Rather Late Mid-Month Musings: November - IT BROADENS THE MIND!

HOW TO BE A CURSED TRAVELLER

When I was a teenager, my best friend, B, and I used to fantasise about travelling the world. We're both now 60 and she's fulfilled that particular dream. In addition to visiting many places in Europe, she's travelled as far afield as the USA, Russia, Japan and Peru. 

The furthest I've ever been is Madrid...

When we were younger, my husband and I couldn’t afford to travel much. During eleven years living in London, we had four weekends abroad [Paris, Amsterdam, Brussels and Madrid]. I also went on a couple of day trips to Boulogne with the Business Admin students at the college where I worked. Since we moved back to Yorkshire, we've been on a three-day coach trip to Giverny for my fortieth birthday during which we visited Paris, Fontainebleau and Versailles. I've also been to two Christmas Markets with my sister – one in Cologne, which was great, and one in Ostend, which was terrible.

Our passports have run out twice without being used.

We now have a bit more money, but P, an only child, no longer feels he can leave his elderly, frail mother on her own while he nips off abroad. Given that her smoke alarm went haywire during our two-day break in Cheshire in the summer, and her cistern flooded when we were spending two days in Alnwick last month, I think he has a point. 

The smoke-alarm incident did result in his mum opening the door to three burly firemen on the morning of her birthday, some weeks later, which would have thrilled many women I know [and some men], though it just irritated P's mum. They had come to fix a new alarm. I'm not sure why it took three of them to fix one alarm, though I'm assured this is how the fire service operates and that there are sound reasons for it. Maybe one fixes it while the other two pose beside the fire engine so the neighbours can take selfies with them.

Yes, they arrived in a fire-engine, which embarrassed P's mum as she thought her neighbours would think her house was on fire, just a few days after it had been flooded by water from the overflowing cistern. I think she was imagining a headline in the local paper saying

Tragic pensioner nicknamed 'Bad Luck Badger' after house flooded then destroyed by fire in same week 

However, I suspect that the fire service don't knock politely on the front doors of houses that are actually on fire.

P's mum didn't enjoy her birthday because it resulted in a stream of neighbours knocking on her door all morning, bringing cards and gifts, which is always horrible, isn't it? And she had to come to our house in the afternoon for a birthday tea, and no one wants to do that.  As she pointed out repeatedly, looking as if she was being seriously harrassed:  'I've got so many bunches of flowers, Susan, the porch is full and I don't know what to do with them all!'. [You might be wondering why she calls me Susan, but it's simply because she muddles me up with her neighbour, Susan; I'm used to it - my friend B's mum called me Lucille for years]. One relative, whom she hasn't spoken to in years, visited her with a present and card, and, as she told us in a tone of outrage, he 'stayed about an hour'. People can be so inconsiderate...

  

P's mum's 90th Birthday Cake made by 'Lindsay across the road' - fruit cake decorated like a teacup filled with roses with two iced biscuits on a yellow table cloth [photographs by me] [Her response: 'What am I going to do with a cake?']

Needless to say, she was unimpressed by the home-made card I lovingly crafted for her. I don't know why I bother. No one likes my home-made cards, but I keep on making them in a battle of wills. I'll wear the buggers down eventually.

Another reason I'm reluctant to travel these days is that I'm also no longer as fond of the actual travelling part as I used to be – all that faffing about at airports really puts me off. Apparently they have moving walkways and you have to put your shampoo in a transparent plastic bag – Oh, brave new world!

If only Star Trek's Transporter beam were real - though there'd still be excruciating waits at passport control.

I'm now thinking about how cool the world would be if they installed moving walkways and escalators on all our streets. Imagine the fun you'd have watching uncoordinated people leaping on and off, or whizzing round corners clutching their shopping! Late-night fights outside popular pubs would take on a whole new interest as fighters tried to beat the bejesus out of each other while being carried along a conveyor belt. You could have different speed lanes like on motorways, so that couples who weren't paying attention would gradually move apart from each other while new partners moved alongside, like one of those country dances we used to do at school. But I digress... 

One of the main reasons we haven't been abroad recently, however, is the fact that we are Cursed Travellers. I don't really believe in bad luck, curses, hexes, or the supernatural in general, but I must admit that there have been times when P and I have both seriously wondered whether we unwittingly upset a witch [or at the very least a minor rain god] at some point in our past lives. Like the time we went to Cornwall and were stalked for a week by a thick fog. In fact, we've never actually seen Cornwall in the sunshine despite going there more than half a dozen times. I'm told it's quite pretty, but I wouldn't know. 

Because I'm a Cursed Traveller. 

Take our recent two-day mini-break in York, for instance. Back in January, my sister and bro-in-law invited us to spend two nights in what a colleague in the south once termed 'the Tunbridge Wells of the north', with them, so we could look round the famous Christmas Market. It seemed like a good idea at the time. 

And actually it's much more like Canterbury than Tunbridge Wells.

As we set off, the weather was dry, bright and sharp, perfect for a Christmassy visit, so it seemed that all might be well on this occasion. As I said to P on the drive up the M1, 'Sis and Bro-in-law aren't cursed like us, so hopefully we'll be able to take advantage of their good fortune'.

But sadly it was not to be. On the first day, we arrived late and so couldn't get into the hotel car park. Sis and Bro-in-law got there in good time and got a space. They were having an expensive lunch with several gin and tonics in Fenwicks by the time we arrived. The overflow car-park was a section of a nearby retail park's car-park and had to be paid for by using a QR code on your phone. I tried using my phone's QR reader but got through to something that was possibly a scam - after trying to make it work for over thirty minutes, P did it on his phone in about five minutes.* 

By this time, we were too late to get to the Yorvik Centre for the session we'd booked, so Sis and Bro-in-law went there without us while we had a late lunch in a grotty Starbucks in the retail park before carrying our luggage to the hotel to check-in. It turned out that our Yorvik Centre tickets are valid for a year, though, so we can go there in the future maybe. I mean, who doesn't like a very slow ride through the sights, sounds and smells of a Viking city? 

It also turned out that my recent fibromyalgia flare-up hadn't actually ended, after all [it only ends when the fat lady stops groaning as she walks], as it took me about ten minutes to walk the hundred yards to the hotel carrying a couple of fairly light bags, and I felt liked I'd climbed The Matterhorn.

That evening, Sis had a bad migraine [too many g and ts in Fenwicks] and ended up sleeping it off while we went out with Bro-in-law to look round the Christmas Market and get some food. The market was very pretty with its lights twinkling but I think the waitress in a teashop we visited next day had it right when she described it as 'the robbin' market'. It was a tad over-priced. I made the mistake of drinking a large cup of mulled wine with spiced rum in it which led to my spending £38 on a small box of miniature flavoured gins which seemed outrageous the next day when I'd sobered up. I also forgot to go back and buy a scarf and some chocolate-flavoured rum I'd seen earlier, which is probably just as well as we don't want to remortgage our house at the moment. We had a meal in a pub, and got Sis a ready-made salmon salad from the Coop for her tea. Well, if she insists on having a migraine, all she can expect is a Coop ready-meal.

