March 2019

March 29, 2019

Felicity and Thomas

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Felicity and Thomas

Today, having no-one else to please, and as the breeze wafted through the house on this warm, autumnal day, redolent of excitements chased away, Felicity watched Thomas, and Thomas saw Felicity, appreciating the closely-known signs that she was content: the smile that almost shone at her mouth, the way her curves relaxed in that dress – which he had not seen before, had he? – the sound her shoes made, complacently skiffing across the hall carpet.

“Shall we go somewhere?” he asked, greatly daring.

“Yes, oh yes, Lets!”

“Where would you like?”

Thomas had no clue that costings, prices might make any difference – one reason, Felicity realised, why she had loved him. His constant patina of worry over his bank balance never translated into meanness or parsimony, but rested as a frown might, on his forehead, only wanting to be soothed away with her smile.

So she smiled, relieved that her judgement of men had been good (in a jaded girl so young) and said, “Oooh, anywhere you fancy, why not?” and resisted adding, “It needn’t be expensive…”
“The Hydro? They are doing a weekend rate, just now.”
“Perfect. Two nights?”
“Yes, otherwise…” What would be the point of one night only?

He phoned the hotel while she packed a few clothes into a large suitcase, three quarters empty, that left room enough for a few hopes, perhaps a book or two, some ideas.

“Let’s go!”

Their weekend was a success. They could float apart, and come together when they chose, for meals, chats, for the in-house cinema. When he fell asleep in the dark, holding her hand, she reflected that nothing much had changed in their twenty years together. A tenderness surfaced, a tolerance that answered, “He may be a nuisance at times, but I’m so glad that he chooses…to stay with me.”

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March 27, 2019

Thomas looked at himself

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Thomas looked at himself

Thomas looked at himself in the full-length mirrored wardrobe. This morning, with Felicity up and doing, he had a rare chance to get dressed in daylight, and he checked his outfit with pleasure. Not quite sure about the pink. Maybe it was too much? He hadn’t time to change. Maybe it would be all right.

What? Oh dear. Felicity, as usual was absolutely on point. Deadly accurate, her sharp observations were about as enjoyable as walking barefoot across burning sand. But she was right, he acknowledged. She was always so right.

To shake off that heaviness, he left quickly. His arrival early at work was met with favour, but not the pink shirt, on which his co-worker’s eyes – all right, that was Alicia – lingered mockingly. At least she spared his feelings. For that he was grateful, and smiled with genuine feeling.

His genuine feelings had long been buried beneath the silt of matrimonial disappointment and routine. He didn’t mind, he preferred not to feel things too deeply. He was traditional, not one given to outbursts of emotion, though there had been times when his feet could have left the floor, he was so happy. Now, he was content not to be targeted. Unhappy at work, he mistook his wife’s froideur for indifference, failing to understand – no matter how often she told him! – that a certain woman needs excitement, drama and a bit of tension to make her feel alive. The line of love had gone saggy, no electricity.

And then, suddenly, a miracle! There she stood before him. Beautiful, alive, her hair washed and freshly cut, her clothes a step up from her usual, bright, fizzing with excitement. What an astonishing transformation, which he watched with pleasure. For a month, exactly when the weather was at its warmest over Summer, she danced before him, dazzling and lovely as he had remembered her.

Then as the Autumn came in, that season of mists, she wilted, and he was sad with her; while she looked at him kindly.

***

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March 25, 2019

Felicity examined her hands

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Felicity examined her hands, a displacement activity to shield her from the truth that she needn’t upset her husband, but that she would anyway.

“Darling,” she said, because she thought she had the right to say what she thought, “That shirt doesn’t suit you. It makes you look fat. Why not wear something a little less…?”

“I haven’t time to change,” he apologised, looking stricken. “Sorry, I have to go.” And leave he did, probably sooner than he might have, without a farewell kiss or stroke of the cheek. Pity, but then, Felicity knew he would be in a hurry, and unconsciously liked to taunt her husband, because he evinced confidence where she seethed envy. Not a match made in heaven, but a tinder set to blow, she liked to assume.

