying, but we mustn't harp on about the old days must we, because the old days were BAD!
And did you know that England is the only British nation without any form of devolution? It is the only European nation without its own government or parliament? I think that is appalling.
I am English. My great-great-great grandfather invented Pimms for heaven's sake! And from now on, whenever I have to fill in a form that requires me to declare my nationality, I shall either cross out the word 'British' and write 'English' or fill in the word 'English' in the space left blank for 'Other.'
And I shan't apolgise either.
It's all about how England (not Britain) is losing its identity and becoming a mass of clone towns; about how the big multi-national companies like Stirbugs and Cafe Nerd, and Tezzco and Aitch 'n' Em are stampeding small individual companies and turning our towns and villages into characterless and faceless blobs, all in the pursuit of 'progress' and 'development' and 'profit', or as Paul Kingsnorth calls it, 'The Thing.' The book covers a diverse range of topics from farming and orchards, through to our waterways and canals, to Chinatown in London, and markets and urbanisation. It is the kind of book that gets my dander up and makes me want to DO something about preserving my cultural identity. It is the kind of book that makes me want to shriek 'NO!' at Mr Big and shout 'Hurrah!' for Mr Small. (Not my old RE teacher I hasten to add, who was called Mr Small; ironic really as he was well over 6 feet tall).
It seems to me that you have to apologise for being English these days. That England has come to represent some undesirable pimple on the face of progress. That if you subscribe to nostalgia and tradition, which I do, then you are seen as being resistant to change and progress.
What I want to know is, who says that change and progress are necessarily good things? Take my local leisure centre. They've just introduced a new computer system. The old system of 'showing your membership card at Reception' has been replaced with a new barcoded membership card which has to be swiped and then a small picture of you appears on the computer screen and you are issued with a ticket. I don't really want the ticket. I throw it away immmediately. My old membership card had my picture on it.
The new system seemed to be causing some problem this morning by declaring that everyone was aged 5 years and 5 months, so the receptionist was having to write all the ticket details down on a piece of paper using a pen (you know, like in the old days before computers were invented).
'So what was wrong with the old system?' I asked, when I finally made it through the turnstile.
The receptionist shrugged. 'Nothing,' she said.
Meanwhile, three of the hairdryers in the ladies changing room are broken and the water this morning was freezing because the heating is up the creek. I am suspicious that these things can't be recitified at the moment because of budgetary constraints caused by the installation of a new computer system to replace the perfectly viable old one.
Ah well...
...but it is this 'ah well,' attitude that Paul Kingsnorth is railing against. He wants people to stand up against the bureaucracy that is suffocating the wonderful heritage and traditions of England. He is saying that 'The Thing' the Government want us to have that will (supposedly) bring us happiness and prosperity won't actually work, isn't actually working and that we shouldn't accept that Government (and I am talking national and local here) are right when they spout on about progress and change being important.
But I have thought this for a long, long time. Why can't we happy with the status quo? Why can't we be content with the small nuances of life, rather than the modern-day must-have pressures that turn living into existence? It's all target setting, models for progression, conforming, and being encouraged to want more and more and it is killing individuality and quirkiness.
It isn't good. But this book is. It is a thinker's book. It contains some pretty shocking facts about what really goes on in local government to pander to the whims of companies like Tezzco. Actually, in the old days this kind of behaviour was called bullying, but we mustn't harp on about the old days must we, because the old days were BAD!
And did you know that England is the only British nation without any form of devolution? It is the only European nation without its own government or parliament? I think that is appalling.
I am English. My great-great-great grandfather invented Pimms for heaven's sake! And from now on, whenever I have to fill in a form that requires me to declare my nationality, I shall either cross out the word 'British' and write 'English' or fill in the word 'English' in the space left blank for 'Other.'
And I shan't apolgise either.
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Books are Best!
Arnold Schwarzenegger, the Governor of California has decided that school pupils do not need books because they can get all the information they need from the interwebbly. He plans to get rid of all books in Californian schools.
Now, I very much admire Arnie for his film work, especially in 'Kindergarten Cop' and 'Twins'. And his portrayal of a pregnant man in 'Junior' has to count amongst one of the greatest comedy perfomances of all time, equalled only by Harold Lloyd dangling from that stupid clock high up on the side of a skyscraper.
