Kid Me Not Sunbeam!

Hi All.

You’ve heard the saying, ‘these things are sent to try us?’ Well, frankly, I must be the most ‘tried’ person on the planet.

I guess the main problem stems from the sad fact that I rarely know what I’m doing and for some misplaced reason I think I can learn as I go. This sadly is not always true.

Take, for instance, filling in 4 sheets of paper to allow me to purchase ISBNs. Simple as falling off a log? No! Far more difficult and the reason is . . . I don’t understand the lingo, the gobbledygook of it all.

I consider it to be akin to most nerdy ‘techie’ things. Make it is complicated as possible so that the average human being understands sod all and, by default, they, the nerds, appear even more intelligent.

Just one thing that rattled my cage last night and caused me to beat my head on the table while Chea sat inches away, shaking her head and wishing someone intelligent had ‘rescued’ her from the RSPCA. Well, too late, sunbeam.

Taking of Chea. I spent last Saturday at a craft fair selling my books. OK, I’m still not rich but it was fun and I have confirmed another in December . . . but, I digress.

While I was out Richard was in charge of all things . . . Chea, poo picking the chucks, patrolling them while they murdered insects on their daily scratch around, cleaning the filter box to the pond etc. These things, I thought, were within his scope. Wrong.

I came home to Richard, hands on hips (defensive pose if you ask me?) and slightly twitching. He said, ‘Everything is fine, chucks done, pond done and I’ve got up all the fallen leaves from the top of the garden.’

‘Good,’ I said.

Hands still on hips.

‘And how’s Chea?’

He frantically dashed to the kettle. ‘Want a cup of tea?’ he said.

‘Chea?’ I said.

‘Well . . . ‘

When Richard starts a sentence with ‘well,’ AND he’s making tea it’s not a good sign.

‘What’s happened?’ I said.

‘Well . . . when I was picking up the leaves I heard a commotion two doors away, cats spitting and howling and going nuts.’

‘Chea?’

‘Yes,’ he said, hiding behind the protection of the now boiled kettle.

‘I shook the crunchies!’ he exclaimed.

‘The crunchies?’

‘Yes, you know, to get her in, but she didn’t come back for ages, and when she did finally come back she was limping.’

‘LIMPING?’

‘Yes.’

Right on cue the little wounded soldier appeared from upstairs, hobbling on 3 legs and casting accusing glances at Richard.

By morning she was placing the foot to the floor and the next day she was sound. She wasn’t too bright yesterday so I’m keeping an eye on her in case it was a bite and it starts to abscess. She is due a yearly booster but we have both been putting off taking her to the vet. Last time she was there she incited every cat, in the pre op room, to turn into hissing, spitting demons. She had to be sedated through the cage because the vet dare not pick her up! She hates the vet with a vengeance, almost as much as I hate attempting to fill in forms.

Regarding book sales, because I did mention them, up the page a bit, I just want to set the record straight. I’ve been meaning to mention this before but have never been in the kind of mood I need to be in to mention it. Today I AM in that kind of mood.

When self-published authors are selling lots of books the following fact is void BUT when self-published authors are not selling books, and their sales flat line (and they do) all promises of, ‘I’m just off to buy your book now,’ and ‘going to buy your book to’ . . .  A. Take on holiday. B. Send to a friend. C. Light the fire with. D. Use as a door stop, doesn’t cut the mustard. If our books flat line it’s pretty bloody obvious that no one bought a copy for any of the above reasons or for any other reason. You did not buy the book! And that’s fine, perfectly, absolutely, categorically fine . . . but don’t lie and pretend that you have. OK? There’s no need. Truly. A friend of mine was most upset by promises that didn’t materialise and the long blue line remained a long blue line without a single ‘spike.’

So, if I’ve offended anyone by saying this, tough, don’t lie to me. I may be an idiot but I’m not stupid . . . and, what’s more, I doubt other authors are stupid either.

#hums and shuffles off into the distance!

Take care my lovelies x

I Can Truthfully Relate to Barry Manilow…

You know that Barry Manilow song, I Made It Through The Rain? Well, that’s how I’m feeling right now.

The week before last was horrendous. OK, so no one died, but it was still horrendous. Two steps forwards and one step back. Nothing went right, and then, as the week came to an end I thought, right, draw a very thick line under it and look forwards to next week (last week). Then came the killer blow…Richard announced that he was on holiday the next week (last week). It was at this point that someone did almost die…me.

The thought of another week, attempting to sort out the backlog of things that were still wrong, with Richard floating around, almost polished me off. It was at this point that I had to give myself a strong talking to and convince myself that I could, and would, get through this.

First on the agenda, bright and early Monday morning, was a ride out to my brother’s house. This was not a social visit. This was so that he could figure out what I was doing wrong in my futile attempts to contact the USA tax office. Richard did, in fact, come in quite useful because he drove and all this stress had given me a headache.