Later, we cuddled up in bed [P and I, not Sis and I] to watch TV but, two minutes after we switched it on, the TV froze - we tried to remove the batteries from the remote but they were screwed in, and we searched the actual TV itself to find a manual on-off switch but there was nothing that worked. We couldn't turn the screen or the sound off, so all we could see was the TV guide with flashes of the film The Life And Times Of Colonel Blimp visible round the edges. I knew we'd never be able to sleep with the sound of  Roger Livesey and Deborah Kerr, who play Blimp and his wife in this superb Powell and Pressburger epic. playing in the background. So Philip pulled on his clothes and went to reception where he was told it was a problem that had come to their attention soon after the hotel opened three months ago and we just needed to reset the connection in the fuse box. Obviously the hotel feels that resolving this issue is something that's not an  urgent task - they did seem quite under-staffed. We ate in the hotel's restaurant the following night and I saw a child who looked around 13 wearing the staff uniform and waiting on tables.

The bed was comfy but rather high, and I was in a lot of pain, remember. Every time I had to get up to go to the loo during the night, I forgot how high the bed was and sort of fell out, accompanied by a series of groans and sighs, waking P who made a kind of disgruntled moo each time before mumbling 'Are you all right?', turning over and getting back to a serious bout of snoring. The room was pitch black with the curtains shut, and I kept banging my toes on the bed's legs or the door jam. Once, I caught my hip on a metal bottle-opener screwed to the edge of the wooden desk, presumably for those visitors who wished to drink themselves into oblivion as they couldn't turn the bleedin' telly off and they were desperate. 

I'd then open the bathroom door and be blinded by the excruciatingly bright light, then startled by the hideous eldritch woman standing behind the toilet, her hair wildly tangled and her eyes squinting angrily without her specs [until I realised it was simply my reflection in the huge mirror]. I imagine all the hotel rooms contained groaning, injured, sleep-deprived middle-aged holidaymakers constantly stumbling round their rooms in the dark like Peter Sellars in The Pink Panther films.

Both nights I woke at around five o'clock and read my kindle for an hour before falling back asleep and then failing to wake up, refreshed and alert, at a more reasonable time when the alarm went off - by 'alarm' I mean Philip shaking me and shouting in my face 'It's time for breakfast!'.

Breakfast was actually quite good fun, despite the law that insists that one of the two toasters in every budget hotel MUST be out of action at any given time, and the other one must be turned to the lowest setting every time a staff member walks past it. You know it's a proper budget hotel if your toast is still white after being through the mind-bogglingly slow machine three times. The food wasn't bad at all though we did try to save money on lunch  by stuffing ourselves with as much of the 'limitless'  full English as we could manage in the hotel before we set out for the day of site-seeing. That's why it's always easier to mug a tourist in the morning, while they're still recovering from sausage overload.

The first evening we went to the market, I hobbled back to the hotel like a malfunctioning robot because I had a dreadful pain in my right hip. It was as if a rope of agony was stretching from mid-buttock to my appendix and sending searing pains down my leg with every step. You'll be relieved to know that by the next morning my right hip felt completely pain-free. The agonising rope had moved to my left hip instead, presumably ro investigate what damage it could do there. This resulted in my taking lots of painkillers which made me dopy and sleepy [please, no Seven Dwarfs jokes...], and also resulted in my adopting a ridiculous walk which involved swinging my bad leg to minimise the pain. I resembled a very short and fat John Cleese practising for The Ministry Of Silly Walks as I shambled and hobbled up the cobbles of The Shambles. Try saying that after two mulled wines with extra spiced rum.  It's a good job we decided not to walk round the city walls as I'd probably have fallen off.

York City Walls [photo taken from car just as we arrived]

We visited the Minster which I have visited many times before and every time I am astounded by how much it costs. It is now £18. 'We rely on your entry fees and donations to keep this building standing,' the tour guide told us, and part of my brain couldn't help thinking that true Christians should spend that money on feeding the starving and providing shelter for the homeless, and let the building take it's chances. It is clearly a thing of beauty and historic significance, however. I am particularly fascinated by the hundreds of tiny individually-sculpted faces carved into the walls of The Chapter House. Many are human, some pleasant-looking, some not - many are animals or supernatural creatures, or representations of the Green Man. Some are monstrous and gargoyle-ish.

Gargorle fridge magnet from gift shop

By the time the tour had finished, Sis and I were churched-out so we went for a cuppa and a slab of cake while P and Bro-in-law visited the Cathedral Museum. I had a piece of what the waitress insisted was Battenberg cake, on the grounds presumably that it had a layer of pink sponge. However, it was circular, three layers high, the layers glued together with buttercream [or Satan's Cement as I call it] - no marzipan, no apricot jam, not a hint of almond flavour, and stale from having stood uncovered all day. This sort of disappointment might seem trivial to people who don't spend most of their life trying to lose weight and therefore look forward with excessive zeal to the occasional cakey treat. It might seem even more mystifying to those weirdoes who don't like cake much and claim to be indifferent to all desserts. But to two overweight middle-aged Yorkshire women on a mini-break and a budget, it was heartbreaking. 

York Minster

Sis bought a hat that really suited her. I tried it on, back at the hotel, and thought it really suited me too. And suddenly I wanted one for myself. Desperately. I haven't had such an intense desire for something for myself in years - it felt like being a kid again. P suggested that we might have time to go back to the market next day and buy one of these hats before we went home, BUT then Storm Bert hit and the next morning the sky was the colour of pewter and the rain was falling in a solid sheet. Not to mention that the traffic was horrendous, we found out the market didn't open until midday, and, half an hour after Sis and Bro-in-law left the hotel, we discovered our car had a flat battery. When the Green Flag mechanic finally arrived around two-and-a-half hours later, he said the flat battery was probably caused by P having to move the car the short distance from the retail park to the hotel car-park the morning after we arrived and then the fact that it had snowed overnight and the car had got very cold. During our two-and-a-half hour wait, we couldn't visit the Christmas Market because Green Flag Man kept texting us that he'd be arriving in half an hour or twenty minutes.

So I didn't get my hat.

   

Me in 'The Hat' which I still think looks cool, even though I looklike I drive a steam train for a living.

Green Flag Man finally arrived, sorted the car and we drove home. Sis and Bro-in-law were at home, unpacked and drinking a cup of tea by twelve o'clock. Due to heavy traffic queues between York and the McArthur Glen Shopping Centre on the A64, we finally got home around four.