I'M JOKING, FOLKS! Way too much sarcasm on the granola this morning.
Get rid of books? Come on, Arnie, or can I call you 'stoopid?'
Unfortunately, this idea of Mr Schwarzenegger's is not new. It is already infiltrating some of the schools in my neck of the woods. The school I used to teach in, for example, closed down its library and turned the space over to an IT suite. As a teacher of English and an ardent reader, it was heartbreaking to see books being turned out and the library become no more. It was like seeing a corner of civilisation become extinct without giving anyone who cared the chance to set up a conservation society and wave a few placards.
More and more, children are being supplied with laptops or 'tablets' as they enter their secondary education. They are encouraged to read books 'on-line', research 'on-line', glean all their information about the world in which they live 'on-line'. I mean, Wikipedia, for heaven's sake??? And let's be real, the only reason most kids want to go on-line is to keep up with their social networking and play games.
The problems associated with working towards a 'paperless society' are many. Some that I encountered as a teacher were:
1) 'my laptop battery has run out' (because I only remembered to plug it in for a recharge 10 minutes before I left home this morning. Look, I'm busy right? I have to watch cartoons for breakfast.)
2) 'my laptop is broken (because my dog sat on it/ I threw it at my little sister coz she annoyed me with her Britney Spears impression)
3) 'I forgot to bring my laptop into school.' (Actually, I did remember it just as I was leaving home but I couldn't be arsed to go back for it. I haven't got a pen or pencil with me either.)
4) 'My dad/mum/ brother/great-aunt Cecily has borrowed my laptop to download obscure rock tunes/shop on ebay/talk on 'Mum's Chat'/play on-line bingo'
5) 'I can't log in' (again, because I can't be arsed and I've got ADHD and can't keep the mouse still long enough)
6) 'I've been banned from the school system for playing games in class/looking at dodgy websites (well, science/maths/ geography/ citizenship are soooooooooooooooo boring, innit?)
7) 'The internet keeps crashing' (and what are you going to do about it, you're the teacher, do something, do something NOW because I'm supposed to be IMing Josh in 8a3 at 10.30)
And they were just the common reasons. (My best excuse was from a lad with VERY special needs who refused to use his laptop because he didn't want to be contacted by UFOs that morning as he was very, very tired. He'd even taken the precaution of wrapping his laptop in aluminium foil. I liked that kid!).
It was expected that students used their laptops in my drama and performing arts lessons. There was no way I was giving over precious practical time to faffing about with laptops so I was secretly pleased when the wireless connection failed to register consistently with my classroom which was at the back of the admin block and I only had two mains plugs in my room.
The interwebbly has its place, of course. But I am in no doubt that BOOKS ARE BEST! They are an important part of our civilisation and the day the last book disappears from the planet, I'm going with it.
And this is why books are best:
1) A new book feels and smells far lovelier than a laptop
2) A book doesn't fry your legs when you read from it for more than 3 minutes
3) You can curl up really small on the sofa and read a book
4) A book never crashes
5) A book never runs out of battery power
6) It takes longer for your eyes to go squiffy reading a book than reading from a computer screen
7) You get to collect some pretty fab bookmarks if you read books
8) You can swat a fly with a book
9) Books live longer than laptops
10) You never get bugged to take out an extended warranty when you buy a book
11) You can press a flower in a book and then find it years later and be reminded of that summer day from years ago
12) Books don't suffer from flashy screens
13) A book is more likely to survive being dropped in the bath than a laptop
14) A book shop is a magical place filled with passionate intelligent people who engage you in civilised conversation; PC World isn't.
And that's all I have to say on the subject.
I am going to e-mail Allison Pearson at the Daily Mail now. She had thoughts about this very subject today and thinks we should start a 'Save Our Books' campaign. I want to lend her my full and bookish support.
Now, I very much admire Arnie for his film work, especially in 'Kindergarten Cop' and 'Twins'. And his portrayal of a pregnant man in 'Junior' has to count amongst one of the greatest comedy perfomances of all time, equalled only by Harold Lloyd dangling from that stupid clock high up on the side of a skyscraper.
I'M JOKING, FOLKS! Way too much sarcasm on the granola this morning.