My brother fiddled with my phone before shutting me in his office and telling me to stop buggering about and just get on with it. With no confidence whatsoever I dialled the number and waited for the same old drivel, “I’m sorry but we are unable to process your call.” When that message didn’t actually slam back at me and a voice informed me, “Thank you for your call…the waiting time is 3 minutes,” I almost fainted.

So, job done. I’m legal. No, I am. Thanks to my brother, who is brilliant. Not sure why I’m bulling him up? He never reads a word I write. Sometimes I wonder if anyone does, but that’s insecurity…isn’t it?

On Tuesday, I took a day off from everything. In the morning, I let Richard take me to Melton market. This is a cattle market that is run every Tuesday. It also sells rabbits, chickens, ducks, garden produce, fertilised eggs, etc. It was here that I fell in love with a little duckling. He/she was all alone in a cardboard box and when I peered in, he/she peered back, and its little peepers said, ‘Buy me. I won’t be any trouble. Look how pretty I am with this little pompom on the top of my head.’ This is the point at which you just know that I came home with the duckling? Well, you are wrong. I zipped up my heart and walked away. I bought a dress instead. Did I mention that there was a dress stall? This is the only dress I own and it was purchased purely for sitting out in the garden…because I do a lot of that, don’t I? No. Hardly ever. Too much weeding, watering, hoeing, digging, compost turning….I think you get the picture?

Richard disappeared on Wednesday. I don’t mean he vaporised. I’m not that lucky (joke).  He roared off on his bike to some air force thing and so I was left with time to myself… and the chance to sort out some of the backlog.

I have now almost caught up. One thing is outstanding. An eBook is being reformatted. I know nothing about this but a virtual friend, who has now become so much more, is sorting that out for me.

You know me now, and you know that I believe that something positive always comes from something negative and yet again I have proved myself right. Through this very trying, hair-ripping-out time, virtual friends have stepped in, and for absolutely no gain of their own, have spent endless hours creating, advising, and just plain supporting me, and I will be eternally grateful. So, to these friends I say a heartfelt thank you… and my offer of returned support does not have a sell-by date.

You know who are you and I only refrain from naming you because I know you are all so God-damn modest. Oh, and the other reason is, if I tell everyone who you are, and that you are the nicest, most wonderful guys (gals) on the planet, they will all be scurrying to your doors and you will no longer have the time to get me out of my constant pooh pile! See, I’m not as stupid as I may appear.

Richard has gone back to work today. Weirdly, I’m kinda missing him. I have no excuse now to bugger around doing nothing. Sooooo I’m going to crack on.

Take care my lovelies x

Lastly…I can now announce with a triumphant fanfare that …..The Sleeping Field is now available in paperback! Again, produced by a dear friend and absolutely nothing to do with me.

 

Oh! Go On Then…Inspire me!

Hi All

Yes I’m still Sher-locked, which frankly is pretty amazing, because I have a foolproof method of destroying these ‘passions.’ My method? I push everything to its limit until I expose faults and failings. Then having exposed ‘things’ that I don’t like I leave the subject behind. This could be a part of my character that needs further examination – someday – when I find the time or inclination? I blame it on my star sign – Scorpio. We are relentless creatures at best and at the worst? Doesn’t bear thinking about.

I qualify this by retaining the attitude that life is too short to waste time on dilly-dallying, soft shoe shuffling, taking time to know people and things, imitating a dried-out summer stream, trickling and meandering. No, let’s  bomb the dam and dive in. Let’s push everything to its limits and then assess.

Sometimes, what my brain produces, seemingly from nowhere and unasked for, surprises even me. People ask where I find inspiration for my writing? And the truth is I don’t – it finds me – always. And I never know when an idea or inspirational thought will hit.

One Sunday I was watching Fairytale – A True Story, a story about…yep, you guessed it, fairies. In one scene a fairy jumps into the air from a picture frame and the frame tilts. From that one action came my short story, Promises, and not only that – if I dare to blow my own trumpet briefly – Promises went on to win a short story competition. All that from a one second scene.

Most of my ‘inspiration,’ especially for the short stories, comes from country music. Country is my first passion on the music front. Having said that I go from Def Leppard to Andrea Bocelli. I love music. LOVE it! My short story, ‘Obediently Yours,’ was inspired by the country singer Alan Jackson. This my come as a surprise if you have read this story?

Country music is a bit wrist-slitting at times but if you filter out the depressing stuff you are left with wonderful stories and visions. I truly believe that there is a country song for every mood and emotion. Sometimes, (reasonably rarely now thank goodness), when I’m really fed up, I’ll whack on the old headphones and blast my brain with the most depressing stuff I have and sit and cry my heart out. Surprising it helps. No point keeping all those emotions locked-up inside, and when you are a self-professed control freak it’s sometimes hard to let go, even of your own feelings.