* I often have problems with technology. Last night I went to the theatre with my friends B and T, and the tickets were on my phone. I had got it to the correct screen and thought all was going smoothly but the little aged bloke who tried to scan my phone said the screen was too dark. I have no idea why it was too dark as I hadn't darkened it, nor did I have any idea how to brighten it. T knew how but didn't have her correct glasses on, but she did manage to do it eventually. I was in a lot of pain at the time and this rigmarole wasn't helping my mood, and I found myself snapping at the attendant: 'We're coming in whether it works or not!' . Later, I felt bad about this momentary nastiness and mentioned this to B whose response was 'You could have taken him, Louise - he was only little!'. So now I can't think of Sheffield or the show we saw [Defying Gravity: West End Women - it was very good] without picturing myself drop-kicking an innocent little old man down the steps of the City Hall. 

This is what technology does to people...

*****

A NOVEL YOU MIGHT BE INTERESTED IN

Sitcom Affairs by Judy Roberts

Sitcom Affairs is the latest novel by Judy Roberts [showcased in July 2024 as Judy Worham].

 

It’s a romantic comedy which follows the lives of three women, Ellie, Jess and Alex, who work full time in a Further Education College. When they win the BBC Sitcom Writing Competition, they acquire an agent as part of the prize. What they have written isn’t what the BBC want to put on, however, so they are asked to come up with an alternative sitcom. Their agent, Charlie, suggests they stay in his cottage in Dorset during their half-term holiday so they can concentrate on writing without the distractions in their normal lives.

The week that should have been a peaceful time, solely focussed on writing, is full of unexpected events. During their time away from home, each woman’s life is irrevocably changed.

Sitcom Affairs is now available on Kindle Direct Publishing on the Amazon website [from 5th November]. It will also be available in paperback format if you don’t have a kindle, or have one and hate the sight of it.

If this appeals to you, here is the link to download it in whatever format best suits your reading habits:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/B0DLHDQRWC/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?crid=17Z4UIJLGV0HJ&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.b5Xb6aUJV3qaQFTFMilBSg.Vmy3JUj4ZirIMztlas1vTOnZO9vK3QElfb4lT4PI04U&dib_tag=se&keywords=judy+roberts+sitcom+affairs&nsdOptOutParam=true&qid=1730388835&sprefix=judy+roberts+sitcom+affairs%2Caps%2C61&sr=8-1

  

ISBN: 9780957031746.

Writer Showcase: October - Lin De Laszlo

 Lin De Laszlo

I am thrilled to introduce our tenth showcased writer of 2024, Lin De Laszlo. An alumni of the Open University Creative Writing Masters course and member of the 20-20 Club. Lin has a gift for writing stories and is particularly good at the slightly chilling ones suitable for Halloween...

Lin De Laszlo

Biography

Lin was born and raised in Brockley, Southeast London, as the youngest of seven children. A mother of three, she now lives near Dartford with her husband who is her biggest emotional and techie support, her son, and her cat Olly who has several personalities. She enjoys spending time gathered around the dinner table with her family and friends. She credits her sense of humour and sarcastic wit to the various jobs that she has had from general assistant (dogsbody), bus conductor, bar person, till operator, domestic engineer and now post office clerk.

She began writing as a child but lacked support, and so it became more of a secret hobby. If she could turn back time, Lin would retrieve her lost stories from the bin and pay someone to decipher the handwriting, then unleash them on the world.  

Lin’s reading journey took off after receiving 1001 Arabian Tales as a child and her inner bookworm was born. Despite the dramatic sighs of her husband, she refuses to throw books away and is first port of call when books need a new home for whatever reason.

Lin studied English and drama as a mature student at Greenwich University and then some years later completed her MA in creative writing with the Open University. She has been a featured author in Makarelle, the online magazine, with a flash fiction story called ‘The Obsession’. This piece was also featured on YouTube, as an audio version read by Dini Armstrong which was a wonderful surprise. Three pieces of Lin’s work also feature in Words From Wonderland, an anthology published as part of MA alumni writing group, The Twenty-Twenty Club,  on Amazon.

Lin is currently working on her memoirs but cannot decide whether to self-publish for the world to read or write them as a personal project. She sometimes attempts to scare her children with stories from her past, but she is convinced that they think she has made half of it up. Her favourite meal from childhood was egg and chips which remains so today. Her 60^th birthday which is looming will be earmarked with this dish much to the eye rolling of her family.

She collects Looney Tunes and Disney figurines, is a lifelong Barry Manilow fan, and refuses to have a kindle because there is nothing better than the feel of a book. She is the only person that she has come across, ever, who enjoys ironing. Lin also has an unfathomable desire for a piano.  She says that unfortunately there is nowhere to put it unless it is suspended from the ceiling.

One day she is determined to have her ‘she shed’ in the garden where she can fill a glass and write to her heart’s content. 

Links:

 

Here are the link to Lin's work:

‘The Obsession’ read by Dini Armstrong can be found on YouTube:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=asevetbwK-k

 

Words from Wonderland can be bought from Amazon at the following link:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Words-Wonderland-Twenty-Club-ebook/dp/B0CN9MV328/ref=sr_1_1?crid=3W12IUUKRWR5N&dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.PM4DEK9X2UDOhmXlAUWzRVfTj4sxOOY478IH_H6VY_5DsyZzU4otIC5aR9sxRyTpzojy7rPJgZF4Cv5zOF3tt1AS8TR3c0JbaWeA6LnlvH98xd2rk-TDSWkhAXWvsy6HlGyFXKCa0gPu2qdQGJO2Kt94Q9TC0w2fs1VTQZTqjNDyotmtIpC80R7ZpkYIKSe4xJxabeONFs12TM5j_J0ezfMiaieuBL4eKvyNurOw7UQ.LGgY9Q2KejRxZmJ_MCi56pFOjrp9j_eVARj3bEpyxVE&dib_tag=se&keywords=Words+From+Wonderland&nsdOptOutParam=true&qid=1728041717&sprefix=words+from+wonderland%2Caps%2C477&sr=8-1

[Cut and paste into search engine if links don't work] 

******

Lin has sent us one full-length short story and two pieces of flash fiction. Enjoy!

The Dare

 Stella stumbled into her compact and bijou kitchen, trying to clear the fog inside her head. Half-heartedly swearing off of anything alcoholic for at least a month, she leant on the sink trying to remember what last night had been all about. Filling a glass with water, she vaguely recalled that the evening had ended in a game of truth or dare that became so loud, the bloke upstairs was banging on the ceiling. She was embarrassed to tell a truth because nothing interesting ever happened to her and she wasn’t imaginative enough to lie. So dare it had to be.

Plonking down on the sofa, she had a memory of writing something onto a Post it note, which could be anywhere by now. Surely Friday nights should be earmarked for a takeaway, heart wrenching DVD and a box of tissues.

In the ‘Miss Stella forever single’ world anyway.

But no, easily led Stella ended up being coerced into having a few people round. For fun.

There had been seven bodies resembling sardines in a can squeezed into her front room. One was a friend of a friend, and another was someone she thought she recognised from the toilets at work whose name possibly began with B, but Stella couldn’t be sure.

I mean when you’re desperate you don’t look at people. You’d lose concentration surely!

