Cameron's Happiness

Cameron wants to gauge our happiness. On the radio yesterday there was a piece from a reporter questioning a handful of MPs about what made them happy. Singing in a choir, cooking, music from classical to Elvis Costello, walking with family and friends.

The Arts and creating seem to rank high. Whatever the work, it's creating something often with others.

Think we need to tell David that this is therefore what should be encouraged. What we need to make us happy are activities that make our hearts sing. Put the funding into community choirs, music groups, libraries with all the activities they house, free art galleries and they events they encourage, sport, cooking, drama, art and music in schools, villages, towns and cities across the country. Every country.

This and getting the basics right. We don't need the trimmings. We need the basics and the magic and the rest will come. Simple. That's where I want my taxes spent.

The article says...

Not sure you can read the article from The Yorkshire Post dated Saturday November 6th 2010. Article by Simon Bristow, photograph by Gerard Binks.

" They say an Englishman's home is his castle.
And an elderly couple from East Yorkshire are proving there is truth in the old adage by refusing to abandon their home to coastal erosion.
Land on the coast at Aldbrough between Hornsea and Withernsea is now so unstable that East Riding Coucnil has moved a concrete barrier 10 metres inland to prevent vehicles falling over the cliff.
But the move has left Edith and Brian Grantham trapped in their bungalow in Camp Lane. Their only access is through a privately-owned caravan park whose owner does not want them to use it. The council has offered alternative accommodation but they prefer to stay put.
Mrs. Grantham, 76, said: "We don't want to be moved, we want to stay in our own little homestead. We are comfortable, we've got a lovely home and I'm not shifting. The alternative is to move to a council house but I don't want to live in a council house."

Paul Allison, general manager at Aldbrough Leisure Park said he could only give customers access to the park because of insurance and health and safety reasons and he had offered to sell the council the dividing land.
A council spokesman said: "The council is continuing to investigate the feasibility of several alternative access options for affected residents of Campsite Road."

Could be two of the characters in 'Erosion.'

People living on the edge

Again, what would you do if your home was worthless to everyone but you? Where else is there to go? What if you don't want to go? Can you be forced? If the authorities can force you out of your home but you don't want to leave what can you do? What are you capable of?

'Erosion' explores the dilemma of people living in a coastal Chalet Park with nothing left to lose.

Coastal Erosion

What would you do?

What?

What are you thinking when we talk about other people dying?

I love Birthdays

Today I feel very calm and happy but from the corner of my eye I can see something lovely is going to happen. It's in the air all around, but there's more...

Chorlton Book Festival

The Book Festival has already begun on a cold November night. A crowded, warm library is just the place to be.
I attended a few events last year. A memorable event was the talk on a group who took part in the spanish civil war. Very interesting, both from the talk and the people who attended. Vibrant. And I wanted to know more.

This year, there is a variety of events. Some great sounding workshops as well. I gave an afternoon talk last year about Meeting Coty. Think I should have talked more about general publishing too, but ran out of time. It was a sunny afternoon. A good way to spend a sunny November afternoon.

I love that places are having their own festivals and events and venues are used. Chorlton Library is an excellent venue. David Green there, loves books. And Writers and encourages others to love books too. Go and see. Check the website - or just google it.

Remakes

BLOOD SHOULD BE SPILT
I've just heard that the excellent film, "Let the Right One In" is going to be given the Hollywood remake treatment.
Why doesn't Hollywood come up with new ideas of their own? What gives them the arrogance to remake a great film? Instead, why not back the superb original?

You'd think the powers that be in LA would have learnt from the flops of past remakes. I remember how I flinched on hearing they were going to remake the black and white, "The Women" I suspect most people haven't seen this brilliant comedy starring Rosalind Russell, Norma Shearer, Joan Fontaine.. not one man appears in the film, oh yes, at the end, Norma Shearer's husband's legs and feet are running down a flight of stairs to meet her.

I think, finally, finally, Hollywood did remake this film, but from the poster, it looked more like Sex and the City. I didn't go to see it.

What's that phrase? If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Don't even touch it.

Cats

Sushi and her sister, Couscous were neutered yesterday. Today, when I stroke them, they turn their heads into the palms of my hands and purr loudly. They are curled up right now in the little pink study behind me. They're keeping close.

Dilemmas

Not getting much right at the moment. I think I know what I've got to do, but one person's 'right' is another person's 'wrong' isn't it?
Seems that books have to be plot driven more than anything else. I can work with that.
But do we follow our head or our heart?

Erosion Re-writing

I've reached the part in Erosion, Chapter 27, where it's not editing now, it's re-writing. I'm excited, because I know this is what is needed, but it's going to be hard work and take time. I think I've got four weeks to get it clear and then re-edit the lot. Then I'll be busy with other work and looking at other people's work, so won't have the right head space for mine. Editing will be fine then, but certainly will be difficult to be creative.
I really like the people in Erosion, really like them. Group hug? Don't think they'd like that at all. In fact I know how one or two of them would definitely react. Not pretty.
Right. Stop distracting myself. You have a deadline missus.

Writing dialogue

Funny when you have conversations with yourself. I'm working on Erosion now, and it's great, I'm on a roll with chalets collapsing, ground falling away, the shock and devastation.
And then I paused, listening to the characters' words as I was reading them aloud. I imagined I was at the Writers' group and someone said, '....I don't agree with their views.'
And I said, 'Well, they're not you. They don't live in Chorlton, they weren't teachers at universities, they don't quaff wine and go to writers' groups...' and then I started crying.
Someone asked if they were based on people I knew. Not exactly. Definitely not exactly, but they're based on people I've known but only in a hazy estimation (that's not a cop out) and these people with this other way of thinking and living in a world that no longer exists are all dead. And it upset me. And then I realised why these characters have these views. I want the people I knew to be heard. I just want them to be heard. That's all.

Happiness

Lost my beloved green glasses a few weeks ago and found them outside this morning dangling from a red geranium plant.