When I was in Spain recently, being driven somewhere, and taking a rare moment from talking, the whole plot for a novel came into my head. Unfortunately the plot was so depressing that I don’t think I would survive the writing of it.

Not sure where this is going now. So, maybe the train has hit the buffers? Is it called a buffer? Sounds right…but it may not be.

I’m off to give the chucks their little treat of bread and lettuce. They have an extra special little delicacy today – a Brussels sprout each. Cooked of course!

Take care my lovelies x

PS Oh, if you want to read any of those short stories here’s the link. There are ten in the compilation and they cost next to nothing. Your choice. Oh! and don’t be mislead by the whimsical cover, some of the stories are a bit grim! http://www.amazon.co.uk/Eternal-ebook/dp/B0094J03B4

Fancy A Freebie?

Hi All

Right-e-o here I go as promised, or threatened, on my last post (I’m sure I can hear a trumpet as I write that?) the reason/reasons why I won’t give freebies. Freebies meaning books, you understand?

If I go back to the beginning – sometime last year – when I put my first book on Amazon, I have to confess to being ignorant to the workings and wonders of self-publishing.  Mulligan’s Reach was kindly formatted and uploaded to Amazon for me by a newly acquired writer friend. I then hid for a week or two, terrified of someone actually buying it. Don’t ask me why, I’m just weird that way. It turned out to be a pointless worry because no one bought it anyway. Why would they? No one knew it was there.

So, the next plan was suggested to me. Get another book published. This I did, and again I was lucky to have the same lovely person format and upload to Amazon, Starfish. I hope you are still with me? Simply, I now had two books on Amazon, neither of which were selling because no one knew that either of them existed.

Just to give the nail a final wallop into the coffin, my friend uploaded a third book for me, Eternal, a collection of short stories.

So there I was, three books on Amazon. Three books that no one knew, or cared, existed.

This is where the dastardly plan rears its pretty head. All that was required was ‘to be seen.’ Make Starfish visible and people would see it, buy it, like it (?) and look for other works by the same enchanting author. Simples! And the way to be seen? Freebies! Lots and lots and lots of freebies. My magic fingers and my stupid brain joined forces long enough for me to go through the Amazon system and put Starfish ‘up for free,’ for the weekend. I had received all my instructions and apparently all I had to do was to sit at the computer from Friday to Sunday night and spam, spam, spam. This I did.

Because I was a newbie to the scene, and pretty stupid to boot, I think my twitter friends took me to their generous bosoms and they retweeted like their little hearts depended on it. As I reluctantly, half dying from key pad fatigue, dragged myself away from the computer on the Sunday evening, around midnight, Starfish was sitting at no 2 on Amazon!

Monday morning, 5am, and Starfish was on the no 1 spot, with Miranda Hart’s book at no 2. It had received 7,500 downloads. It didn’t stay there long and afterwards it probably ‘sold’ another 250 copies before once again dropping from sight.

Sometime later I put Eternal up as a freebie. Around 100 copies were downloaded – short stories never, in my opinion, do very well. This did nothing for sales.

Now the autopsy… I will never put a book of mine up as a freebie again because, well, frankly, why should I? Why should I give my book away? Do readers actually have any idea how much time and effort goes into writing a novel? Is it to be expected that all that effort should cost nothing? Would they seriously expect to walk into a supermarket and fall over a display with a sign saying, ‘Tuna in brine – FREE today?’ Would they take their poodle to the vet and be told at reception, ‘No charge. Today all consultations and treatments are FREE!’ Bugger off. No they would not.

My books may not be War and Peace and they may never be best sellers (well, actually Starfish was), but I have read (until approximately page 4 or 5 – I have a very short crap-level tolerance) far more boring books than mine and if I don’t value my work why should anyone else?

Often, the giving away of books is to produce reviews. Reviews help to sell books. Do they? Consider this, of those 7,500 books given away I probably received a handful of reviews. This is because most people (often other writers/authors) download your book to be helpful (which is lovely) but they never read the book. It will sit on their kindle, along with the other hundreds of helpful downloads. Even I have to confess to having downloaded books that I haven’t yet glanced at.

In a way, in my opinion, Amazon self-publishing has fallen on its own sword. Thousands, it could be millions, of authors (myself included) have jumped on the Amazon self-publishing band wagon and now the wheel has fallen off.  A massive tsunami of books have swamped the market and it’s any wonder that anyone’s book can be seen. But, like the agent/trad’ publishing market, something will have to give, somewhere, sometime.

I now have little desire to chase sales. I have a life outside of this. Don’t get me wrong, EVERY single book sale is valued, cherished and appreciated. If you knew HOW much you would actually feel sorry for me! But, for as long as books are free, and web sites, giving away free books are springing up everywhere, we may as well whistle in the wind, because there’s little chance of being heard.