Stella had been left feeling a tad intimidated over the course of the evening from snarky comments about her extensive ceramic cat collection and had chugged more Chardonnay than was medically advised, hoping that alcohol might improve her come backs. It only increased her burps which was mortifying.

‘Too gassy, obviously’, someone had criticised. Others murmured agreement.  

She had provided pistachios because they were classy nuts, and crisps of a lesser known brand. The faded packet of a brand she was unsure of should have been the clue that they were out of date, but they were on a buy one get three offer which was a pretty good deal to be fair. Stella thought that one cheese and onion crisp tasted pretty much the same as the next, and she was never going to pay five pounds for a packet of Phileas ‘mostly air’ Fogg. Realistically, they were all the same crisps, just a different packet. She had some pate in the fridge but that was on the edge, and it was too late to go shopping now. A bit of cheese cut into squares, minus the hardened edges, and some pickled onions and it could all pass off as canapes if you squinted enough.

 

The evening didn’t begin well.

The woman who was possibly from the loos had a nut allergy, and they had each in turn voiced concern about the crisps. Stella had to admit that they did taste a bit dodgy but didn’t dare admit that she’d bought knock offs. The bowl now sat empty, so either someone hadn’t been as fussy as they pretended to be, or they weren’t so bad after all.

The task in hand now was to find the incriminating Post it note which would reveal her fate.

One hour and too many cups of coffee later, Stella had the small, crumpled piece of paper in her hand.

RUN PAST BINS NAKED.

Her name was written underneath. The words ‘Bess’ and ‘witness’ were smudged by something. Bess, the named individual, could well be the toileteer, but it served Stella right for trying to act invisible at work and not mixing on dress down Fridays.

Her conundrum was all because she couldn’t make up something vaguely believable. Her mother was right!

‘No imagination Stella. You take after your father. You could whistle into that man’s ear and feel the draught out the other side’.

Being a pragmatic soul, Stella thought out a realistic route around the bins in her mind’s eye, but some distance between meant there would be some time in full sight. She wasn’t known for her speed.

Decision: Console oneself for the rest of the weekend bingeing on old reruns of ‘The Love Boat’ and a copious intake of snacks. Gin to accompany. Note to self: Check sell by dates.  

This was an emergency situation after all. If she was going down, she might as well go down happy.

Part of her couldn’t believe that she was even contemplating this.

The weekend dragged and the bin was testimony to the severity of her lack of willpower.

Stella woke suddenly at three a.m. on Monday morning with an idea.

 

Get to work early.

Stalk the toilets.

Attempt to recognise said Bess from Friday night.

Devise a plan for the dare.

 

Hopefully, Bess would be up for watching Stella in the early hours when the street was more likely to be frequented by foxes than people. She could then execute said dare, wave Bess adieu and go back to bed for a few hours before going to work. Stella could hold her head high and dare done, her life could resume its normal boring plod.

She would be able to look back in her old age and laugh and laugh.

Spending far too much time stalking the toilets had her half lying about a dicky belly to her line manager. To be fair she had consumed an overload of comfort food over a two day period so her body was in a state of panic after the assault.

Finally the elusive Bess person wandered in brandishing a lipstick that was too expensive to pronounce and was visibly shaken when Stella’s face suddenly appeared at the mirror.

This was going to be awkward.

In true Stella style it took a good ten minutes to get to the point.

It wasn’t that the other woman didn’t want to listen, but the crisps were still giving her gip and she wasn’t really in the mood to chat.

Arms folded, Bess explained that she really didn’t need reminding, and no, she wasn’t up for an early morning start. It was bad enough that she would have to watch Stella cavort stark naked, in public, along with the fact that she would be committing an offense and that she albeit now soberly unwilling, would be aiding and abetting. She’d read somewhere that it was a misdemeanour or something, she would have to google it again. Bess decided that she was going to drink on her own in future and not go to strangers’ houses to eat grim crisps and get involved in antisocial behaviour.

Stella tried pushing the point that if there was an early morning start, say between two to three a.m., that neither of them would have to worry about getting caught.

Bess stated loudly that she wouldn’t get out of bed that early for George Clooney let alone to watch a stupid dare they had made when they were all plastered. After a strained silence accompanied by the sounds of flushing, they agreed on 6.30 a.m., and to never speak of it again. Bess was going to find different toilets as well.

Two a.m. on the morning of the dare had Stella trying to quietly round up wheelie bins from the next road along, placing them close together between her gate and the closest lamp post, which were two miles apart according to her overactive imagination. She was sure that some busy body would have something to say about where their bins had ended up, but that was the least of her worries. Satisfied that they were lined up like sentries, she went home to coffee and a slab of Battenberg.

Six thirty arrived and after what felt like the tenth time having a wee, the doorbell rang. Stella, wearing only the flip flops she’d bought in Spain, pumped up on coffee and nervous exhaustion, willed her gloriously naked self out of her flat, watching as Bess scuttled to the other side of the street, and attempted to blend in beneath the hanging branches of a tree.

 

The morning air was inconsiderately freezing, and Stella had never felt gladder for the lack of daylight. There was a very long moment when she wished she’d chanced a forfeit, but it was too late now. The girls at work would be lurking like underfed vultures on the Serengeti for the gossip and go viral on internal email. She would probably start looking for a new job after this as she didn’t think that she could handle the notoriety. She knew what to do. Finish this, go home, cry in the bath, possibly wine, definitely a massive fry up. Sorted.

Or maybe sell everything and move to an uninhabited island off the coast of Mars.

With thumbs up to Bess who was almost part of the tree at this point, Stella made a dash for the first bin under the curious gaze of a smallish fox who was busy with a discarded kebab.

So far so good.

By the time the third bin was making itself useful she was praying it would be over soon and began planning the fry up, double everything.  

Bin number four had been moved.

This was an emergency.

It now meant that there was definitely a chance to spot a naked body loitering amongst the bins if you were unfortunate enough.

Stella considered cutting it short and going home. To hell with the consequences and to hell with the Bess woman and her lipstick that didn’t even match her skin tone. All this crouching would do her no favours if anyone came up behind her. It wasn’t helping her knees either.  Her hand was sweaty with the bunch of keys that she was clinging onto for dear life, and the oversized orange Yeti ball keyring that continuously banged against her thigh was asking to be ripped off and buried. She was freezing, and she had lost all respect for naturists.

She heard a cough and spun around.

The bloke from upstairs stood staring at her with a mixture of disbelief and humour. This wasn’t good. The sound of footsteps beating a retreat was the giveaway that Bloody Bess had gone AWOL.

The Yeti ball instantly gained purpose as a partial cover for her nether regions. He tried to look everywhere but at her, which was handy as Stella was a bit low on cover. A manner of thoughts ran riot in her brain. She wondered in which circumstance her life would flash before her eyes.

‘Good morning Miss’.

With her anxiety levels smashing through the roof, Stella’s tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her face felt like a furnace.

‘Out for a run then?’