Oliva, Oliva, Oliva

Simplicity, paring down to what we need. The Lost Steps, a tatty book I found on a charity shop bookshelf. Who was it by? Alejo Carpentier. A revelation about what we need, enjoying it and then thinking we need more than this and finding out to our loss, that we don't. Lesson learnt? What do you think? We're human beings living in a world surrounded by 'things' and I mean, that because they are merely things. And proving ourselves, to ourselves, by striving to do this, that, and why? What do we need to prove to ourselves? Why do we need to prove anything to ourselves, putting the whole, proving things to other people, aside? Why isn't it enough just to be?

Truth

Someone I know brought up the truth yesterday. Questioning it. Made me wonder who's the grand judge of what is the truth in a given situation? Who gets to say? And is the truth always the best option? The only option? What's the case for lying sometimes? Is a lie someone else's truth; is it what they want to be the truth? We can ask a question and not want to hear the truth, so who is at fault, the one who lies but makes the other happy, or the one who asks the question and not wanting a truthful answer? Is the truth and maybe pain the better option? Short term effect or long term?
It's a minefield. And that's only the beginning of the questions.

We're all different. We all have different angles on what truth and lies are. The Commonwealth Games accomodation.... teams saying the facilities, aren't adequate. And the organisers saying, well your ideas of hygiene and my ideas of hygiene are different, so how can we agree?
Your idea of truth is different from my idea of it. And it changes all the time. Truthful to ourselves. Is that the way to be?

September

I love September when the weather is so warm and sunfilled mellow and ripening the apples, brightening the leaves to red and orange and gold-brown. Lulled to sleep and yet the cool morning air means action. New beginnings. Farewell to the summer, but this month holding the relaxed air of the word 'summer' so it doesn't quite feel like goodbye.
Possibilities. That flutter in the stomach. Hope. Maturity. Peace. And the smell of cider and berries.

The beach

The spanish come here. They own or rent apartments and leave their chairs and parasols on the beach. Not many swim out into the waves to be lifted up and down by the swell, slapped on the back or in the face by the foam, made to laugh nearer the shore when the waves knock you over, but we did. And we laughed and swallowed water thick with salt. The sea was different to the salty turquoise water I drank a couple of years ago, but the mediterranean is my favourite sea. The current pulled us to the left and it was hard work swimming back so we were online with our towels on the sand, but that only made me glad. I like having to use my muscles to get where I want to be.

Even though not many came in the water, the beach was not crowded. Families were there, grandfathers and grandsons came down about four in the afternoon. People arrived after work, to sit and read. Older women, bikini clad, walked in twos through along the shoreline, talking. People sunbathed. Ate. A swimwear clad businessman told his daughters to be quiet as he spoke endlessly on his mobile. They were french.

The Red Cross lifeguards sat on their high perches, there were blue boxes enclosing toilets, rubbish bins, children's play areas, volleyball and football nets and clean, clean, sand and sea.

Some Valencians let us borrow one of their parasols and after that, every day, they smiled, nodded, waved. Did they want to talk? The son had spent six months working in a hotel in Stratford. He looked happy with his mother and sister and cousins in Bellereguard for the month.

It was cooler at the beach with a coastal breeze than inland. The sea was not as warm as we expected, but once in, delicious. And we found we could park, pull out and return home without having to reverse the car. What more do you want?

View from a Terrace

Calle de la Hoz

I'm missing Oliva. It was a superb week. Felt as if we had all of the time in the world and then it was over. And we filled our time well without rushing, feeling as you do, that you belong more and more in that space, place, time.

On waking the first morning, slightly cloudy, I thought that I'd seen the view from the terrace before. It was the same view I'd seen in Brazil, in Sao Paula and Rio. It was a view of the favelas. Chickens in cages on terraces, lines of washing, chairs, tables, higgledypiggledy, bricks and stones, white washed and rough, cracked and flaking, builder inducing sucking in of breath, shaking head and calculating rebuilding.
This is what I love about European buildings. Non-UK buildings and attitudes. Let the walls crumble, it's what's going on inside that matters. And as we explored the old town, more each day, it was clear that this wasn't anything like the favelas of Brazil. It was spanish, from the clapping, guitar playing, wailing group, to the sunbaked streets, the dark shadows, the geraniums, ornate doorways, the church with the passionate priest (more about that Sunday service later)the breezes, the smell of a sweet flower at night, the sense of humour.
Let me find another photo.

Rooftops

And this is what we woke to the next morning...

Spain

Ah. Oliva inbetween Valencia and Alicante. A haven. I need longer to take you through the drive from Alicante airport in the early evening light, past mountains on our left and the sea on our right, to driving through narrow one way roads in the old part of Oliva in the dark trying to find a tiny alley, the oldest street in Oliva, that was on the right when the google map said it was on the left. A dark, long-haired, tiny woman pushing a, what looked like four-year old girl who repeated everything she said, in a pram, answered our call for help and showed us the way, via an incident of us turning the car around when I couldn't get it in reverse (couldn't all week), so two cars coming the other way squeeeezed past, losing her at the bottom of a hill where there was a sharp turn, nowhere to park, parking on a sandy corner amongst other cars, asking two hopeless, drunk spanish women the way, showing them the map, they hadn't a clue, our fairy godmother with trainee godmother in tow, gesturing, about 'us english, eyes everywhere but where should be, shooting off....' We walked with her and she showed us the way. Hugs, kisses, laughs, shrugs and we climbed up the steep, walking only, Calle de la Hoz. Yes!! That was our destination. Back to the car, collect the case and bags and back to our haven. In the dark. What was the next day to bring we wondered as we devoured a packet of Fox's Cream biscuits we'd brought with us? Prior to this, a lovely, helpful, spanish only, terrible map drawing garage owner with a dog, had raised his eyes and said the place was dangerous and watch my two daughters...
We laughed that the episode was like the arrival of the heroines to the villa in Italy in the film 'Enchanted April' when they are met for their stay by a servant with a horse and carriage in the pouring rain in the middle of the night. He grabs their cases, runs off to the carriage with them. They follow, waving their brollies, a carriage ride worthy of a Hammer Horror Dracula...and the next morning, opening shutters to blue skies, sun dappled water, red geraniums and smiles. Sleep and let's see.