Felicity was charming, everyone agreed, affectionate to her husband in public, but cold and dismissive in private. Oh, she worked hard, doing the housework and catering for the family, but often that was simply to fuel her own grudge and so that she might manufacture something to complain about. Pancakes for tea? No problem, darling, but I’ll never forgive you for forcing me to sweat over a hot hob. Smile? Not now, I’m busy.            

Until the day that Felicity met the man of her dreams. Yes, she had dreamed about him. Had known he would show, one day when she least expected him. There he was in his dark suit, impeccably tasteful shoes, marvellous head of hair. He said he loved her, took her out to lunch and afterwards, held her like she’d never – never! Never! – been held before. The sexual restraint she had been used to was so utterly English – like those poor women you read about in Mary Wesley novels – and for a while she felt transmuted, continental, Argentinian, maybe; all long legs, high heels and deep understanding.

Then, in a moment of rare compassion she returned the favour when he needed her, helped him with something, and suddenly he was cold, distant. The magic, he said – no more damsel in distress, fluttering her eyelashes and mewling prettily – had gone. Pity her, he was away like mist on a hot day.

And husband? Well, he noticed the change, ascribed it to the season, the weather, and loved his wife with more consideration than usual. Exhausted from her adventures, she looked differently at his steady thoughtfulness, and thanked heaven.

***

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March 21, 2019

To throw in the towel

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Lately I’ve wanted – despite the joy of being at the Book Fair – to throw in the towel on my writing. To say, “I gave it my best shot, and I’ve had enough.” But what stops me is the realisation that this is one field of endeavour that I can honestly call my own.

True, it owes its genesis to the generosity and encouragement of others, in particular, my husband. But having cultivated this particular creative garden, it has taken root and is well established. So I don’t feel justified in pulling it all out and leaving behind bare earth. And if I did, how would I spend the time that not writing would free up? Would I have the courage to do what I want, or would I expend even more of my efforts in helping others?

I realise my cogitations make me sound very selfish. I’ve just had four days away from home, exploring to my heart’s content. But doing that, I have been able to notice how lopsided my ‘ordinary’ life has become, how joyless; and just how much of my effort has been invested for others. I say, automatically, “I don’t mind,” but actually, I mind very much. And however often I may assume it doesn’t matter, clearly my body has other ideas: I am forced to recon with my giving tendencies when I am sore, exhausted and depressed.

I suppose I have to be more honest about what I would like to do. But I’m not used to it, not really. Hubby says, “Go out and have fun…!” which for him might be easy to decide and do. Whereas I sit quietly wondering what that might entail, pondering what fun might be. Going to the cinema? Not very active. Going shopping? Yes, but that’s a consumerist effort. Reading a book? I recon I’ve done enough of that for a while. Watching television? No, I want to get outside. Go for a walk? Yes, somewhere nice, maybe… I would love to go for a walk, at my pace, in a wooded place, where I don’t have to fret that I’m late, or in the way, but can enjoy great lungfuls of cool, fresh air.

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March 19, 2019

Four times more effort

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Four times more effort

The London Book Fair this year was the most enjoyable I’ve experienced. I met some truly delightful people with whom I hope to keep in touch, and came away with lots of new and refreshing ideas.

Chatting as one does at these events with like-minded and generous souls, we take away different thoughts, and ideas that stay with us. Like this one from a new friend, that, apparently, for a person with impairments – like mine, I presume – it takes five times more effort to do anything than for an average bod. In my case, perhaps four times as much effort, or three; but the point was made, and made me think.

If it takes me four times more effort to undertake a physical task, which takes me three times as long, how does that impact on my life? It must mean that I will, probably, get less done in an average day than you would, and that my efforts need to be carefully considered. To put it bluntly, doing jobs I dislike takes me so much effort, that I should not do them. I should spend my time doing what I enjoy.