Get rid of books? Come on, Arnie, or can I call you 'stoopid?'
Unfortunately, this idea of Mr Schwarzenegger's is not new. It is already infiltrating some of the schools in my neck of the woods. The school I used to teach in, for example, closed down its library and turned the space over to an IT suite. As a teacher of English and an ardent reader, it was heartbreaking to see books being turned out and the library become no more. It was like seeing a corner of civilisation become extinct without giving anyone who cared the chance to set up a conservation society and wave a few placards.
More and more, children are being supplied with laptops or 'tablets' as they enter their secondary education. They are encouraged to read books 'on-line', research 'on-line', glean all their information about the world in which they live 'on-line'. I mean, Wikipedia, for heaven's sake??? And let's be real, the only reason most kids want to go on-line is to keep up with their social networking and play games.
The problems associated with working towards a 'paperless society' are many. Some that I encountered as a teacher were:
1) 'my laptop battery has run out' (because I only remembered to plug it in for a recharge 10 minutes before I left home this morning. Look, I'm busy right? I have to watch cartoons for breakfast.)
2) 'my laptop is broken (because my dog sat on it/ I threw it at my little sister coz she annoyed me with her Britney Spears impression)
3) 'I forgot to bring my laptop into school.' (Actually, I did remember it just as I was leaving home but I couldn't be arsed to go back for it. I haven't got a pen or pencil with me either.)
4) 'My dad/mum/ brother/great-aunt Cecily has borrowed my laptop to download obscure rock tunes/shop on ebay/talk on 'Mum's Chat'/play on-line bingo'
5) 'I can't log in' (again, because I can't be arsed and I've got ADHD and can't keep the mouse still long enough)
6) 'I've been banned from the school system for playing games in class/looking at dodgy websites (well, science/maths/ geography/ citizenship are soooooooooooooooo boring, innit?)
7) 'The internet keeps crashing' (and what are you going to do about it, you're the teacher, do something, do something NOW because I'm supposed to be IMing Josh in 8a3 at 10.30)
And they were just the common reasons. (My best excuse was from a lad with VERY special needs who refused to use his laptop because he didn't want to be contacted by UFOs that morning as he was very, very tired. He'd even taken the precaution of wrapping his laptop in aluminium foil. I liked that kid!).
It was expected that students used their laptops in my drama and performing arts lessons. There was no way I was giving over precious practical time to faffing about with laptops so I was secretly pleased when the wireless connection failed to register consistently with my classroom which was at the back of the admin block and I only had two mains plugs in my room.
The interwebbly has its place, of course. But I am in no doubt that BOOKS ARE BEST! They are an important part of our civilisation and the day the last book disappears from the planet, I'm going with it.
And this is why books are best:
1) A new book feels and smells far lovelier than a laptop
2) A book doesn't fry your legs when you read from it for more than 3 minutes
3) You can curl up really small on the sofa and read a book
4) A book never crashes
5) A book never runs out of battery power
6) It takes longer for your eyes to go squiffy reading a book than reading from a computer screen
7) You get to collect some pretty fab bookmarks if you read books
8) You can swat a fly with a book
9) Books live longer than laptops
10) You never get bugged to take out an extended warranty when you buy a book
11) You can press a flower in a book and then find it years later and be reminded of that summer day from years ago
12) Books don't suffer from flashy screens
13) A book is more likely to survive being dropped in the bath than a laptop
14) A book shop is a magical place filled with passionate intelligent people who engage you in civilised conversation; PC World isn't.
And that's all I have to say on the subject.
I am going to e-mail Allison Pearson at the Daily Mail now. She had thoughts about this very subject today and thinks we should start a 'Save Our Books' campaign. I want to lend her my full and bookish support.
Thursday, 26 March 2009
Book Two
Since starting to write my latest novel - 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' - I've had a slight niggle at the back of my mind about what I'm going to do once it's finished. Of course, I'll send it on the round of publishers and agents as I have done with 'Ginnungagaps' and 'Nearly King Jimbo' but it's the covering letter that goes with the three sample chapters and synopsis that bothers me. You're supposed to mention things like 'I have another book of a similar ilk in the pipe-line' to show your potential agent/publisher that you are not a one-trick pony and you are continuing doggedly in your chosen genre regardless of whether your latest offering will be accepted. If you can offer more of the same, you are more attractive to the publishing world.