Escape

To be in a place where all that can be heard are the waves and the breeze in the trees and the sand moving under the heat of the sun.
To see the sea stretching to the horizon and white clouds streaked across blue.
To feel warm bare skin, tickling foam sun kissed calves, the pull of the current pushing strength into limbs moving through the cool tourquoise water.
The taste of salt, mouthfuls of salt that give strength to a body that knows what it needs and takes it.
Pliable bones, toned muscles, a clear head.

To be there and not here with the sea in my eyes

Exams

The A level results came out last Thursday. My eldest daughter has enough points to go to her chosen university. Phew. In last week's Sunday Times, I read an article about how essays, modules and exams are marked and I know you can take nothing for granted with A levels. Imogen Stubbs' daughter took her A levels this year and being an actress and married to Trevor Nunn, they helped her with a Shakespeare essay. She did not get a good mark. It turns out that there was too much detail, too much extra knowledge, too much flair. Too good. The examiners only give marks when you tick a given box with a statement they have allocated marks for. You don't have to read the play or the book, just understand how to pass an exam and get on and do it. Could be any subject. Their daughter said she didn't want any help from Shakespeare experts in future.

So the exams. I'm going to talk about Music now. My daughter takes music. She got a high enough grade to gain her place at university, but not as high as we'd expected. Take nothing for granted. However, so many didn't get the grades that they expected in her year at college that the papers have gone back to AQA to be remarked. One girl, who everyone considers the most talented in composition, got a U for her composition which means she loses her place to study music at Salford University. This girl's composition was the one chosen to be performed at the summer music concert. She recorded it, even though she didn't need to. She got a U. Why? Too much work, too advanced, too much effort and skill and flair? Or did she not tick the boxes? Were her chords too creative? Was her melody too lyrical? Was she better than was required? My daughter told me that another student, several years ago, got a U for his composition. He went on to study at the Royal Northern College of Music. They obviously saw something else in this student than the examiners saw.

So, the system. Does it work? What calibre of student is passing these A levels? Bright, creative young minds or those who know how to play the game? Having the mix of the two would be best in this world.
But do we want our future generations not to be able to think for themselves? Do we want to quell all creativity and free thinking? Am I over reacting? Is it too late?
One thing is, when times our bad, what helps us through? The Arts. Nature. The kindness of people. The answer isn't a flip, more money. It's something inside us. And don't get me started on how an English student doesn't need to read the entire book to get an A*. For one, how insulting is that to an author? And what does that teach someone about reading, learning, education, life? Discuss.

Summer storms

Wow. Dark sky of hidden sunshine throwing out its rain. And the wind, determined not to be left out, blowing it into a sloping arrows. Love it. Stormy and wild and warm. Very sexy.

Mouse in the mouth

My sister was sitting opposite me. She had her mouth open wide. There was something black inside. Then it moved. It became clear. It was a mouse. A happy mouse, scampering around in her mouth. She was oblivious to it. And then it jumped out and ran off, perfectly happy. My sister didn't scream. Ordinarily she would, but this wasn't an ordinary occasion. It was a dream.

Brassed Off

Good title. I watched the film, 'Brassed Off' last night. I knew it was a good film, but it hit a chord last night, probably because of my mood this week. I wanted to watch something with depth but with an uplifting ending. And I wanted it real. So, 'Brassed Off' it was.

I actually think this should be compulsary viewing in schools instead of any old film near the end of term when films are shown because.....???? I'll leave that one. For now.

I'm from West Yorkshire and the film is set in a mining community in South Yorkshire. I'm not from a mining community, but I 'get' the Yorkshire traits in the characters. It's such a well-written film. Fantastic dialogue capturing the humour. As soon as the film started, I knew it was the right choice. I needed grounding this week and hearing the accents and this grim, familiar, funny humour immediately did that. The way of not giving compliments, or giving them in a way that is not obvious.

And then there is the reality of the miner's strikes and the closing of the pits and how that affects the community. And how important music is when all around is falling apart. In the 1930's big Hollywood musicals were popular because they were the opposite of the hardship of people's lives. Films, theatre, music, arts are the flip side of difficult times. The Colliery Band is what holds the men together when they are losing their jobs. So the bailiffs come and marriages crumble and anger and illness result from paying for striking and working with coal dust. This is our history. And people's lives. And the film works so well because it encompasses these things but with strong, believable characters and honest humour and of course, a little bit of love. Go see.

Love

At the pub after Writers' Group last night, Daliso said that he'd read, heard, found out somewhere that there are five ways people usually show love. We all have our different ways.
1) Words. We tell someone we love them, talk about it.
2) Actions. We do things for the one we love. Do the food shop, wash up...
3) Gifts. Flowers and jewellry and clothes and kittens...
4)Time. We spend time with our loved one. We don't rush off, we don't find something else to do, we're not all the time at work.
5) Touch. We brush our hand over their hair, face, arm, leg, hold hands, cuddle,kiss.

What do I do? What do you do? Daliso said we should try using them all. At once? Is that overkill or complete love? Will think about this. And my characters. What does it show about Lizzy if she does none of these? If Jez is action led? Andrew wants to be touch but his wife hates that? I'm talking about Erosion. So good to be working on this fully now, but also right now, it's the summer holidays and the needs of the many...

Music

I've been listening to Stacey Kent. Jazz sung in french. Sublime.

Big Drum Day, Chorley

As the afternoon wore on, the sun grew stronger and stronger, the sky turned blue and the crowd enjoyed the summer day of dance, drumming, eating, drinking, laughing, clapping, smiling, talking, lying around, meeting and finally leaving, happy and uplifted and thanking Grupo Sambafrique and the council organisers for a wonderful time. Just two photos here of many more.

Titles

'Meeting Coty' came so easily. The next book was going to be 'Leaving Coty' but the emphasis of the book has changed. It is complete in itself, so that title doesn't sound quite right. Or does it? Mmmm. I've had, 'Essence of Coty,' 'To Coty, With Love,' 'Splintered Glass,' 'Choosing Coty,' 'Trusting Coty' and others, many others...