Well, yes, of course, we all should. Doing what we enjoy is the key to our success. But I suppose my point is that, given the energy and time and thought expended, I should really never do jobs I dislike. And if I have to do them, I must, for the sake of my sanity, find ways to do them that I can enjoy, or at least, appreciate: I do notice that I am slower and more laboured than others, a realisation which is hard, sometimes, to accept.

On the one hand bolstered by having this understood – Wowee! At last someone recognises the sweat that goes into this! – I am rather depressed by having it confirmed: How much effort have I wasted doing jobs I hate? I mean, we all have to do things we don’t like, but in the normal course of events, “other people” – how I hate that phrase – can do them much faster and with less physical and emotional investment than me, so in fairness, they should do them, while I put my efforts into being happy.

Which raises more questions that need answers, like, “Why haven’t I?” and “When will I?” and “What is stopping me?” I seem to have spent an inordinate amount of my effort and time doing things for other people. Of course, again, we all do. But how much is too much?

Thanks for listening.

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March 15, 2019

Online services

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Online services

I notice increasingly, that the convenience and ease of online services so often touted by the banks and public services, the local authorities and the inland revenue, the DSS, is simply a way to pass on a printing job to the end user. Which obviously makes things quicker and easier for suppliers, but not necessarily for us.

It sounds easy, and, with practice and applications, working online can be. We find a computer, click on a link to a service, create an account with an email address, password, and then we have access. Computer literacy is hard-won, not always obvious. And bingo, we can apply for passports and driving licenses on-line. No need to ever leave the house.

But all that does take thought, planning and a printer, preferably with a built-in scanner. And because of the rules about accounts and records, we often find ourselves printing off advice notes, leaflets, ‘how to’ manuals, tax returns, bank statements. “Make it easier!” my bank tells me every time I log on, “Get your statements delivered to your IN box!” Which means, yes, I have to print them. Save them postage, why not? Good idea…

Except that care is required when acquiring services. It is very easy to fall prey to the optimism of telephone selling, (“Only £25 a month…”) which is very hard to verify at the same time with any ‘online paperwork’. You can sign on with a consent, a mumble down the phone, but while doing that, it is almost impossible to verify the cost of international calls, (fifty pence a minute at full rates…What??) The most banal commitments can spiral out of control with equal ease.

So be warned. When acquiring a new, shiny online service, check the small print first, before agreeing on the phone that it is a good idea. Read and check any paperwork first, and think of some useful questions you need to ask, (Eg: does your phone package include the cost of international calls?”) before any agreements are printed off and your “Welcome, New User!” package arrives by online speedmail.

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March 10, 2019

Visiting the London Book Fair

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Visiting the London Book Fair

This year will be my third visit to the London Book Fair.

I bought my train ticket early, booked the same room as in previous years, and have printed my entrance ticket. Apart from checking dates and times obsessively, I only now have to pack my gear, and catch the train to London for the Book Fair, which is running this year between the eleventh and fourteen of March.

Was it brought forward from its usual slot in April because of fears of Brexit? Perhaps. But whatever way I look at it, I intend to have fun, to rest a bit, take a stroll through the green parts of Kensington and take refreshment in the warmer climate, the trees doubtless already in bloom.

I’m taking my three books of fiction, two copies of Trapped and a copy of my radio play. For whom? Who knows? But I know that if I don’t go, I’ll never know what might happen, who I might meet at the Fair. I may perhaps meet some of my on-line friends there, as I sometimes do.

There is no way to progress one’s life by sitting quietly alone at home… And husband is happy to support me, which helps so much. Not once has he suggested I surrender this writing lark in exchange for a more reasonable prospect of remuneration – in other words, an ordinary job. Instead, he has been totally supportive with my plans. I am blessed in this, as in so many other ways.

Thanks for reading.

