Friday, 24 February 2017

Celebrate the small things, 24 February

Right, let's take a look back over February and see what's been achieved on the work front. Hm, nothing in particular to celebrate, except that's another month successfully survived as a freelance. There isn't anything that would tempt me back into a 'proper' job - not even the prospect of paid holidays. I'm happy to trade the occasional meagre month for all the freedom.

I've entered three writing competitions this month; and submitted a letter to a magazine, which has been accepted for publication, and the same magazine has expressed an interest in an idea for a feature; but on the down side I've had a womag rejection. Hey ho.

I'm celebrating the success of a friend's operation. She had something done under local anaesthetic and texted me shortly afterwards to say all was well and that she'd used her yoga breathing to keep herself calm - so calm, in fact, that she fell asleep!

This evening I'm off to an evening of love poetry with the Fellowship of Professional and Amateur Artists, with John Clare tucked under my arm.

Have a good weekend, folks.

Want to join in and celebrate with us? Hop over to Lexa's blog here and sign up.

Tuesday, 21 February 2017

Could you write a weekly column?

If you bought the current issue of The Lady (pictured, dated 17 February), you might have noticed a new column called 'The Tech Doctor' by Miles Waghorn. I'm delighted to see this, because Miles is the son of one of my friends and he's worked hard for his success. I didn't know he was a writer, but he certainly knows his technology, so I'm sure he'll have lots of useful information to pass on.

I just hope he realises what he's let himself in for, because a weekly column is a huge commitment. I used to do a fortnightly 'my life and welcome to it' piece for our local paper, and that was a big enough challenge, because sometimes I just wasn't in the mood. Now I write a monthly feature for Smallholder and it's amazing how quickly the time flies; and in the past I've had other regular writing commitments, including compiling crosswords. Still, there's nothing like a deadline hurtling towards you to alleviate writer's block!

What do you think: could you write to order every week - or even every day?

Saturday, 18 February 2017

Please welcome the judges!

It was real privilege to be a judge at the Open Stage Performing Arts Company Performance Awards today, where I was one of a panel of three sitting in awe of the talent of children from under five years old to 16 and adults, too, dancing, singing and performing dramatic monologues. Rachael, the wonderful woman behind the company, is doing a Good Thing here and has created a place with such warmth and creativity that it would be a cold heart that wasn't moved - and yes, there was one singer who brought a lump to our throats with his fabulous performance.

In her opening remarks, Rachael said that one of the aims of the organisation is to create 'brave people who can be brave for the rest of the lives' and that Open Stage is a bubble of creativity that can spread out into the world. All I can say is that I came home inspired.

The photo shows a selection from my judge's goodie bag (there was also some chocolate, but it wasn't available when this picture was taken). I was particularly pleased with the wand! And the red rose? That came from Exotic Dining who served us a lovely meal last night and who always give the ladies a rose on their way out. Nice touch.

Friday, 17 February 2017

Celebrate the small things, 17 February

Well, that was a week-and-a-half. Luckily, we have a family dinner out this evening to mark number one son's birthday. Cheers, Sam!
Sorry - nothing more to say today, except: have a good weekend, folks.

Want to join in and celebrate with us? Hop over to Lexa's blog here and sign up.

Friday, 10 February 2017

Chilly, but still time to Celebrate The Small Things

The flurry of snow we had this morning turned to water before it hit the ground, thank goodness, but it's still too cold for my liking. On the other hand, I do have fabulous central heating (she says, touching wood) - unlike the homeless guy Paul I was talking to on Wednesday morning. He and others like him sleep in The Cage, an area behind the library. The council will house them somewhere temperarily if the temperature drops below freezing, even if that means a school sports hall; but as he said, just because it's above freezing doesn't mean it's warm. Fortunately, there is a night shelter opening here in a couple of weeks' time. It's a drop in the ocean really, but it's a start. Remember, people, it might be a cliche, but we really are all only three pay cheques away from homelessness.

For me, in my comfortable middle class life, it's been a week of possiblities. Someone I met at the HE Bates awards night last week has invited to me to judge a competition, which is very flattering. I've also been asked to do a couple of sessions with a local sixth form on coping with exam stress. I've even had my photo taken to go alongside a guest blog I've written for the Association of Freelance Writers. Anyone who knows me in real life will appreciate what a big deal this is - the photo, I mean, not the blog. Blogs I can do: photos - not so much. Finally,  I've learned that a book proposal has moved one step closer to acceptance - still a way to go, but you never know.

Have a lovely weekend, folks.

Want to join in and celebrate with us? Hop over to Lexa's blog here and sign up.