Erosion was easy. The Monster Belt was. So was Jiddy Vardy. Why is this so difficult? I even had 'Loving Coty.'

Washing Lines

I need to look through all my photos for the images I have of washing lines around the coast because this is where the best pictures of washing lines are. This particular one is in a garden in a suburb of Manchester. And not enough breeze. Far, far, from the coast. I have a photo of men's socks on a line in Pitlochry. Clothes blowing next to a house by the west coast. The best is just sheets and sea and sky at Applecross. Deep rain leaden sky holding on to the late afternoon sun. The best. And what is the best is that it's transigent, but it is captured in the photograph and then the memory of those days is evoked as if it were now.

Chapter Breakdowns and Musical Showdowns

I'm working on the order of chapters for Erosion, to make sure that Lizzy's motivation is logical and the order of events makes sense to the logic of the chalet park residents.
My head is exploding! But it is also satisfying knowing that the next stage will flow.
And to think I thought I'd got this right before. Ha.

Last night I went to the Summer Music Concert at Xaverian College in Rusholme, Manchester. Every time I attend one of these concerts I am amazed by the professional standard. The orchestra could be playing at the Albert Hall in London, be the Halle from Manchester. And the choirs and flutes, solo cellist and swing band and individually put together groups combinging vocals and strings,guitar, drums and stunning in their talent.
The evening ended on a fantastic rendition of Bat out of Hell. Wild. Of course there were tears. Students are leaving to go on to other things. The Head praised the talent and work and energy of the young people and left us with the knowledge that Manchester and the country will be safe in their hands.
What a night!
Exhausted today.

Goodbye Coty, Hello Erosion

Is this it? I'm printing up the final version of at the moment, titled, 'Essence of Coty' and getting itchy fingers and excited feelings that I'm opening the pages of Erosion, which is completely written, but needs much, much re-writing. At least the story is there. It's a contemporary mystery about a group of misfits in a long forgotten chalet park on the Yorkshire coast. The cliffs are falling into the sea, taking the chalets with them, but as their eviction approaches, people with nothing left to lose show what they are willing to do. The main character comes into this world and is dragged along, finding that she becomes a saviour rather than the survivor she has always had to be. It's the run up to Bonfire Night and the fireworks at the nearby stately home, Moorland Castle, aren't the only explosions going off.

Ooh, just writing this makes me excited.

The World Cup

Celebrate well and enjoy, Espana! X Very happy.

Sherry Tasting at the Bodega Estevez

In February, I came back from Jerez de la Frontera with five sample bottles of sherry from the Bodega Estevez. I had only taken hand luggage on the flight so was only allowed 10ml bottles in my bag. I've saved them for a sherry tasting - ha, you get two glasses out of each bottle and I wanted to share them between five people. Anyway, not a great day today and thought, let's not try as it's six months since I got back from Spain and the odds of us all getting together...so, Almirante, Oloros first. Jerez Secco, Marques del Real Tesoro. Beautiful oaky rich colour. Gorgeous oaky rich aroma. A sip, a wince, a slight screwing up of the face.

Next. Tio Mateo, Fino. Jerez seco y suave. Marques del Real Tesoro. I slipped in a tiny ice cube. Crisp, light, fresh, delicious. Lightly pale. Just as I drank in Cordoba in February. All you need, cold, with a plate of piping hot prawns melting in crisp batter. A perfect combination. Ah. If only I were there now in that tiny back room in the small three roomed bar, all ages eating and drinking and on the ball waiters and those bells for service on the wall, and fino and hot prawns. Perfect.

Three bottles to go. I'm eating strawberries now. The rest of the tastings for another night.
And Espana - Good luck and play as well as your fino and prawns and you will win on Sunday. X

Losing your mind, but not in the way I'd like

It's 11.15. I'm just settling down to work, but I'm trembling with upsettedness and not anger, but 'AAAHHHH-ness.'
Student Loan Application. We have had to do this using three way media and it doesn't work, doesn't connect, doesn't communicate. On-line, by post and telephone. And today, after months and of being assured all was going through, I had to play the emotional near tears game to get them to sort it. I am assuming that as part has been done online and part by post that the dear old computer can't correlate the information and keeps refusing access, so it cannot be completed on-line although weeks ago a voice on a telephone line assured us it was and we keep being told to go back to it.
So, nice man today said he'd do it. Do we do anything else? No. You'll receive notice of the amount you will receive, probably not until 2021, when you are hopefully not in higher education, but you will receive notice. I was assured.

This has taken all morning after some other business I won't bore you with because I'm sure the above hasn't bored you.

And I was going to talk about the Global Grooves Dance workshop I went to last night at Band on the Wall in Manchester. It's the third in a course of I think eight, leading to a performance at the Big Drum Day in Chorley, Lancashire. I didn't make the first two, probably won't make the rest. I've been on other courses run by Global Grooves and have to say, I like the process bit the best but not the sudden drive to the performance. Some tutors plan the weekend, which it ususally is, better than others. The performances are actually good in showing what you've learnt, bringing the group together, completing the time with a firework rather than a sparkler.
But, we are paying to be taught and the teaching of a new style, rhythm, way of dancing can be lost in the drive to put the choreography together. Again, different teachers are better than others.
Last night, it was Adriana Rosso, a Brazilian who is an inspiring dancer. She seems to be taking the move towards the performance at a good pace, preparing early. However, the very nature of these workshops because they lead to a performance feel that there isn't as much 'learning' as I'd like. I like to work up a sweat, doing lots of moves, having a laugh, connecting, aching the next day. I don't want much. I don't think I can make another workshop in this run though. I enjoyed it, didn't feel too pushed, but I did feel, and I understand the logic of dancing fast when the final rhythm will be fast, but I felt sloppy and scrappy in my dance. But then, that's just me. With practice, going over and over, the fast moves will gel and hold their form. And then the glorious satisfaction. I'm waffling, blithering, my mind has been made mulch by the student loan system, new this year, might I add, and too flawed. Great people at the helpline on the end of the phone lines, but security is high, no longer are the days when you can talk about your spouse or son or daughter. Security. You might be trying to con them and we must protect their rights.... I'm going, where? Who knows. Into the ether.