I’m sure there will be many who disagree with my comments – and you know you are perfectly free to do that, (bugger! There’s that other f word again!), but these are my opinions based on facts and experiences over the last year. I’m thinking that a year is a mere blink, in the eye of time, and that self-publishing is a long haul? I’m not disillusioned at all and I shall stay for the long haul – until the time comes, if it does, when it no longer suits me to do so. After all, we are all in this by choice.

So, later I shall be spamming like a demented monkey and yelling from the tree tops, ‘Oi, go and buy my book!’ JOKE!! I won’t. Well I might? NO I won’t.

Having said all this, I am intending to lower the price of my books, sometime soon. Why? Because I can. I have the power and the control (mwahhhh!!) and it really isn’t about the money. I also like to think that I am annoying Amazon by constantly changing things! Yes, I know, petty, petty, petty. But whatever gets you through the night, hey?

Take care my lovelies x

Virtual Friends…Or Not!

Hi All

Well, that’s it. It came and it went! Christmas. New Year. Gone, gone, gone… And what are we left with? Personally I’m left with a tidy house (decorations rarely get any further than Boxing Day) and a cupboard full of crap that is going to put up my cholesterol level to a dangerously high number if I succumb to another fat-filled morsel.

Besides the remnants of chocolates, biscuits, cakes and sweets, is the remnant of the Christmas tree. Such a lovely tree… or so I thought when I bought it. Each branch tipped with silver glitter and a frost-like shimmer. Now silver glitter and the frost-like shimmer fills every crack in the lounge floorboards and despite extensive use of the vacuum refuses to budge. Even Chea trots around twinkling, but then she would, seeing how she spent most of Christmas sitting under the tree patting at the baubles and removing the felt robin!

If I ask myself the question seriously…”what are we left with?” I would have to say that I am left with memories of a year that wasn’t spectacular, but it wasn’t a bad year either. I tend not to measure good luck/bad luck in years. To a certain extent we make our own good luck. It doesn’t matter what “spooky numbers” the year holds, if shit is going to happen it will happen. I think the problem arises in our own minds.

Let me riddle you this. It’s the first of January, a brand new year, and you fall over and break your leg. Are you going to jump up and down (hardly, with a broken leg!) and scream, “Well that’s it! It’s a new year, I’ve broken my leg! This is going to be a crap year!” Yes, you probably are…but don’t! It isn’t going to be a bad year, you just need to be more careful and look where you are going! Bad things happen to nice people. It’s a fact. But of one thing I am sure, if you allow yourself to imagine that it’s going to continue to be a bad year just because you’ve broken your leg already, then it will be. I truly do believe that all these things are sent to try us and it is through these trials that we do, eventually, become stronger and subsequently able to take on what life chooses to throw at us.

No, pull up your boots and trot into this year with optimism and the knowledge that whatever life hurls, you will either side-step it, or catch it…and deal with it.

I think my greatest joy and also my greatest sorrow of last year involves something rather silly…virtual friends. I have made a lot of virtual friends over the last year and it has been truly eye-opening. I am, by nature, an extremely suspicious person, and not many people “pull the wool over this old coots eyeballs,” so it comes as a disappointment to realise that over the past year one or two friends have, indeed, not been truly genuine. Making promises that they had no intention of keeping. Pretending to be an authority on something which they were not. But that’s fine. I’ve sussed you out. I fell for it. Once. I take the experience and trot on because on the other side of the scale we have the lovely, genuine, “what you see, is what you get,” people. And I think you know who you are? And I hope you also know that if I can help you in any small way (or large way) you only have to ask. 

Ha ha, you watch, someone will now ask for my help and I’ll say, ‘Bugger off, you are one of the ones who have pissed me off all year, so go and do one.” Blinder! 

I’m joking. You know me now, don’t you? Yes you do. That’s why you know I’m NOT joking. Actually, I don’t know why anyone follows this blog because I’m such a stroppy little thing. Ah! Yes! I am! But I’m honest!

Whatever. I’ve bored myself now, so I’m off to have another go at that bloody glitter. And tomorrow I shall tell you why I will never be giving my books away as freebies…so there!

Happy New Year…break a leg! Oh no…don’t!

Take care my lovelies x

Block Up Your Chimneys…Santa’s Coming…

Hi All

It finally happened. That moment in my life when I would have to have THAT conversation! The moment when I would have to cast off my clumpy boots and tread softly in silken slippers. I’d managed to keep my head down, well below the parapet, for the last couple of years, but it seems that having been lulled into a false sense of security I must have unknowingly lifted my head and my six-year old, going on seven, grandson fired the question.

“Grandma, there are some children who don’t believe in Father Christmas. They think it’s their mummies and daddies who leave the presents. What do you think?”

You’d think that after waiting for six years for this inevitable question I would have been totally prepared, but I wasn’t.