Tuesday, 7 February 2017


All the coverage in the media at the moment about the housing shortage and dodgy landlords is ringing bells, as my two sons, both in their 20s, are convinced that they will never own their own homes. How can they save up for a deposit when they have to pay rent? There are times when I'm glad I'm not young now!  It reminds me of my own house-hunting days, which I wrote about in Best of British, reproduced below. Writers note: you don't have to be reminiscing about the war to get into this magazine.

Crouch End, 1979
In the 1970s, London was full of optimistic youngsters facing the future with open minds and good hearts. I was one of them, and, like many in that crowd, I was looking for somewhere to live.
I had left my family home in rural Staffordshire to take up my first job, just off Fleet Street. The start of this great adventure saw me sharing a room with a stranger in a YWCA hostel. This didn’t strike me as odd. During my six months there, a variety of people passed through my life and, with what I now realise was incredible luck, we always got along.
Breakfast was served in a communal dining room and clean bedding provided once a week. There were washing machines in the basement, two TV lounges (one BBC, one for ITV) and a reception area from where sour-faced advice could be sought.
But despite its lovely location opposite the British Museum, the hostel had its drawbacks. There was the small matter of the cockroaches, for instance. I had to make as much noise as possible on entering my room to make them scurry away. There was also the lack of privacy of shared bathrooms, and the tiny kitchens in which it was near impossible to cook anything more elaborate than Bachelors Cup-a-Soup. Then there was the creepy porter, looking as though he had stepped straight out of Scooby-Doo. He was the only male allowed over the threshold and, like Mrs Danvers, seemed to appear out of nowhere.
And let’s not forget the curfew. Anyone expecting to be out beyond lock-up at 11pm was required to say where she was going and whether she would be back at 1am or 3am. I found out the hard way that 11 meant 11. One night I was banging on the door at a couple of minutes past, but to no avail. I was forced to call on a friend for shelter. After that, I always said I wasn’t going to be in until 3, regardless of my actual plans.
It was clear that this situation was far from ideal for a girl about town, and so I began scouring notice boards and trawling through the local papers for something better. With what can best be described as a scant regard for my personal safety, I set about visiting prospective homes from where I could reach the City. My confidence was high.
First came the opportunity to share a flat with a chap from work. It seemed too good to be true: on the right Underground line, reasonable rent and shared use of the garden. But even in my naivety I could see that he had more in mind than a platonic housemate. I politely declined.
Looking further afield, I saw a place above a dry-cleaner’s premises where the landlord assured me I would get used to the smell of chemicals. No thanks.
Then I had a narrow escape when I viewed a room in a house in Tottenham. It seemed very nice and met all my criteria: clean, spacious, reasonable rent – hot water included! – and just round the corner from the Tube station. It would have been perfect, had the landlord not casually mentioned that he liked to keep a key to the rooms of all his tenants: ‘just in case I fancy dropping in’.
I began to realise that decent flats were scarce and those that were around were taken almost as soon as they were advertised. Often I had to submit myself to a selection process whereby I would be interviewed by the existing tenants to see if I had the right credentials to join them: How much do you earn? What hours do you keep? Do you have any noisy habits? Do you use a lot of garlic in your cooking? Do you mind snakes? What are your views on free love? And even: Would I be able to borrow your clothes sometimes?
I started to despair. Was I doomed to spend the rest of my life in a bug-infested room in the cheaper end of Bloomsbury? Then, at last, a friend of a friend had a bed-sit to rent in a house in Crouch End. Would I be interested? Would I ever!
These days an N8 postcode is quite the thing to have, but back then its glory days were still ahead of it. The room in question was at the top of an Edwardian house that had seen better days. The paintwork was peeling and for lack of a bottom hinge the front gate was wedged not quite open, not quite closed. And yet… I rang the bell.
Half an hour later, the deal was done and I had found my new home.

Friday, 3 February 2017

Celebrate the small things, 3 February

Welcome to my contribution to today's CTST. Want to join in and celebrate with us? Hop over to Lexa's blog here and sign up.
Today I'm celebrating the achievements of others, following my attendance at the HE Bates Short Story Writing Competition prize-giving ceremony yesterday evening. The top three stories were amazing and all worth winners; stories will appear on the competition website shortly. It was a lovely evening and I met some very interesting people. (If you want to be a writer, hang out with writers.)

I've only managed one submission this week, but I did hear that I've won a poetry competition. If I remember, I'll let you know more when it is announced. It's nothing fancy, but a real first for me.

I'd also like to celebrate the work of the team at Kettering Arts Centre. After hosting Tiff Stevenson last weekend, we have Josie Long to look forward to this evening.

What are you all celebrating?