Skies

Driving home from town towards Chorlton and then on towards Stretford because I didn't want to go home. The sky was so blue and pink, mackeral sky, dappled, streaked, glowingly colourful. I didn't want to turn around because then my back would be to the rich glowing dusky rose and turquoise clouds and I wanted to watch the until it faded. Makes the heart expand. When all is not as we want it, all we need is to see such a sight. Thank you for that tonight. The photo isn't of tonight's sky, but it's another glorious coloured sight.

Change

Events keep happening that signify change and yet the change is simmering in the background rather than taking place. It's confusing, frustrating and beginning to annoy me as it's happening in every area. I feel like shouting, "Oh, just get on with it!" This is shouted at the sky, out there, to the heavens and beyond. And if the change isn't going to be in my favour, then I suppose I don't want it. Or do I? Sometimes change is better than treading water, which this feels like. I can't bear if for much longer.
I used to force issues just to get out of not knowing. Not always a wise thing to do, but at least something happened. And I suppose that is what this is about. I can't bear nothing happening. And yet, right now, change has been triggered, but now it's kicking its heels and looking down and turning in circles and driving me nuts.
Is this a challenge to the universe? Eeek. Am I ready? Yes, because then I will know what I need to do. Or do you think I'm being a chance to prepare for the change and I'm the one turning in circles, wasting time, kicking my heels...?

Editing

Editing still. Ahhhhhhhh!!!!!! Will it ever end?

The Manchester Day Parade

On Sunday, it's the Manchester Day Parade, starting at Castlefield, along Deansgate, up via St. Peter's Square and back again. Starts at 2pm, finishes at 4.
I'm taking part with 1,800 other people. Our group, Juba do Leao is one of the many many local participating groups. It will be fascinating, colourful, jubilant and many more things besides as it is celebrating all the differences that make up our city. So various and varying nationalities will be represented, different ages, different ways of performing, making music, strutting and shuffling and spinning and towering. All heights, widths, voices and hair dos will be on show. Manchester is fantastic for its festivals and this Parade will act as a vast bringing together of many of them. Hope the sun shines.

And I cannot decide on what to wear...

Summing up.

Why are some weeks more emotionally driven than others? This weeks has been a wet week. Couldn't bear to watch after half time of the England v. USA match. Had a long bath listening to Billie Holiday then watched Finding Neverland. Watching it reminded me of when I saw it at the cinema with Miranda. Many tears from me. Tonight, many tears from both of us. So many, my eyes have shrunk and I'm drained. What is this about? I think this has been necessary after the week we've both had. M full of exams, me full of Tessa and her family. And the film is about what life is about in a way that takes us to a place we want to go to.
And J.M.Barrie. A friend gave me a book, 'Inventing Wonderland' by Jackie Wullschlager. It's a must. It is about Lewis Carroll, Edward Lear, J.M.Barrie, Kenneth Grahame and A.A.Milne and is fascinating into why they wrote what they wrote because of the times they lived and their backgrounds. What I liked is the humanity of the book. We understand a time, place and system. And I think that is good.
All this is symplifying the film and all these authors. Is this the problem with blogs or the way I'm writing? It's selfish. It's making me think and that I hope becomes unselfish because if I'm thinking then hopefully that makes me respond more sympathetically to situations and people and hopefully grow. Rambling.

Film and Television

Watched a programme about Bobby Moore last night. Of course, England winning the 1966 World Cup cropped up. Very interesting seeing our country a few decades ago, hearing people speak, the politeness and respect and the unassuming way of many. Of course, there were problems in the FA and clubs but being a footballer seemed to mean wanting to play the game. Let's just say, they weren't very well paid. Oh, and everyone loved Bobby Moore. You could see why. Cue more tears. Not just from me.

But then watched the film, "Wolf Creek." I was expecting werewolves or shades of The Hills have Eyes. In fact, the film took its time, we got to know the three main characters (a little patchily, but the effort was there) were treated to some stunning views of landscape and skies, good pacing and then the horror. Nasty.
And based on a true story, but I'm guessing an imagination was used at some points.
Set in Australia, a vast, vast, country where people can do what they want, I'd say, if far enough off the beaten track. Not somewhere on top of my favourite countries to visit. Or just don't head inland.
This film definitely won't be used as a promotional video for the place, however spectacular the scenery.

And today. Last few pages of LC to go over, then back to the beginning. Must rewatch Groundhog Day...

Emotions

This is hopeless. Listened to Vanessa Redgrave talking on Radio Four about her latest film, "Letters to Juliet" which is about finding a lost love and then talking also about losing her daughter Natasha who died after falling on a ski trip and banging her head and then both her brother and sister's recent deaths.
Now I'm writing about Tessa's dad and I'm in floods.
And it's raining!!

Not going to show myself in public today, that's for sure.

The film festival last night was good though. Every film had something positive about it, some excellent music, some fantastic 'eyes' - great shots and observations and some surprising takes on what we feel we know. Some charming animation and I also laughed at both documentaries and drama.

Writing this has actually made me smile thinking how quickly we can go from one emotion to another. Don't feel angry thankfully...but now it's back to Leaving Coty which I am renaming. I'm adding, through a new angle, some of Meeting Coty to it, so it is absolutely watertight, complete in itself. One or two bits still to do, then a full read through again to see if it strengthens or weakens it and then a fine edit again. This will end, it will, it will.

Short Film Festival

I'm one of the judges at the Ellesmere Port Short Film Festival later today. Should be interesting to see, hopefully, some original minds at work. Love that. Seeing, hearing something I haven't experienced before and being surprised, affected, changed in some way. And how short is a short?

The River Wharfe

The River Wharfe in Yorkshire is volatile and highly deceptive. I've written a short story about a particular point where it narrows into a fast churning gulley of water known as The Strid. It's easy to think you can jump from one side to the other; the stones are tantalisingly close. Many people have slipped on the wet uneven stones, fallen in, been dragged under by the currents, bashed against the curves of the rock and caught in their pockets until spewed out and left to drift, more often than not under water to resurface down stream.