He waited.

She finally dislodged her tongue and muttered, ‘I live at number five’.

‘Yeah and I live at five A. I think your ceiling has met the sound of my boot. I’ve just finished work actually.’

‘Really?’ Another level of awkward.

‘Yeah. I’m the local not friendly bobby. Not allowed to wear the uniform home. Sorry.’

Stella had read somewhere that they had to have a hat on to arrest someone. And a badge.  She said a little prayer that he was really an hallucination due to her heightened anxiety about the bin formation. She didn’t think it a good idea to ask though as she was in enough trouble as it was and she wanted to cry.

‘Let’s go inside shall we Miss Marsh?’

‘You know my name?’

‘Did I skip the part that I’m your local friendly policeman?’. He showed her a badge.

He really was, and she really was in trouble.

Mustering the last of her self-respect, she walked. head held high, flip flops flopping, to her front door. Fumbling with the keys they finally got in, where she silently vowed to curl up and hibernate for the next twenty years. She had never been more glad to see her dressing gown.

He hadn’t slapped the handcuffs on yet so that was a good sign wasn’t it?

Nursing her shame, she noticed that he was staring at her ceramic cat collection and given how much of the wall it took up, would probably decide that she should be locked up for that alone.

‘Creepy’, he muttered.

He made her a cup of tea because she was frozen which led her to think he was actually going to be nice and that she was going to get away with it, but then he turned all official, pulling a notebook out of his pocket. He produced a pen, obviously nicked from somewhere like Argos, and kept her under his gaze while he chewed the end thoughtfully.

The change from nice guy to Jason Statham like broody man was beginning to have an effect on her if she was honest, and Stella couldn’t deny that she was enjoying it despite the circumstances of the moment. She was beginning to feel a warmth. And it wasn’t her Calor gas heater.  

Her antics would have to be reported. He was sorry but didn’t seem to be. If another neighbour got wind that he’d turned a blind eye, he would probably get a week on forensic clean-up for slacking. He could have a word with the sarge for a lesser charge, but to be honest some magistrates didn’t really take to streakers, and sabotaging bins was a public nuisance.

‘But then again perhaps you should’ve listened to my boot’ he said, snapping his notebook shut.

All Jason Statham comparisons went out the window.

‘You could give me a caution’, she offered.

‘I could’.

The air hung heavy between them and Stella was terrified that anything she could say would be misconstrued as the very thing that must not be named.

Bribery.

He sighed deeply. A bit too dramatically for Stella’s liking but with any luck that might be a good thing.

‘I could …….. have a word with you about making sure you keep your clothes on when you go creeping round the bins in future. Or……. not.’

Stella pulled her dressing gown tighter and bit her lip.

‘I think this time is a onetime only’ he said head lowered and whispering as if giving away state secrets, ‘and I hope never to deal with you again after a fourteen hour shift’.

Nodding her head in quick succession Stella mumbled her thanks somewhat incoherently.

‘You can thank me by keeping the noise down and being a bit more grown up in future. Whyever you were showing blatant disregard for social order I’ll never know’.

Stella decided that he could have his over the top strict headmaster admonishing a terrified five year old moment if it got her off of the shame of making a statement at a police station.

After more thank you’s than she thought she could say in five minutes later, she closed the door to the world she never wanted to see again. And she hadn’t even got his name.

 

Taking the stairs two at a time to his flat, he only just made it through the door before he collapsed with laughter.

He had got more of an eyeful than intended tonight but what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. Being a bouncer sure taught you to handle yourself. He was confident that there would be no more trouble from that one.    

  

THE END

 

 

Maggie

Maggie loved Halloween. It was a special time for her.

Unexplained things happened around Maggie, then she was moved on to another home. To avoid paperwork. There had been concerns.

Blond hair, blue eyes, she was like any other six year old. Distant but polite. An old soul. Her social worker called her an odd sock.

The new foster mother gave Maggie a pitiful look as you would an abandoned puppy and shoved her into a room littered with broken toys and an old chest in the corner.

‘Choose something for tonight,’ she snapped. ‘You’re going with the neighbour’s kids. Hurry up’.  

Left alone in favour of daytime tv, Maggie dug into the depths of the box discovering something that was just perfect.

The dress swamped her small frame. Musty and torn in several places, it felt like cobwebs and smelt of age. Maggie caressed the material, smiling broadly when she discovered a mouldy black hat, placing it on her head and pulling it down over her curls.

This was fun.

Leaving the room she went in search of her carer. The muffled sound of the TV travelled across the house.

A bucket of sweets sat by the front door. Halloween props lay on the floor ready to decorate the hall. She stared at a reel of wire, eyes glittering, watching it suddenly unravel and snake across the floor. She giggled and looked at the figure in the doorway.

‘Look. I’m a witch’.

The fosterer stood frozen, confused, mouth working soundlessly.

The wire wrapped itself around her neck, dragging the frantic woman towards the stairs as if guided by invisible hands. It effortlessly hoisted her mid-air as if she were a feather as she clawed uselessly at her neck, her face turning redder with each gasp for breath. Eyes wide, mouth moving, she silently implored the girl to help her.

Silence.

The wire continued to wrap itself decoratively around the banisters.

Maggie was looking forward to trick or treat.    

 

THE END

   

 

 

 

                      

 Halloween Revenge

 

From ‘I’m not wearing a stupid costume. What am I, five?’  to ‘Where’s my costume?’, the night before Halloween.

Stella could take no more. She had hoped that the attitude might have improved with age, but it was like living with a cactus. At least when her daughter Phoebe was younger, Stella had been able to pull down the blackout blinds, sing bedtime song as approved by supernanny, and shut the door. This approach did not work on a fifteen year old.

A frantic rush around the shops found nothing suitable. Tempted to suggest something along the lines of using a bed sheet and going as a ghost, would definitely have earned her ‘Unloving, Unsympathetic, Uncaring, Cruel, Mother of the Year Award’.

Four espressos later, to help her think, she had her lightbulb moment.

One whining, uncooperative teenager and a twenty four pack of toilet rolls later, sweet revenge was a pouting, outraged but passable mummy. Perfect.

‘Seriously?’, Phoebe was horrified and close to tears.

‘Well I think it’s ok’. Stella gulped her wine.

Phoebe needed a serious lesson in gratitude.

‘It’s a dry night, you’ll be fine’.

Her daughter glared, obviously plotting some sort of revenge for the future.

‘Come on, how many other mummies will there be?’

At the sound of the doorbell, Phoebe flounced out dramatically. Stella could hear the snorting laughter of her friends who owned the kind of parents who planned for nights like this. Phoebe was busy blaming her for everything, past, present and future.

The door slammed and Stella sighed. Thank god her weather app had promised a fine, dry, evening. What could possibly go wrong? She did a lone applause on behalf of her unbelievable creativity.

Peace at last.

Funny. Was that the sound of rain?