The problem is, that I don't have a follow on for this latest project.
'Ginnungagaps' has a follow-up planned called 'The Valentine Child. ' 'Nearly King Jimbo' has many follow-ups charting the various adventures of my alternative hero and his best friend Alice- a whole library-full in fact, along with a periodical magazine and Christmas Annual Special. But 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue'? Nothing. Not a bean.
'So, Denise, what are you planning as a follow up for this strangely dark yet fascinating family saga?'
'Err, dunno. Nothing. This is it. It's all I've got. Unless you want to have a look at my two previous books.'
'Oh yes?What are they about then?'
'One's about a boy called Geronimo Jackson and his pet hampire and the other is about a Prince who loses out his kingship to a coat-stand.'
'Riiiiiiiight. Bye then.'
I think my problem stems from the fact I've never written anything like this before. It is a completely alien style to me. I was editing the first 10,000 words today and even though I had written it and knew what was going to happen next, I was thinking, this is really weird, this book. And then I wrote another 3,000 words, letting the narrative go where it would and I was thinking, perhaps I should book myself into therapy now because there is something very strange occurring with my thought processes.
Yet the feedback I've had from readers so far has been very positive and so I'll carry on. They tend to cry, which I am assured is a good thing, but still the question of a follow-up bothers me.
Until today when I was walking home from Sainsbugs, laden with two heavy shopping bags, cursing my stupidity in buying things like 3lb bags of flour, whole chickens and hefty hands of bananas when I don't have the luxury of a car to tote them home in. I glanced across the park as I began my ascent of the slight incline homeward and there was the second title. BAM! The book that will follow 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' will be called 'White Violet.' I don't know what it will be about but that doesn't matter. I needed a title and a title I got.
And now I feel happier to continue writing as long and as fast as I can because I know there is something to carry on with after I've finished this one. I won't sit waiting for the next wave of rejection letters to drop through the letterbox because I shall already be moving forward with the next project. By receiving this title -'White Violet' -I've been told by the powers-that-be to carry on and carry one and never mind the ever-expanding rejection letter file.
I suppose this is where writing is like gardening. As soon as one thing is in and growing, there's something else waiting in the wings to carry the baton, to keep you moving forward in life, constantly planning and doing, enjoying the process and reaping the rewards for hard work (in the gardening, anyway! Ah, if only publishing contracts appeared like courgettes!!)
Writing and gardening, gardening and writing. I love it! It's a very good way to be indeed.
The problem is, that I don't have a follow on for this latest project.
'Ginnungagaps' has a follow-up planned called 'The Valentine Child. ' 'Nearly King Jimbo' has many follow-ups charting the various adventures of my alternative hero and his best friend Alice- a whole library-full in fact, along with a periodical magazine and Christmas Annual Special. But 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue'? Nothing. Not a bean.
'So, Denise, what are you planning as a follow up for this strangely dark yet fascinating family saga?'
'Err, dunno. Nothing. This is it. It's all I've got. Unless you want to have a look at my two previous books.'
'Oh yes?What are they about then?'
'One's about a boy called Geronimo Jackson and his pet hampire and the other is about a Prince who loses out his kingship to a coat-stand.'
'Riiiiiiiight. Bye then.'
I think my problem stems from the fact I've never written anything like this before. It is a completely alien style to me. I was editing the first 10,000 words today and even though I had written it and knew what was going to happen next, I was thinking, this is really weird, this book. And then I wrote another 3,000 words, letting the narrative go where it would and I was thinking, perhaps I should book myself into therapy now because there is something very strange occurring with my thought processes.
Yet the feedback I've had from readers so far has been very positive and so I'll carry on. They tend to cry, which I am assured is a good thing, but still the question of a follow-up bothers me.
Until today when I was walking home from Sainsbugs, laden with two heavy shopping bags, cursing my stupidity in buying things like 3lb bags of flour, whole chickens and hefty hands of bananas when I don't have the luxury of a car to tote them home in. I glanced across the park as I began my ascent of the slight incline homeward and there was the second title. BAM! The book that will follow 'Indigo Antfarm, Violet and Blue' will be called 'White Violet.' I don't know what it will be about but that doesn't matter. I needed a title and a title I got.