On Saturday, an extremely hot, beautiful day, further downstream, where many paddle, swim and push out in rubber boats, an eight year old boy drowned. People had taken picnics and barbeques. They were eating locally made icecream and playing ball. Children were splashing and collecting pebbles. Ducks were swimming. He fell into a deep section of water.

The brown peaty river is treacherous. It is cold. The shallows quickly give way to great depths. And there are channels of strong currents.

A few years ago, one hot summer's day,I swam across with one of my daughters. It was fun. It was fine if a little cold, then just as we reached for a rock on the other side, a current grabbed us. It was frightening, but I tried not to show my panic. We reached the stone ledge. The force of the current was a shock. I was relieved when we were back on the other side.
Wikipedia says that The Wharfe is the/one of the most dangerous rivers in the world. Here, at Bolton Abbey, it flows through flat green fields and beautiful surroundings, with towering hills and the stunning Strid Woods. It is paradise. And the river lures you in.
I think everybody's thoughts must be with the family of the young boy. It is hard to comprehend how tragedy can strike so suddenly when the sun is shining and everyone is happy. This is a Yorkshire Beauty Spot. I know it really well and it still shocks me.

Encontro 2010 Videos

Encontro 2010 Videos

Juba do Leao at the Welsh Encontro Samba Weekend. I love the sixth one down best. Brian and Ile do Egba.

And...

Actually, this is the crux of The Monster Belt as well. Bit of a theme running through everything I write it would seem ...

Nothing left to lose

What I'm concentrating on - had a revelation last night of something I haven't covered in Leaving Coty and it's a major theme in Erosion, what people who have nothing left to lose do? A newspaper guy offers Tessa a big sum of money to tell her story of Coty. Of course she says no, but what would happen if she was so destitute that this would save her from the streets? No welfare system, no family, no back up. What would you do? What would I do? I've always wondered how I'd react if put to the test. Save myself rather than someone else? I think it's my biggest nightmare. I don't think I'd come out very well morally if I was in say, Belsen or Auswitz. I hope I would, but I don't know. Save myself at the cost of someone else, when really pushed to the limit?
So, when a sum of money for selling your story to the papers would save you from selling yourself, then would you do it? Would I do it? Would Tessa?

The Physical

Editing

I've axed down to 80,044 words. Book agents and publishers have made me obsessed by the word count. I feel as if I'm on the bus in the film "Speed." If my book touches 80,000 words, the bomb is triggered and if I fall below that number, the bomb goes off.

I'm editing now for grammar, spelling etc on the computer. Can look forward to tense shoulders, stiff neck, aching back, heavy head...lots of long hot baths to ease the muscles.

Thankfully, it's Juba tonight. Will dance it all out. Need the physical to combat the cranial.

Axing words

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh Editing. Have axed down to just above 80,000. What am I doing? My back hurts. Sitting at a computer is hard work...Will there be anything left?

Editing Leaving Coty

Yipee. The end is in sight. I'm typing up the big edit onto the computer and then will check it through purely for grammar etc. Then another look to check the story, then print up for another read...imput changes, send off...
I'm excited.

Juggling the real world and the world of last weekend in Cardiff. In my head. Making sense of how these are both part of who I am. I know I'm not alone with this. After any momentous occasion there is a shift. Could be a downer, often is, a low after a high, but then of course, that will shift again and another high will come.
And it was such a high. The entire Welsh Encontro. I was only there for the Sunday evening show at The Coal Exchange but that was sufficient to come away with feeling that I am part of something unique, empowering, life enhancing, exhilarating and that is passed on in a vast chain. If my insides could smile they would be reeling with laughter.
What made the evening was the joy that erupted through the room. The sound of the drums, all the instruments, the singing, the dancing on stage and off, the moving bodies, the smiling faces. One big mass sharing of appreciation.
And now, sitting at the computer, will soon be downstairs editing a hard copy of LC, quiet, the house quiet. In the mind, not the body. And after being in the body completely that night.
And that is what Tessa has in LC. I read an article, will talk about this tomorrow as don't particularly want to get into it now, but it was about how the journalist hates working women only 'getting what life is about' when they have a weepy moment and see that love and a man is what life is really about.
Made me think what I was doing with LC. And what it is about is like juggling the dance with the real world. The physical with the cerebral. Tessa has her dream job. She is a career girl. She lives in her head. The dilemma is, is that she begins to feel that she wants to listen to her body. And her body is telling her to dance. And dancing is doing what your body is telling you to do.

Samba Encontro, Cardiff

Sunday, May 2nd 2010 at the Coal Exchange, Cardiff, Wales.
What an evening. Every band playing offered something different from the others to make up a completely fulfilling event. Love the Buena Vista Social Club, music, looks, attitude.
Then our band, Juba do Leao. What to say? The audience were fantastic. This brought home even stronger what has been spoken about before. As one of the dancers, positioned between the crowd and the drummers we are in a unique position. Facing the crowd facing us and picking up the enthusiasm, spinning around, making eye contact with the band, passing the energy and picking up theirs, spinning around back to the crowd, passing the energy, picking up theirs and on and on...
Fantastic.

But first, entering Wales over the beautiful bridge. We felt we were going abroad! Stunning bridge. And then entering Wales and all so easy until we reached Cardiff. We came off the motorway, followed a sign for the Bay, then no other signs to direct us to the Millenium Centre of Cardiff Bay. Asked a couple of people who were lovely and helpful. Drove around and around the Millenium Centre trying to find the hotel that had looked so close. In the end pulled up at the Travel Lodge to ask. The Future Inn, Cardiff Bay was tucked away behind Pizza Hut and Chicitos and the Red Dragon Shopping Centre. But very nice when we eventually dropped off our bags before heading, couldn't find, then eventually found The Coal Exchange where we were performing that night. Amazing mix of new builds, old, neglected beautiful buildings complete with plants growing out of chimney stacks, and imposing, run down facades. Tucked away around the back, again, is The Coal Exchange. Very impressive. Fantastic music venue, complete with all the original signs etc showing its former use.
And the event was very, very well organised. Compliments and thanks to all in charge of that. Great stage manager. Felt looked after, safe and welcome.