 

THE END

******

And finally we come to The Big

 Interview, in which Lin kindly

 answers writing-related 

questions and lets us into 

some of her writing secrets...

 

 

1.     How old were you when you first knew you wanted to be a writer, and what set you off down that journey?

I was quite young when I started writing very short stories. The reading world that I knew didn’t look far past the Janet and John books in primary school and I thought there must be better stories than catching a ball or going to the shops, so wondered if there could be something different. The only reading material at home were the Sunday papers which were forbidden to anyone except my parents, and there were not many other books in the house. I didn’t have the sort of family who would have supported anything that they considered trivial, so when I did write, it was seen as something that was wasting time. There was also the realisation that when I was told that, I would have to put the pen down. I was about seven when I started writing short stories but I would chuck them away because I thought they were no good.

I did join a creative writing class in university which sort of reawakened my storytelling and I had great fun with that.  Shame that the class was for one semester only, so my pen was put away again, so to speak.

Years later, I found myself scribbling/tapping away for my MA and the rest, as they say, is history.

 

2.     Tell us about the books and writers that have shaped your life and your writing career.

One Christmas when I was about seven, I was gifted a book called 1001 tales of Arabian nights. It was full of stories of genies and flying carpets. The stories were so vivid and full of adventure that, for years, I believed that Baghdad marketplaces were full of flying carpets, spices and mysterious old men in turbans. That was the book that opened me up to reading. I became a bookworm after that, for sure. I remember my primary school library with a lot of fondness as it became a kind of a sanctuary once I found the joy of reading.

Not related, but I was convinced that the giant octopuses and deep-sea creatures seen on TV were true to size. Getting lost in the books that I read opened my mind to all sorts of things. It is safe to say that I was easily influenced as a youngster!

As a teenager, I was obsessed with Stephen King and James Herbert. They had a big impact on my reading material along with Dean R Koontz. My husband complains that King can take three pages to describe a blade of grass, but I love the imagery and the horror. I found Herbert very dark but compelling. Even today, I read the ‘Rats’ trilogy over and over.

University introduced me to some strong feminist writers whom I’d never heard of before but loved. If you have never read the work of Ntozake Shange, you have been denied language that is powerful and amazing. Likewise, I discovered Kafka, Camus and Tolstoy, finding War and Peace much easier to read than I imagined.

Both female and male writers have had an influence on my writing. I am inspired by the talents of both and hope one day that I will have something up on a bookshelf squashed between the greats.   

 

3.     Have your children, other family members, friends or teachers inspired any of your writing? In what way?

I base some of my characters on people that I know. I confess to being a bit naughty by giving them the same names but then later I rethink it if the character is too close to their namesake. Sometimes I go back over the text to change the names, or hope that realization won’t kick in, so I won’t be taken to a room with a three-legged stool and a dripping tap to be questioned.

It is never done with malice, but knowing some colourful characters can be tempting and it is interesting to fictionalise and exaggerate a bit. I based some of my characters for ‘The Boss Has Some Ideas’, which was published in Words from Wonderland, on people who I know. I haven’t been approached by one of them yet, so I am probably safe for now.

I wrote a Halloween piece once about a stroppy teenager who demanded that her mother supply a costume at the last minute. The result was a mummy costume made from toilet rolls and the story resulted in the teenager being caught in a downpour. The inspiration for the costume was from a game played at a party with my children years before. I also watched my daughter to get some pointers on teenage angst.  The language of teenagers can be astonishing and incomprehensible at times.

My family is very supportive, and my husband is the appointed ghost reader. He can get a little bit ‘knowledgeable’ about the writing process, so I have to grit my teeth and smile sometimes. However, he is encouraging, sometimes leading to intense conversations usually accompanied by wine.

My tutors for the MA were brilliant and inspired me to push the boundaries of my work, as did some of my peers in the group. I believe that they didn’t inspire what she wrote but inspired her to write better.

 

Lin's Family

4.     Does the place you live have any impact on your writing?

I find it difficult to write at home, usually because there is too much going on around mde. I have tried to create a little writing hub in the spare room but, again, there is always something to distract me. One day I’ll have a shed in the garden like Roald Dahl. Cosy and warm. I think I’ll give the roaring log fire a miss though.

When it is possible, I try to escape to Mousehole in Cornwall once or twice a year. It is a village and fishing port near Penzance. It is my happy place, and I’ve decided that I must have been Cornish in a previous life as it kind of envelopes me totally when I visit. I do some of my best work when I’m in a cottage, wind howling or completely quiet, kettle on, pasty in the oven, laptop open and chocolate nearby. The pace of life and the very air is so different in Mousehole. There is a clash in nature as it can be calm one day and then the sea is almost merciless the next. It almost feels like two different places. The best time is when the wind is up, and the sea is crashing about on the rocks and the harbour wall. When nature is thrashing about, it can do amazing things for the imagination.  

 

Mousehole, Cornwall

5.     How would you describe your own writing?

I feel that I don’t have a specific style. Ideas or stories play in my head quite a lot which are sometimes hard to remember unless I jot them down. Once the keyboard or pen is to hand, words, ideas or memories pop into my head and I take it from there.

I’m aware that I tend to be uncertain about a lot of my work, simply hoping that others might like it rather than having confidence that it is good. Rather than looking at this as a negative thing, I feel that it pushes me to strive to get better in my work. The only downside to this is that it takes a little longer than I would like to put out a piece of writing because of the changes that I make.

I enjoy writing about many different topics, so I find it hard to think of myself other than as a fiction writer. I don’t really like to be labelled, to be honest. I’m just comfortable writing anything. It’s a mood thing for me.

  

6.     Are there certain themes that draw you to them when you are writing?

I believe I’m an all-rounder with themes popping up to suit the story. I do, however, get excited when getting my teeth into horror. If I went into writing full-time, I imagine that would be the path that I would follow.

I find the fairy and magical theme enthralling and love the genre. I admire the creative ability that goes into everything about it but feel that it isn’t something that I could do with ease. I have tried but I believe that it is on another level entirely.

Comedy and struggles of life are themes that I am most comfortable with.

Competitions frustrate her as an invisible writer’s block kicks in if I have to stick to a strict theme.  

I have a huge whiteboard in my office that is my godsend. It is full of ideas and quotations to help me along if I need a prompt or if I can’t think of anything. It is forbidden for anyone but me to rub anything off of it.

 

7.     Tell us about how you approach your writing. Are you a planner or a pantser?

I am not a planner and I tend to leave things until the last minute, which I find stressful. The voices in my head justify it by saying that there is planning happening somewhere in my brain, but there’s a bit of clock watching when I get going. I’m certain that other writers will sympathise with this.

The wake-up call for planning really hit me on my final piece for the MA. The submission was an extract from a proposed three-part memoir, but names had to be changed in case of public or private publication. Fearing that, if that happened, I’d be dragged onto Loose Women to explain myself, and not realising how much planning goes into a story of that type, it took me longer than intended to get it right.  Considering it was only an extract, it made me realise how much time a completed version would take out of my life.