Let me say right now that I think the whole Father Christmas thing – a fat old man, dressed in a very weird attire, dropping down through your chimney, is not an idea to be encouraged. Isn’t it painting the picture of a thief, a robber, an intruder? Yes, I hear the ‘bah humbugs,’ but I don’t care. I think it’s bloody frightening telling small children that this random, fat person, with his features clearly hidden behind a bush of a beard, is going to come to them while they are sleeping. However, it is not for me to destroy the lie that has been embedded in my grandchildren so I said…

“Well, I think when children are small they DO believe in Santa but when they get bigger I think they believe that mummy and daddy bring the presents.”

Jake considered this. He is a bright child and will be running for Prime Minister by the time he’s twelve! “I’ve never seen him, Grandma, but I do think he’s real.”

Again I had to defend this fat, old, house intruder. “Ah, well, that’s why you have to go to bed early on Christmas Eve, because Santa only comes when you are sleeping, and if you mess about and won’t go to bed because you are excited it makes Santa late. Then he has to wait for you to go to sleep and then he’s late getting to all the other children and then some children might not get their presents.”

“So…do you believe in Father Christmas, Grandma?”

“Well, Jake, er…I did when I was little but I’m big now and Santa really only has time to get round to all the children. But you’ll get your presents from Santa and then you’ll come here and we will have presents for you.”

Faster than a heartbeat Jake said indignantly, “Well one of them had better be a pouffe because I need one and you won’t let me have yours!”

I nearly showered the poor child with spat-out tea. A pouffe! Thank goodness fat old Santa hasn’t got to find room for one of those on his sleigh. Rudolph might have a coronary! Imagine trying to stuff that down the chimney…the pouffe…not Rudolph!

Jake, on the last two occasions that he was here, attempted to have it away with my pouffe. He said he needed one. Don’t ask me why. He just needed one. We had the most dreadful tantrum, with Jake trying to stuff the pouffe into the car and stamping and screaming. His behaviour even shocked his sister into silence, who, at the time, was screaming her head off as well because she was fed up with sitting, strapped into her seat, waiting for her brother to get in the car. Just how my son manages to drive down the motorway with all this going on is beyond me. However…

Off I went on the trial of the pouffe and found one instantly. Unfortunately, the trip cost me an arm and a leg because on the way to the pouffe section I happened to short-cut down the microwave section and bought a cream one to go with the fridge freezer. I found a nice little person to lug the microwave into the boot of the car, but when I was ramming-in the one and only pouffe that they’d had in the shop, I noticed it had a teeny-weeny hole in it, and a zillion, zillion, zillion foam beads looked ready to escape, so I had to do an about turn and take the bloody thing back.

The assistant said she could mark it down for me and did I still want it? I didn’t even consider it. Could you imagine? This pouffe isn’t going to be used for little Jake to put his feet on whilst demurely watching the TV. Oh no, this pouffe is an island to be stood on while he fights off circling sharks. A mountain to be hurled, Incredible Hulk like, at his little sister. Oh yes! There will be hours of fun in this strangely requested Christmas present.

I did manage to pick one up over the weekend, because Jake’s wish is my command, and besides, I can’t have that reprobate Father Christmas stealing all the limelight.

Take care my lovelies x

Battered Mice And A Glitter Pussy…

Hi All

First things first. The greatest news from the weekend is that we survived Grandkiddie Saturday! Yea!! You don’t understand the relief I feel in writing that. Don’t get me wrong, it isn’t like they are lunatics, well not really, I guess they must carry some of grandma’s genes? No, when I say we survived I mean, we and the house survived, only slightly worse for wear.

I was well prepared for their arrival, pancakes cooked and waiting to have a quick flash in the microwave, car seat and booster seat sitting in the back of the car, paracetamol zipped securely in my pocket – yes, as the great Baden-Powell said, “Always be prepared!” Even if I do say so myself, preparation is my middle name. Fail to prepare. Prepare to fail.

After syrup pancakes, followed by a dishcloth flashed over sticky little faces, we piled into the car and set off to look round a couple of nearby garden centres which had their Christmas displays up and running. Jake sang his twelve songs from his upcoming school play and Grace kindly filled her pamper nap. Cool!

They behaved perfectly, and as I live in breath, I can honestly say that they didn’t break anything! Jake fancied a soft toy, and so, of course, Grace also fancied a soft toy. Fortunately they had the same soft toy in two different colours so Jake had a large brown mouse and Grace had a large cream mouse. I don’t think the mice actually liked each other because, all the way home, they were fighting in the back of the car, legs flying and whacking Richard on the back of his head. I simply popped a couple of paracetamol and all was well with the world.

We put up the Christmas tree, in the afternoon, with its glitter escaping the branches and showering everything within a two metre radius. Even Chea twinkled and sparkled all night as she lay stretched out in front of the log burner – very Christmassy! Jake, being almost seven, had to climb on the arm of the chair and attempt to kill himself by putting the fairy on the top of the tree. He told me it should have been an angel or a star, but what do I know? Grace, being only two, and knee-high to a grasshopper, put all her decorations on the same low branch. Cute.