Okay. Enough. Another day.

Bit more on Stephen Benatar and second chances

I'm going to read his book, "Wish Her Safe at Home" love the title.
"It is a gripping and haunting story about a middle-aged, genteel woman called Rachel Waring who inherits a Georgian house in Bristol and slowly goes mad."
It's being republished by the New York Review of Books in its Modern Classics series. A British edition is being published.
First published in 1982 by Bodley Head. Wonderful reviews, prizes, poor sales.
He got the New York Review of Books' managing editor, Edwin Franks to read it by bumping into him with a wine trolley at his self-organised and self-published relaunch of "Wish Her Safe at Home."

And the heroine of the book, Rachel Waring says at one point in the novel

"Wouldn't it be fine if we all had second chances?"

Second Chances

This seems to be cropping up all the time at the moment. I'm writing about the possibility of second chances in Leaving Coty, watched a film, The Lake House, on television last night which is about the second chance of capturing a love. And an article in the Sunday Times magazine from a few weeks ago about an author, Stephen Benatar, who by rights, due to the review of his books (some published by a company he had to set up himself to do so) is, after decades of rejections taken up by a big American publisher. Mr. Benatar is English. He sells his books himself. His books haven't sold in vast numbers because he hasn't had a power house publisher behind him and he isn't well known like Jordan or, Dan Brown or JK Rowling, though his books are extremely well written and touch the reader emotionally. Now, he is getting a second chance of his books being widely read, and that is what he says he wants. He doesn't want his books forgotten, unread. It's what most authors want, I'd say.

And the second chance thing cropped up somewhere else too. Then there's Gordon Brown...and the spanish bullfighter, Jose Thomas who retired from bullfighting, found life wasn't worth living without it, so came back to fight a bull in Mexico and his leg was gored. A second chance. For the bull? He, Jose Thomas, has survived, but I suppose, when we think about it factually, apart from being painless, don't we all want to die doing the thing we love? Bullfighting painless? Mmm...
So, am I going to pop it in my chair, fingers frozen to the keys? Think I'd prefer a pen in my hand. Could drop when I'm dancing.
Where has this come from after second chances? I'm drifing. Seems to be one of those days. Dull and grey outside. Going to edit. Mustn't let LC be dull and grey.

Cordoba Spain

I miss Cordoba. X

Heard on Radio 4 this morning that a female journalist was giving up her column in the Daily Mail because she is suffering from depression. She says that this modern illness is because women want it all, but the strain is too much. I'm paraphrasing.

Leaving Coty asks the question "Can we have it all?" I always thought it was about choice, juggling, deciding what is most important. I was talking to someone last night at the Writers' group and they said that once you can guess the author's viewpoint then you can guess which way the story is going to pan out. And that's not a good thing. I use different characters to represent different elements of the debate about having it all so I hope the reader doesn't guess which way Tessa goes.

I think having children is the factor that tips the balance. We had children and we wanted one of us to be there all the time they were growing up. For all but a couple of months here and there, we have managed it. And although we've not been able to have exotic holidays, flash cars, do up the house as we'd like, we don't regret our choice.

And that is it. Choice. If we feel we have no choice then I think that's where the trouble sets in. And once depression sets in, it's not something you just snap out of, it can take you down.

Expectation. Is that a problem about life today? Do we expect too much? What is enough to expect? Realistic? Sometimes it seems as though, if we got back to the basics, enjoying food, sleep, fresh air, touch, loving, then that would be enough. Not looking outward for approval but finding it in the close unit around us, in us. Getting a bit preachy here. Going to go. Such a big debate.

On another note, I have two bits I need to expand in LC, then back to the beginning for the edit. The end is in sight. I can't believe it. It is suddenly approaching. Exciting stuff. Must keep a tight rein on this. And not be lazy. If change is necessary, must make those changes.

Alan Sillitoe to Stan Barstow

Alan Sillitoe died at the weekend. He wrote Saturday Night, Sunday Morning amongst others. Last of the Kitchen sink authors? I heard the news on the radio this morning. A short piece on Radio Four. I didn't realise the french loved his work long before he was recognised here. They loved him for his writing, not the subject matter. He was seen from a young age as highly literary. And he left school at fourteen. That suggests that all is not lost if youngsters leave school early. But then they need some drive to see them through.

Big debate there.

As I said earlier, my final study for my degree, the english, not the drama part, was on Stan Barstow. Another Kitchen Sink writer. It's the passion that drew me. Feeling out of place with all those around you. Striving for something and succeeding in finding it or not. Frustration coming out as anger.

Definitely worth a read. Or would I prefer to read another of those novels on shopping? Can I debate that when I haven't read any? I think A Kind of Loving is pulling me that way.

Afterwards

It is hard to concentrate. I'm trying really hard, well, I'm trying to crack on with Leaving Coty. The end of the first draft is tangible. I can see it finished. And that will be such a good position to reach. I've had the revolationary moment for Coty. Tessa hasn't quite reached her one. Do I know what it is? I think so. It's like that word on the tip of your tongue. I'm not getting frustrated because I know it will come. Like the discovery in The Monster Belt of what happened to Jonty. That moment. Tessa's moment will be small. She is back in the vicinity of where it will happen, I just know it won't be in the obvious place. It won't be in Harrods' perfume hall, or at home or by her father's grave. It'll come from a stranger. Isn't this great? This is like when moments come to me in the bath. It's taking shape as I'm writing this. A stranger. And they are the one that sees in her what she hasn't seen but is what is the crux to her dilemma. Yipee. Now I won't be distracted by thoughts of Juba's show last week and the coming Samba Encontro in Cardiff, weekend after next, well, that is still buzzing in my body, but now I know where I'm heading. Coty is on track and well, that is one thing solved...now where does it happen?

Writing again.