This experience taught me to strive to learn to plan out my stories from beginning to end. Famous last words!  Some of my work, I feel on reflection, has been ambiguous, sounding great in my head, but leaving the reader wondering what the conclusion is. From believing in my own voice on paper, I’ve had to step back and see it as a reader. I now understand that – even though it can be a hard pill to swallow - if there’s a lack of thought and planning, the work does not always resonate as the writer wishes.

 

8.     Do you have any advice for someone who might be thinking about starting to write creatively?

Some will love what is written, others won’t. Don’t put off writing because of the doubters. Remember it is your voice and you should believe in it. Never be cruel. Experiment and have fun. Enjoy the compliments and never be afraid of rejection in whatever shape it comes in or however many there may be.

 

9.     Are you, or have you been in the past, a member of any writing groups, online or face-to-face?

I am currently a member of the fantastic Twenty-Twenty group, which I really enjoy.

I joined a group called London Writers Cafe while doing my MA. The group would meet at various pub function rooms in London to discuss plot developments, do read-throughs of story drafts and sit in on discussions with various authors. However, as the group were well-established, I felt that I wasn’t able to contribute as much as I had hoped.  

I signed up for a Zoom-based course led by an MA tutor from Goldsmiths in London; it was called ‘London and Literature’. This course covered the Romantics, Victorians and Edwardians. The tutor referred to a wide range of literature which brought poetry and prose fiction to life. It culminated in a tour of Charles Dickens’ footsteps including a trip to The Cheddar Cheese pub in Fleet Street, which feels like a time-warp.

I found the course stimulating and it brought together so many things that I found fascinating, from culture to how language was used back in the day, to what inspired writers of the time, not least poverty and obsession with death. I found a wealth of information and the course served to give a human face to the writers of the time.

 The value of these groups depends on how much the individual is willing to take from them.

I didn’t particularly get much from the writer’s café because it was overwhelming. That wasn’t the intention of the group, but it was early in my writing career and I didn’t yet fully recognize myself as a writer.  

The value of The Twenty-Twenty Club is that it comprises only twenty members who are all on an equal footing. It has given me the chance to be published and keeps the members, all MA course alumni, relevant to each other. We have a common interest and it gives everyone the chance to share the blood, sweat and tears of a shared craft. The group give each other support and encouragement, and the value of that is important to me, and, I believe, to the others as well.

 

10. What do you think about getting feedback on your work from other writers and/or non-writers?

I am happy to receive feedback. I feel that it serves to point out obvious typos or mistakes or encourages me to carry on when the feedback is positive.

There have been times when feedback has given the impression that the piece is not liked at all. This is never rudely done but occasionally I’ve had barely lukewarm feedback and I do get a bit pouty then. I guess that is my writer’s ego raising its head. I have come across the statement ‘I don’t usually like this genre’. This isn’t a problem as I would rather someone be honest. So long as they don’t completely annihilate the work; they’re entitled to an opinion.

On the other hand, it can be healthy to get out of a comfort zone when giving feedback on a style that you wouldn’t usually read. Who knows? It might turn out to be enjoyable.  Anyway, saying they ‘don’t usually like this genre’ implies that on this occasion they have enjoyed the piece, so I suppose it is a positive comment really.

To validate my point, I remember that I didn’t really like Edgar Allan Poe until I bought the completed works, because I thought it would look good on my coffee table!

Acting upon suggestions really depends on whether I am feeling possessive about a story that I have submitted. I appreciate that other people have taken time out to read her work but, grammar aside, if the changes are too much, then I trust my own instincts.

 

11. If you have experience of self-publishing, what have been its challenges and rewards? 

I have no experience of self-publishing my work in a stand-alone capacity so cannot comment, but it is something that I would most certainly aim for in the future. I think that one of the challenges would be to have the relevant and correct information regarding the process in my head and the relevant material to hand before I even started, as I am aware that it is very involved.

Once done. I would make sure that, before publication, signed copies would find their way to friends and family, then they could sell them on eBay when I become famous!

I would say to anyone, go for it. Get writing. Find a publisher you feel happy with, and get that book into print. Life’s too short for regrets.

 

12. Where do you get your ideas from?

My ideas come out of the blue or sometimes I might think, ‘Oh, I could get a story out of that’. The problem is remembering ideas or having something to hand to jot them down.

Ideas can come from something that might be said or a snip of a memory that resurfaces for no apparent reason. Once the basic plot is there, ideas can sometimes crowd in or not. I don’t need to know exactly what is going to happen, but I am confident that the crowd in my head will start to shape things as they go along.

I can be writing and halfway through there will be a shift in a different direction, or if I become distracted I will take some time away to look at the alternatives. It is all swings and roundabouts really but even when I have  finished fleshing out an idea, I am rarely satisfied.

 

13. They say that successful writers need to be selfish. How far do you agree with this?

I have never considered writing to be selfish, but this is an interesting viewpoint. When I was doing my MA, my children would complain about how much time I was spending on it which made me feel guilty at times. I was unemployed at the time and battled to keep to a 9-3-time schedule, but it was easy to get carried away. I feel mortified that they could have thought that I was being selfish.

I don’t believe it’s selfish to have a purpose. The hardest thing sometimes is to find balance. When finding the balance involves family, I’ve been very lucky in that they understand that just because I write, it does not mean that I am abandoning them. The compromise is quality over quantity in time with them and my own time in which I write. 

Sometimes it’s hard to say no to other people when there is a deadline or the writing juices are flowing and everything is intense. Not everybody can understand what drives a person to write, and that we don’t have set hours where we can just shut up shop and have a regular life.

I wouldn’t say that I am disciplined as such. AsI  said before, I’m a spur-of-the-moment kind of writer who leaves things to the last minute. I work part-time now, but it isn’t work that keeps me from the laptop. It is my annoying friend, procrastination.  

I don’t write every day but when I do write, it’s usually full-on for a few hours - or more if I get really excited about what is going onto the page.

 

14. Beyond your family and your writing, what other things do you do?

I work for the Post Office in WHSmith’s which goes a long way to keeping me fit. It also means that I can do a bit of people-watching and get some good ideas for some characters. I have recently had a knee replacement, so work has taken a back seat for a bit.

I have a tendency to drink chai lattes far too much, and I’m currently developing a grading system as to where the best one is made. The choice is not easy, can work out very expensive, and is adding to my waistline. Could that be classed as a hobby? Not too sure, but it is a definite interest or excess depending on your point of view. 

I love Scrabble and Wordle. Karaoke is a passion that I wish I could indulge more, though there are varying opinions as to whether I can actually sing! I can’t read music, probably due to the abject fear of my music teacher from school, but I am pining for a piano which I have promised to learn to play. Short of hanging it from the ceiling, there’s no room for such a thing at the moment.