After a while they’d had enough and sourced a game of their own making – hurling loose change under the sofa and waiting for it to come out the other side. The excitement and squabbles grew and grew until, eventually, the paracetamol gave up the ghost and I yelled, ‘Right! That’s it! Coats! You’re going home!’

A few, ‘but Grandma’s…’ whined out, but if I’d backed down they wouldn’t have respected the fact that what I say I mean. Cruel. But kind. Makes you wonder why they adore me so much, doesn’t it. Can’t be anything to do with over-priced stupid mice and family bars of chocolate, can it?

The mice resumed their war as we tootled down the motorway and to the ‘swapping over’ point, and Jake drew patterns on the car window with his sticky, onion-ring-smeared fingers. Richard goes mental about this…but not to Jake…or Grace…to me! Idiot.

As my son pulled away with his precious little cargo I could see the mice still at it and hear protests of, ‘Daddy, Grace has got my mouse! Daddy!’

The greatest part of having grandchildren is sending them home. Oh stop it! You know I’m joking…sort of.

Yesterday, we were up at four-thirty to take Richard’s mum, Betty, to the hospital for her ‘wedge in the hip,’ op. Hip Hop? Richard, not being a morning person, (or an evening person), was still half asleep and so I had to take the lead in the ‘keeping Betty cheerful and her mind off the op,’ role. It all went fine and she was the first ‘op’ of the day. If she doesn’t go barmy she should be home in a few days, so it is looking like we will be having her for Christmas Day dinner. As a guest. Not a main course! Joy of joys. Can this life get any better?

OK, now I’m going to take my dusty writer’s head out of the cupboard and briefly attach it. Those of you who are familiar with this blog will know that I write novels, and that I self publish. You will also know that I am hopeless at selling myself and that I never could get my mouth around my own trumpet in order to blow it, so…

I am going to toot quietly and announce that my new book, The Sleeping Field, is now published and live on Amazon. That’s it. No more. No less. You can find it, if you would like to, at http://www.amazon.co.uk/The-Sleeping-Field-Jennie-Orbell-ebook/dp/B00H1XSTW0/ And if you prefer not to…well…whatever. 

I would like to say a huge thank you to those of you who have already supported me by buying my books. And also to my Facebook/Twitter and WordPress friends who continue to spread the word and freely give your time and encouragement. There are some things that you just can’t put a price on…and kindness is most definitely one of them, so thank you.

I’ve gone to bleach a few floors and to vac-up another fresh fall of glitter from the tree.

Take care my lovelies x

Distractions Can Make You Fat…

Hi All

I intended to write a blog yesterday and then I got caught up in other things…designing a cover for the book, making a coffee and walnut cake, and pruning back the shrubbery while the chucks wrecked the garden.

It’s pretty fatal for me to just pop up the garden to have the chucks out for ten minutes, before writing a blog, because it rarely works out that way.

 I like the chucks to come out everyday, unless the weather  is torrential. It isn’t actually necessary, because their hen-house is a 8 x 10 summer house – and those dimensions don’t include the outside run! It’s just that I know how much they enjoy pottering around the garden, scratching through the leaves, picking up tasty grubs and such like.

I always get caught up in watching them. To see them foraging, doing what ‘real’ chickens should do, fills my heart with simple pleasure. Listening to them ‘talking’ to each other makes me chuckle and talk back to them in silly tones.

They used to be very wary of Chea, nervously clucking and moving out of her way, but those days are gone. Flight now runs Chea the length of the garden, with outstretched neck and beating wings. Chea hides until Flight loses interest and turns her back, then she breaks cover and stalks them all over again. I can lose quite a few moments watching these performances. They are endearing and cost nothing.

Then Chea has her rubbing, rolling and freaking session in what’s left of the cat mint. I think it sends her a little high, or just crazy enough to take on a chicken? I’ve tried rubbing a bit on my hand…but to no effect. It must be a cat thing! Chea has ‘puddined.’ Yes, I know, there’s no such word, but there should be, because it describes her perfectly. A tubby little pudding. It’s no wonder, because she never stops troughing. I fear that one of these days Flight will actually catch her because she will be too fat to gather speed.

So, with all these ‘stand and stare’ moments going on, and by the time I’d lengthened the chucks ten minutes to two hours,  pruned back the shrubs, and picked up two trugs of fallen leaves, I had nothing left for blogging…so I made a cake.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, but the downside to that is we ate half of it last night. I’m going to have to stop the cake because I have a fortnight to reduce my waist! Why, I hear you ask? Well…

I popped to the doctors this morning and the nurse who jabbed in my B12 (and made my arm bleed, by the way) informed me that the NHS are offering free health checks, targeting diabetes, kidney disease, heart disease and stroke. She asked me if I would like to partake? She said it involved a blood test and then the nurse would weigh me (bugger) and take my waist measurement (double bugger). I looked damn horrified, to be honest, but I said, ‘Yeah, great, why not, but you’ll need a big tape measure!’