And now I feel happier to continue writing as long and as fast as I can because I know there is something to carry on with after I've finished this one. I won't sit waiting for the next wave of rejection letters to drop through the letterbox because I shall already be moving forward with the next project. By receiving this title -'White Violet' -I've been told by the powers-that-be to carry on and carry one and never mind the ever-expanding rejection letter file.
I suppose this is where writing is like gardening. As soon as one thing is in and growing, there's something else waiting in the wings to carry the baton, to keep you moving forward in life, constantly planning and doing, enjoying the process and reaping the rewards for hard work (in the gardening, anyway! Ah, if only publishing contracts appeared like courgettes!!)
Writing and gardening, gardening and writing. I love it! It's a very good way to be indeed.
Sunday, 8 February 2009
100 TODAY!!!
Gosh! Today is my 100th blog post. Where's my telegram from the Queen? Does she still do telegrams? Or has she been sucked in by technology and now sends congratulatory e-mail-a-grams??
Anyway, I have a confession to make. As I celebrate my 100th blog entry, a whiff of deceit hangs in the air. Can you smell it? It's a bit like cheese-on-toast with a dollop of barbacue sauce, which, on the face of it is really very appealing, thus making the air of deceit quite, quite delicious. And even harder to resist. Who was it that said 'I can resist anything but temptation?' Oscar Wilde? Mae West? Me?? (Tybalt says it was him but he's still on a cat-nip bubble buzz so I don't think he's fully in charge of his reasoning capabilities at the moment.)
The deceit hangs on something I mentioned a while ago concerning my membership of the Puffin Club. And the fact that you have to be aged 16 or under in order to join the Puffin Club. But was I going to let age stand in the way of me revisiting a favourite childhood memory and a beany puffin toy and badge? No, I was not. So I invented a new identity. She is called Phoebe and she was born in 1993. Yes, I know we have a cat called Phoebe. I wasn't feeling very inventive on the name front that day. I panicked, okay? But it gained me membership to the inner sanctum and I am now a Puffineer. Only now it's coming back to bite me on the bum.
You see, I have received an e-mail from the Puffin Club. It said that I hadn't claimed my free book. I had. I claimed my free book a month ago via a postcard attached to the first issue of the Puffin Post Magazine. Clearly the postcard has not arrived on Puffin Island. So my only other option is to claim it on-line. Which means I have to 'activate my membership' as Phoebe aged 15. I try to do this. Puffin Island says, 'You can't use that e-mail address because it's already being used by someone else.' YES I KNOW IT IS! IT'S BEING USED BY ME, THE PERSON WHO PAID FOR THE MEMBERSHIP IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!
You see my dilemma?
Andy says, 'Use one of my e-mail accounts.' One of his e-mail accounts? How many e-mail accounts does he have, for the love of sausages? I have no choice. I want my free book. My free children's book. (It's research okay? I write children's books therefore I need to read children's books in order to stay ahead of the zeitgeist.)
So I get out my 'Phoebe aged 15' file. Yes, I have to keep a file on my alter ego because Puffin Island require information about her/me and I'll/she'll never remember it in her/my brain unless I/she writes it down - you know what teenagers are like. Although I was never like it as a teenager. I don't think. ('I thought I was your alter ego?' says Matilda. 'You are,' I say, 'but you are too old for the purpose of the Puffin Club. Please don't get narky).
So I use one of Andy's e-mail addresses. I add this e-mail address to 'Phoebe aged 15's' details. I activate my membership! And...
...Puffin Island tells me I do not have a free book to claim. Phoebe throws a hissy fit. I tell her to calm down because, look, in the small print it says, 'If you have only just activated your account it may take a while to have the correct information on your Puffin Page. Try again in half an hour. (Or some such twaddle.)
'HALF AN HOUR,' yells Phoebe. 'I CAN'T WAIT HALF AN HOUR. I HAVE TO STRAIGHTEN MY HAIR/ SEND TWENTY THOUSAND TEXTS AND MEET DWAYNE ON THE CORNER.'
'Who is Dwayne?' I ask, sternly.
'No-one,' sulks Phoebe.