My major passion is ironing. Yes, you have read that right! I haven’t found anyone who understands this yet but I am constantly promised bags of clothes to iron by friends who hate doing it. L My reasoning is that it is therapeutic, and I love nothing more than putting on my headphones, setting up the iron and singing along with my Spotify playlist.      

 

15. Would you describe yourself as a ‘cultured’ person?

I love to visit the theatre and galleries but but don’t get to go as much as I would like.  I remember that I was almost removed from the Van Gogh exhibition in Amsterdam because the security guard caught me taking a photo of ‘Sunflowers’.  

I was not overly impressed at the Saatchi gallery exhibition which featured a burnt-out mattress on its own in an empty room which reminded me of the council estate where I was raised. The difference was that the exhibition mattress gave off a very dark vibe, unlike my childhood memory mattress which we would use as a trampoline.  

I don’t watch much terrestrial TV as in soaps etc, as I’m more of a streamer. To be exact, my husband is, because technology and I are not happy bedfellows. I am a fan of the more modern Star Trek series. However, although I was a Trekkie in my younger days, I do not watch the old ones much anymore, having been spoilt by the gloss of modern productions.

I love romcoms and American disaster movies.

          I believe that it is important that writers stay in touch with stuff right across the board, not just the contemporary. History must bring some form of influence into the contemporary because of the connection through the ages. Over the years, language has changed significantly, and continues to do so, and the meaning of words shifts and can cause problems with communication in any form.  

Nevertheless, it is important that we retain the ability and the willingness to embrace new stuff, not immediately write it off as irrelevant. Writing is an art, no matter what shape or form it takes. Never forget history but keep up with the new world.

I like to read literary novels and find them very helpful, particularly due to my fascination with the Victorian era. I am building up my own Charles Dickens collection which means that I always know what I will get from my son at Christmas!

I am not the bookworm of the past any more as finding the time these days is a bit difficult. Most of what I have written are literary pieces, but I don’t see that any one piece is more literary than the other. I would argue that they are probably classed as literary fiction. 

   Lin, excited at the prospect of seeing one of her heroes

16. How did the Covid pandemic affect you as a writer?

I did not find the inconvenience of staying indoors too daunting. Although I couldn’t really go out, it gave me a good excuse to get on with writing. I did contract Covid which made me very unwell, but I know that I was much better off than some. I did not feel isolated as it seemed that everyone was in the same boat.  I remember that the only thing to suffer was my mental health from standing in the queues outside of Sainsburys. I would silently rant at the lack of pace but my love of people watching was always satisfied.    

Being a writer is essentially solitary. I cannot think of a single writer who can do their thing when they are surrounded by crowding, human or otherwise. So, out of the whole population, I believe that writers benefitted from the pandemic the most. And no explanations for the need for solitude were needed.

 

17. There is a lot of talk at the moment. in the publishing world and elsewhere, about political correctness, the Woke movement, cultural appropriation, ‘cancel culture’, ‘trigger warnings’, sensitivity readers and the importance of diversity. What are your thoughts on this, with regard to writing?

You can’t expect everyone to be on the same page, because if they were, life would be immensely boring. Therefore, bearing in mind that this will divide opinion, I believe that there are groups taking the sensitive issue too far. They seem to live in a bubble and refuse to accept the world as it is. It has gone beyond a joke within literature with groups demanding that we nitpick over every word and phrase in case they are offended by its content. They seem to believe that it refers to them only and will not accept that other groups are okay with page content.  However, writers should be mindful of offense. A writer cannot put pen to paper and expect it to be accepted just like that, but it seems that a majority of writing is questioned for its content these days.

I feel that it is wrong that past writers are held hostage for something written in a time when what they wrote was entirely acceptable. Times have changed and we should move on with them,  but if most of the day was spent rewriting because of fear of offense, then we would lose so much that is relevant here and now. So many great works of literature are damned because they are suddenly offensive to a group that suddenly feels victimised for no apparent reason other than that they seem to want society to pander to them. There have been calls to cancel or rewrite classics which I feel is abominable. Read the synopsis and if it isn’t your kind of book, don’t open the cover. Simple. If a subject matter is appropriate to the story, then it should be allowed.

Writing about culture and the people who live by those norms should be done with understanding and research, and the writer must be aware of unconscious bias. Taking on the persona of another culture when creating a character isn’t wrong, but it should be done with sensitivity and knowledge. There must be a clear understanding of the subject matter to make it real. To make a character acceptable, there must be something relevant and relatable about them. Simply assuming the history and struggles of another race or culture is not enough to create a believable and entertaining character. I believe that adopting personas from other cultures should be acceptable practice for modern writers, if it is done well, but we have all seen the damage caused from both sides. It is wise to remember that, sadly, the power of groups who believe they are being ignored or misrepresented often seems to have become so strong these days that it makes publishers reluctant to ignore it for fear of not selling enough books to make a profit, or gaining a reputation as condoning supposedly ‘offensive’ work.         

 

18. Where would you place your own writing, on a continuum with PURE FANTASY at one end and COMPLETE REALISM at the other?

All writing is a kind of fantasy.

I see fantasy is transportation to a different world which is new to the reader, relying on imaginative engagement. But so is ‘realism’. Both are magical and exciting and anything is acceptable while the book is open, or the kindle is plugged in. A reader could be anybody, but then they open a page and suddenly find themselves riding dragons or shooting at a spy.

The written word is so exciting with so much to give. I am sometimes called a dreamer but I truly believe that fantasy and realism have roots in each other.

I base my characters on real people with hopes and dreams of their own. Sometimes I will let my thoughts go dark, but the characters remain human. What goes on in their minds, however, is often a surprise to me. Nevertheless, they are relatable.

Fantasy, in whichever form, is inspiring and has tremendous value to both children and adults. My children did not have much interest in reading until introduced to The Magic Faraway Tree and The Phantom Tollbooth. I advocate both books because they taught my children that reading can be exciting and cool.

I wish that I had the confidence to write the fairytale genre, as I love the imagery and the imagination that goes into it. The world of literature is richer for it.  

******

Olly, the feline lunatic [in a quiet moment]

 

Thank you very much, Lin, for such an interesting and informative showcase. 

******

 

In September, I will be showcasing 

another fabulous writer: 

Wendy Heydorn

Not to be missed!

 

******

So far in this series, I’ve showcased the following writers: 

Ruth Loten – March 2023

Jane Langan – March 2023

Beck Collett – April 2023

Ron Hardwick – June 2023

L.N.Hunter – July 2023

Katherine Blessan – August 2023

Jill Saudek – September 2023

Colin Johnson – October 2023

Sue Davnall – November 2023

Alain Li Wan Po – December 2023

Lily Lawson – January 2024

Philip Badger – February 2024

Glen Lee – March 2024

DHL Hewa - April 2024

Tonia Trainer - May 2024

Mike Poyzer – June 2024

Judith Worham - July 2024

Chrissie Poulter - August 2024

Adele Sullivan - September 2024

Lin De Laszlo - October 2024

You can find all these showcases by scrolling back through the material on this blog.

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