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March 8, 2019

Time marches on

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Time marches on. March already, with billowing daffodils, crocuses in the parks and byways, and fresh breezes filled with soft scents of spring.

I am reminded by the circuit of the seasons that my mother has now been living in Edinburgh for almost a year. In that time I have been so fortunate to have her company and her help with many things: thoughtful advice, reminders of what matters in life, the gift of her lifetime’s knowledge of me – how often she understands without my having to explain.

My sisters, too, have been incredibly helpful and supportive with the daily ups and downs; popping in for the weekend, or turning up to lend a hand on the occasional day. It’s like sunshine, having the true love and support of my family around me.

Though I am busy – goodness knows, I’ve never been busier – I say this every year, and every year it is true – I do more easily understand that I should find ways to enjoy everything I do in life, or else, why on earth am I doing it? If I’m finding laundry the bane of my life, what am I not doing with it that could make life more fun? Farming out the heavy stuff? Taking the chance of laundry day to throw out or pass on what I don’t need or like? Enjoying folding clothes and storing them with love?

I’m evolving a theory – which is still only a theory – that people move into bigger houses so that they can find room for their stuff. Interesting idea, that we take on bigger mortgages and more locks and keys, for things that we so often don’t even use.

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March 4, 2019

Writing again

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Writing Again

I’m happy to be writing again. Yes, I know I’ve said this many times before, but this time – and I know I’ve said that many times before too – I know that I’m back on track. I have life organised, so before it throws me any more curve balls, I’m writing as fast as I can. Fast and furious. Because I’ve realised that when we are getting a work done, any writing will do. Any writing on a longer piece of work is worth doing, and we had best simply write it and censor later, edit later, later… First, write. In so deciding, the path clears a way forward.

So that is what I am doing. And feeling happy about it too. I am so reassured that the lessons I have previously taken on board about the way I write, appear to be holding true for each successive piece that I set myself.

But there is another agenda going on, which is that the third book in my fiction series will not be my last piece of substantial writing. I also want to get on with a stage play for Trapped which I was prompted to start some years ago by a series of dreams. So, as I sometimes do, I put down the introductory scenes which I have left until now. I was re-reading them lately, thinking – as we sometimes do after a long break – “This is surprisingly good…!” which means, I have to get on with that soon.

I work best when I have an end in view. Which, perhaps rather unusually in this case, is to make space for a stage play.

Thanks for reading.

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March 1, 2019

Dilemmas of a memoir writer

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Dilemmas of a memoir writer

I didn’t realise it at the time, but when I wrote my memoir I was tacitly agreeing that my life would be open to public view. In retrospect, of course, that much is obvious; yet even after publication, the idea of being available in that way took time to get used to: not only my writing but my life became, in some ways, a matter of public interest. An outcome that scarcely occurs to writers of fantasy fiction, say, or historical whodunnits.

Because of the quasi-public nature of my first three books, I try to conduct my life with probity and discretion, and to treat everyone who reads my books with consideration. But the fact remains, readers will get to know a lot about me, while I, absent-minded at best, will probably learn very little about my reader friends. I have difficulty sometimes remembering people’s names – my own, too, so it’s not personal – and in even the most kindly exchanges with readers, I have no idea whether they have one sister or two, unless they choose to share personal details like these with me, or write blog posts about family.

Writers like Elouise, whose blogs I have followed for a few years I admire particularly,  I suspect, because she also chooses to share the story of her life and her birth family. And I notice that I tend to gravitate towards other memoir writers whose books I have read. But then, I have always enjoyed reading life stories.

Happily, it rarely occurs to me to notice that the information exchange with my readers is a bit lopsided. In any case, the end point of any memoir already puts that story into a kind of historical context, marking a full stop beyond which life moves ahead steadily. I’m already a different person from that woman who looked out at the world a month ago.

But I do forget, sometimes, that people know more about me than I know about them. And have to remind myself that I don’t need to explain…

Thanks for listening.



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