She very sweetly laughed.

I was going to make my usual, stock reply excuse, because it always sounds massively convincing, even to me. It’s the one that goes like this – ‘Well, unfortunately, I’ve put on weight since my three neck discs slipped and I had the inguinal hernia repaired. You see, I was told that I should NOT do half the things that I previously did.’

As I say, I was going to say this, but for some reason a vision of that bloody half-a-metre high coffee and walnut cake flashed in my mind’s eye, and I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. So I kept my mouth shut. A rarity indeed.

The next problem was booking the blood test. Next Tuesday. And again, Sod’s Law presented itself. I have every day free next week…except Tuesday. Next Tuesday we are taking Richard’s mum, Betty, to the hospital to have her hip-joint glued(?). I queried if I could have an afternoon appointment? No. They only do blood tests in the morning. The receptionist was very sweet and continued to stand, pen poised, like I was going to change my mind and next Tuesday was suddenly going to be OK, so I said, ‘I am free every day next week except Tuesday, we have to take my partners mother to the hospital to have her hip glued in. I’m now thinking that my blood test is more important than her hip. God! She’s popped it out three times already. Perhaps I should make the appointment and buy some glue and whack it in her hip-joint myself?’

The outcome was, I had to make the appointment for the following week. So, Betty wins again. Oh well, as my dear mum used to say, ‘You’ll get your rewards in heaven.’

I wonder?

Take care my lovelies x

A Different Kind Of Whip-Lashing…

Hi All

It’s been over a week since I last posted a blog so I’m thinking that you are thinking that I must have lots of news? I haven’t – and the reason I haven’t is because my time has been spent editing The Sleeping Field and ripping out my hair because I’ve been attempting to do this with Richard trotting around the place, being a pain in the butt, and being as disruptive as possible. If we were married, I’d divorce the bugger. I have actually considered telling him to keep the house and that I’d have the car and drive off into the sunset like Thelma and Louise. Obviously I’d need another person to do that…

Had I seriously (no I wasn’t serious. You know I love the man?) been considering it, the plan would have had a massive glitch, because yesterday, Richard the pillock, allowed a British Gas van and an Audi to plough into the back of him. Yep! I took no notice as he rushed into the kitchen with his Barbour coat-tails flying and pinched the notepad out of the drawer and my pen from beneath my gaze, after all, it gave me a few minutes of peace in which to concentrate on the final chapter.

The peace ended twenty minutes later when he came back, tossed the notepad with insurance details on the table and announced, ‘I’ve just had the car run into by two cars while I was waiting to get onto the drive!’

Obviously the final chapter was going to have to wait – again!

‘Have you smashed-up the car?’ I snapped.

‘I’ve got whiplash!’

‘Have you smashed-up the car?’

‘I’ve got whiplash. I was waiting to pull onto the drive and a bloke in a British Gas van had stopped behind me, and the Audi, behind the British Gas van, ran into the British Gas van and the British Gas van rammed into me.’

How many times could he say British Gas van?

‘So, you were at a standstill?’

‘Yes.’

‘So how have you got whiplash if the car behind you was at a standstill?’

‘Well I have.’

‘Well that’s great,’ I said. (Don’t tell me I can’t turn a negative into a positive.) Get yourself off to the doctor and get it on record and then we can claim for it and we won’t need to win the lottery to leave here to get that garage and room for a pony that you are always wittering on about.’

‘Are you taking this seriously?’ he said.

‘Is there ANY chance that I can EVER finish this book!’ I yelled. ‘Bugger off and get your neck examined…and you still haven’t told me if you’ve smashed-up the car!’

‘There’s a scratch on the bumper.’

I put my head back into the computer and Richard cleared off to the doctors. The guy in the British Gas van looked a bit worse for wear, poor soul, and sat looking dazed for some time. I did say to Richard that he should offer the poor guy a cup of tea but Richard said that the buggers had just put up the gas by ten percent and so he could do one. It seemed a bit harsh to me. I think the decision to raise gas prices came from a little higher up than the guy driving the van.

We popped to the bank this morning and it was my first chance (well not exactly my first chance because it was hardly important was it?) to examine the damage. Frankly it looked like a pin had pricked the bumper. Richard wasn’t very impressed with my comment.

‘Yeah, well. I always let everyone shit on me. I’m always the nice guy. Well not any more. It’s a new car. It’s got a hairline crack on the bumper – so it can be repaired!’

Bless him. He hasn’t mentioned the whiplash injury this morning. Shame because I was going to check-out all those ads that come on in the afternoons claiming to make you rich beyond words if you broke a toe nail whilst tripping on an uneven pavement.