I've been working on Leaving Coty again today after nearly three weeks of sewing costumes, rehearsing, Easter holiday visits, family stuff and sewing costumes for last Thursday's show at the RNCM.
Monday. Don't know how I feel. Restless. The writing has gone amazingly well considering the break. I started with typing up some changes, printing up what I had so I could read without a mess of crossings out and little stars and inserts etc. And I'm further on with the book than I thought. Hooray! Tomorrow I will be less distracted, less likely to check facebook and flickr and Youtube for photos and comments on the gig. Less likely to sit dreaming. Less likely to think if I have my life in order. I know I haven't.
But I do know I have to finish Leaving Coty soon. Very soon. I hope I've got the passion in there whilst reining it back, I hope I've said all I want to say. I hope. In fact, forget that. I'm not hoping, I'm working on it. Tessa is so far from getting things right. She's trying hard, wading in the mud, only realising near the end of the book that we think the world is full of what we want when in fact, it isn't full at all, it's only full if we say 'yes' to opportunities. If we let them go, the world is empty, but if we do take them, then yes, then it is full. Does that make sense? Or too cryptic?
It's simple in some ways for her. She is catholic, she follows certain rules and she believes in second chances. Not everyone does though. I'm trying to be honest in what happens. I like her very much. I feel for all of the characters. Environment can screw us all up and for that we can only look on at what people do.
I loved dancing last Thursday. I love dancing. But I'm so glad to have my writing.
Must find some pictures to show you...

Juba Do Leao and Christian Aid - RNCM

The main emotion, amongst many others, is thank you. Thank you to Christian Aid for all the work they do around the world to help people and for asking Juba do Leao to be the main focus of their fundraising event at the Royal Northern College of Music last night and to the fantastic RNCM staff who quietly looked after us so well. Thank you to the audience who, full of enthusiasm and tapping feet, danced and cheered and stood up and looked happy and gave us more energy that we could bounce back, to the gifted musicians, The Eblana String Trio who played so beautifully, for being part of a community like Juba do Leao, full of talent and kindness and flair and joy and exhuberance.... and for life for its unexpected opportunities and change and chances of happiness.
Last night's show was a blast of fast costume changes, beautiful solos, wild dancing, such happiness, heart searing singing and instrument playing and loud, amazing rhythms and finally, drum lifting...and Holly Prest for having this vision and drive and all looking so good.

I'm sure I've missed out loads, but I wanted to get down some words about last night. Full, full of emotion and pleasure.

Joy. Sparkling, bubbling joy.

Hasta luego, Espana

Sunday 14th of February. Seems so long ago to be writing about it now. Wet and turning light. Cold. Up at 5.30 am. Exciting. Dark. Showered and hair wash. Dress, finish packing. Large freshly squeezed orange and a weak cup of tea. Will be good to drink strong Yorkshire tea again. Left the flat at 6.30. Birds singing. Figures wandering home in fancy dress - revellers from the Cadiz festival.
Now here's something to be aware of: My ticket said the train left at 7.13 am (love how precise these times are) It was actually ready to pull away at 7.08. Moral: always be early.

I was in carriage 3, seat 3C. Massive seats, the biggest I've ever been in. Like mini-sofas. The only other people in the carriage were a father and daughter. He was spanish, worked as a pyschologist in Durham, his daughter (english mother) lives in Canterbury. Sarah was fifteen and had been staying with spanish relatives and attending the english school in Cordoba. He had been in England since he was twenty-nine years old. She hadn't been to Durham. What's the point? He loved Durham. We chatted the whole way, asking what I needed to know about Andalusians for my book, about the area.
We arrived in Malaga at 8.30am. Had a coffee at the bar in the shopping centre as I had when I arrived.
Has the trip been worthwhile? Yes. I've learnt so much. About Spain, the spanish, the Estevez family, about sherry, about Cordoba and Jerez. I like the people and the place very much indeed. I want to come back. I want to learn spanish, travel more. Travel is so breathtakingly good. I feel taller, more in me, more questions to ask, more experiences to embrace. The mind and spirit have grown a little bit more. X

The Last Supper

Up to the main shopping area, across the main square with our proud horseman, down towards the Roman Ruins and The Church of St. Peter's for a delicious, delicious, I think my favourite meal of plate after plate of fluffily fried prawns and glasses of light reflecting fino. Perfect mix. Prawns piping hot, fino icily cold. Prawns served with a dish of mayonnaise. I don't like fried food but this was perfectly cooked. The place was down a side street on the left after the main square, called La Garda? Guida? There's a tiny bar at the front, go through a doorway at the back on the right into a tiny two room restaurant, like a greasy spoon. All sorts of people, students, middle age, old age. All mixing and talking. Can't remember how may plates of prawns we ordered, but we had three finos each. Thirty euros. Fab. And brillinat waiters as is the norm here. Black trousers, white shirt, black jumper. Not young.
The tables had a little bell to press on the wall that rang at a box by the bar, so the waiters knew who needed attention. Service was swift and efficient. Piping and wires open to see on the ceiling and walls. Looks like it needs rewiring. Brilliantly run.
And stroll back through the old town in the dark.
Good night Cordoba. Thank you X

Final images of Jerez

Juxtaposition again of the police raiding a church.

Leaving Jerez

One of my 'building' ideas for the children's television series, "Bob the Builder" when I was writing for it, was to have to rebuild a chimney as a bush/large plant was growing out of the mortar between bricks. I was told that doesn't happen. Have a look at Jerez Cathedral.

I love European cities that are not 'hung up' as British cities seem to be that buildings have to be freshly painted, cracks filled, replastered, perfect to be habitable or even usuable. I love the mix, beautifully dressed people, all ages, coming out of decrepit looking buildings, doorways, staircases. Jerez is certainly not what we'd describe as well looked after, but it is so, so charming and people look happy. And the place is beautiful and worn and uncared for and draws you in. I'd go back, purply pink buses, who cares? Bleak as the sky was today, empty as the streets were, it showed it had life and charm that would erupt in the warmer weather.
Final look on the station.

Close ups

Click on the photo of the two Pied Pipers and you'll see the rats.
And I've laughed at how I've written about the people of Jerez being taller and more lean than the Cordobans and the picture of the Jerezian man and the little girl show two people not so tall and lean. Not sure Jerezian is a real word, but then my English tutor at University always commented how I had the habit of coining words. Don't want to let him down now.

Jerez residents.