'Well, if he's 'no-one', 'I say, doing that scribing-apostrophes-in-the-air-with-my-fingers thing because I know it really annoys her, 'then you can stay here and get my free book for me.' I make a note that Phoebe has an imaginary friend called 'Dwayne.'
'I NEVER WANTED TO JOIN THE STUPID PUFFIN CLUB ANYWAY!' Phoebe yells, stomping up the stairs. 'IT'S FOR SADDOES AND LOSERS!' And she slams her bedroom door.
I'm wondering if she has a point. And then I worry that I might never get my free book.
Anyway, I have a confession to make. As I celebrate my 100th blog entry, a whiff of deceit hangs in the air. Can you smell it? It's a bit like cheese-on-toast with a dollop of barbacue sauce, which, on the face of it is really very appealing, thus making the air of deceit quite, quite delicious. And even harder to resist. Who was it that said 'I can resist anything but temptation?' Oscar Wilde? Mae West? Me?? (Tybalt says it was him but he's still on a cat-nip bubble buzz so I don't think he's fully in charge of his reasoning capabilities at the moment.)
The deceit hangs on something I mentioned a while ago concerning my membership of the Puffin Club. And the fact that you have to be aged 16 or under in order to join the Puffin Club. But was I going to let age stand in the way of me revisiting a favourite childhood memory and a beany puffin toy and badge? No, I was not. So I invented a new identity. She is called Phoebe and she was born in 1993. Yes, I know we have a cat called Phoebe. I wasn't feeling very inventive on the name front that day. I panicked, okay? But it gained me membership to the inner sanctum and I am now a Puffineer. Only now it's coming back to bite me on the bum.
You see, I have received an e-mail from the Puffin Club. It said that I hadn't claimed my free book. I had. I claimed my free book a month ago via a postcard attached to the first issue of the Puffin Post Magazine. Clearly the postcard has not arrived on Puffin Island. So my only other option is to claim it on-line. Which means I have to 'activate my membership' as Phoebe aged 15. I try to do this. Puffin Island says, 'You can't use that e-mail address because it's already being used by someone else.' YES I KNOW IT IS! IT'S BEING USED BY ME, THE PERSON WHO PAID FOR THE MEMBERSHIP IN THE FIRST PLACE!!!
You see my dilemma?
Andy says, 'Use one of my e-mail accounts.' One of his e-mail accounts? How many e-mail accounts does he have, for the love of sausages? I have no choice. I want my free book. My free children's book. (It's research okay? I write children's books therefore I need to read children's books in order to stay ahead of the zeitgeist.)
So I get out my 'Phoebe aged 15' file. Yes, I have to keep a file on my alter ego because Puffin Island require information about her/me and I'll/she'll never remember it in her/my brain unless I/she writes it down - you know what teenagers are like. Although I was never like it as a teenager. I don't think. ('I thought I was your alter ego?' says Matilda. 'You are,' I say, 'but you are too old for the purpose of the Puffin Club. Please don't get narky).
So I use one of Andy's e-mail addresses. I add this e-mail address to 'Phoebe aged 15's' details. I activate my membership! And...
...Puffin Island tells me I do not have a free book to claim. Phoebe throws a hissy fit. I tell her to calm down because, look, in the small print it says, 'If you have only just activated your account it may take a while to have the correct information on your Puffin Page. Try again in half an hour. (Or some such twaddle.)
'HALF AN HOUR,' yells Phoebe. 'I CAN'T WAIT HALF AN HOUR. I HAVE TO STRAIGHTEN MY HAIR/ SEND TWENTY THOUSAND TEXTS AND MEET DWAYNE ON THE CORNER.'
'Who is Dwayne?' I ask, sternly.
'No-one,' sulks Phoebe.
'Well, if he's 'no-one', 'I say, doing that scribing-apostrophes-in-the-air-with-my-fingers thing because I know it really annoys her, 'then you can stay here and get my free book for me.' I make a note that Phoebe has an imaginary friend called 'Dwayne.'
'I NEVER WANTED TO JOIN THE STUPID PUFFIN CLUB ANYWAY!' Phoebe yells, stomping up the stairs. 'IT'S FOR SADDOES AND LOSERS!' And she slams her bedroom door.
I'm wondering if she has a point. And then I worry that I might never get my free book.
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