As I said, he did run me to the bank. There was a massive queue and Richard waited in the car, on double yellows. The little guy before me in the queue started up a conversation, about the weather, what else, and we chatted away…until I mentioned having to put on the heater for the chickens if it got much colder. He became incommunicado after that. He did look at me, before conversation was cut off, and with a twitching eye, mumbled, ‘Chickens?’ I quickly realised that I’d gone too far so I didn’t push it.

Then we came home and had a cup of tea and a piece of stollen and Richard trotted off to work. If you remember, Richard fell off his moped on the first day back to work after our break in Spain? I said he should take great care because these things always happen in threes. He said he was having a flu jab at work, so the nurse would probably pierce an artery and he’d bleed to death. Well he didn’t…so I reckon accident number three is still imminent? I guess I’ll just have to keep him away from sharp implements…including my tongue? 

On that note I will bid you adieu and pop off to sort out a cover for The Sleeping Field.

Take care my lovelies x

The Black Bra With The Frilly Lace?

Morning All

If I have my calculations right my dear mum would have been eighty-seven tomorrow. She died in 1999 and so I have been without her now for fourteen years. Fourteen years! I have no idea where that time has gone to. It seems like only yesterday that she was standing in her kitchen, flour everywhere, rolling out pastry, whilst I babbled on about some nonsense. Mum was a great cook. Her pastry was simply the best. And in the days before I became a vegetarian her meat and potato pie was truly to die for. Tell me, what is nicer than pastry and gravy?

Mum always listened and she always had an opinion. Often it was different to mine and usually she was proved right. I never understood how mums did that – knew everything about everything to do with their child. But I know now. Now that I’m a mum. I know that we are always right! We are simply wired that way. If my son reads this he will be texting the following, “you are not ALWAYS right.”

Ha ha, yes I am.

I realise that it’s an age thing. The older you get the more people you lose. I have lost two cousins in the short space of less than a year of each other. Sometimes I forget, or can’t believe that these people have gone. Where do they go to? Is the end the end?

Oh listen to me! I only wanted to mention mum’s birthday tomorrow and the fact that I shall go to the church and take flowers and here I am sinking into a morbid pit of misery and dragging you, me hearties, with me, so let’s clamber out of the dank and the dark …

I have also noticed of late how many ‘virtual’ friends/acquaintances etc have fallen by the wayside. I’ve been ‘at’ this virtual stuff for about a year in October and last October I noticed people and names that I am not seeing now. I know that I question this virtual world regularly, the time spent in it, the value of it etc.

This massive self-publishing boom has flooded the market with books, some brilliant, some OK  and some bloody awful. It is still unbelievably hard to sell books, mainly because there are so many of them and the average author is like me, a writer and not a promoter of their work. I guess a lot of authors have a bash at promoting, fail, and then limp away into the distance never to be seen or heard from again.

And who can blame them. I consider this on a daily basis! OK, maybe not on a daily basis but regularly. And I guess there is little more soul (or faith in human nature) destroying, than checking your book sales in the middle of the month, when Joe Blogs promised to buy your book and finding that the sales are zilch and Joe has let you down.  Unfortunately my experience and findings in this life have been that more people will let you down than not.

I’ve met some lovely, helpful people since self publishing. I would love to name them but if I do the idiot who merely taught me how to enter a password will want to know why he hasn’t been named as the best thing since sliced bread. You may think that is a slight exaggeration and yes it is. I have always known how to enter a password. It comes from being a devious, secretive type of person who doesn’t want the world and his dog knowing her business. However, I didn’t know how to use twitter or Facebook or build a web page or write a blog and it has been scary to the point of screaming. The amount of stuff of mine, unintentionally deleted and flying through the ether is unbelievable.

So I guess people fall by the wayside …some fall on stoney ground and perish …

I have to go and look for a bra. I have lost one. I had the slightest suspicion that it may also have fallen on stoney ground and ended up in Richard’s dressing room. Sounds posh, hey? Richard’s dressing room! It was laughingly described as a third bedroom by the house agent twenty-three years ago. It is actually a box room, too small to even fit a cot into and north facing to boot, so it is permanently freezing in there.

Richard has equipped his ‘dressing room’ with an Ikea rail and most of his clothes live draped across it and not on it. Beneath the rail he has an old wash basket which is the resting place for his grundies and socks. Yesterday I enquired, ‘you haven’t come across my bra, have you? I wondered if it may have inadvertently ended up in your wash basket – I mean your pant storage area – and if it has, at this moment in time, I will accept that it was an accident and that I don’t need to start getting worried and locking my wardrobe.’

He shrugged a bit and then later in the day said, ‘that bra. Is the black one with the frilly lace around the front and the little flower thing at the front?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘No, it’s not there.’

Maybe I should lock my wardrobe? Mind you, I don’t think there’s much in there that would fit him!

Off to buy some flowers.

Take care my lovelies x