Boob Pencil

Boring RSS Stuff

2007-10-11T09:17:00.001+01:00

I've just remembered that some people are still pointing their RSS readers at the old purpleocity location, so this post is partly for them: Boob Pencil has moved. This (I think) is the last post that will be visible from the old RSS feed. If you want to carry on getting Boob Pencil updates, you need to point your software at the new RSS feed, which is at http://www.boobpencil.co.uk/rss.xml.

For everyone else, can you tell me whether the new boobpencil.co.uk RSS feed is working? i.e. are you getting updated when I post new posts?

OK, for those of you who stuck your fingers in your ears at the first sign of tricknological jargon, you can take them back out now.

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Old York, London, Paris, Frankfurt!

2007-10-11T00:57:00.000+01:00

This week I have been mostly looking for IT contract work, having eyedrops put in my eyes, Doing Sums, Dreaming About The Future and dreaming about the future.

I've decided the obvious solution to all my money-earning woes is short-term software engineering contracts, and I'm not sure why I didn't think of this before. I guess I was a little bored of software engineering, but you know what they say about absence... after spending a day last week reading this site here, I got all nostalgic for my days of geekery and now I want to be a software engineer again. Just for a little while. Just while I earn a pile of dosh (it's SHOCKING what IT contracters get paid) And then I'll stop and be a novelist again. And that way I'll never get bored of either of them! Hurrah!

And in the meantime I might even get a publishing deal. Did I mention my book is going to Frankfurt? Well, it is. This weekend. Eek!

I had a lovely long telling-bone conversation with another writer-woman the other day, and she was full of praise and plaudits for my literary agent, who is also her literary agent, and apparently he's really rather good at this selling-books business, and blimey maybe he might actually sell my book too. But even if he does it'll take ages for any money to come through so I'll still need to do the short-term IT contract thing but still and all the same... ooh!

Oh, and today an optician put drops in my eyes and dilated my pupils and blinded me for three hours and it was really weird cos it made me feel like I was on drugs and made me realise how hard it is to see proper when your pupils are dilated and he looked at my eyes under a microscope and I have an area of pigmentation called a nevus (sp?) on my left retina and I was ever-so-slightly worried about it but it's OK and really it's just a freckle and I like the idea of having a freckle on my retina.

And that is all.

Oh, and I'm going to Paris! On Friday! To see a Chinese Opera! But I'm barely even aware of it cos I'm too busy being excited about Frankfurt.

And I'm going to York tomorrow. I'm only mentioning that so I can give this post the title it has. But never mind that, my book's going to Frankfurt.

Oh 'eck.

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From Track to Sky

2007-10-11T00:14:00.000+01:00

I went to a wedding on Saturday. It was a very nice wedding, and everybody had fun, and we sang and we danced, and... ah. Yes. I forgot about that.

You know how weddings always have A Wrong Bit somewhere along the way? Traditionally people have drunken fights, but if there aren't any pugilists on hand there's bound to be some kind of Dreadful Incident or other. Like the time my grandmother had an aneurism the day after my uncle's wedding, or the old lady that died at an Irish wedding my inlaws went to recently.

Well, at least nobody died. And my family are a bunch of pacifist academic liberals, so a fight was never likely. But although they're not in the habit of throwing fists about, they do rather like to throw elbows, knees and any other body part that's throwable when they're drunk and there's a dancefloor. And that was all great, until a 78-yr-old woman got in the way of one of the aforementioned body parts and got herself whacked across the dancefloor and into a radiator, which she hit rather spectacularly with her head and then lay there, unconscious for a while.

Of course, as soon as she came round the band started playing again, but she wasn't well enough to move, and although most people were happy to overlook the body at the edge of the dance floor and keep boogying, a Sensible Aunt intervened.

And so, we sat. On the edges of Glasgow on a Saturday night, waiting for an ambulance that didn't come for over an hour... but lo, it arrived! At the same time as the pre-booked taxis to take everybody back to the not-very-near hotel.

Ah well, what the heck. We all trooped back to the hotel and drank whisky and hot chocolate until 4am, and my several million cousins and I got more drunk and nattered about nothing in particular, and I wholeheartedly recommend it as a way of spending time on a Saturday night.

What I do not recommend, wholeheartedly or otherwise, is that you follow it by only 3.5 hours' sleep and an 8.5-hour train journey back to Manchester.

It would have been only six hours, were I not so spectacularly transportmentally challenged. Did I tell you about the time I got on a train just because it said it was going to Manchester, even though I'd only just left Manchester and was in fact on my way to Staffordshire? Or the time I got off the bus at the wrong place? Or the time I had flat tyres? Or the time I ran out of fuel when there was a panther on the loose? Or the other time I ran out of fuel, or the other one or the other one...

I'm not too bad at getting myself onto or into various forms of transport. The problem is that once I'm there, I assume my job is done. Such minor trifles as holding onto bus tickets, checking fuel gauges, paying drivers or changing trains go right out of my head.

On Sunday I did really well. I ordered a taxi, I got in it, I got out of it, I paid the driver, I stood on the correct platform, I got on the right train, I got off it again at the right place, I even managed to find the correct train-replacement-bus AND got off it again, and all with an hour to spare. This, I think, was my downfall. "Ooh," I thought. "A whole hour." A more travel-savvy person would have thought something more like, "Ooh, a whole fifty minutes plus ten minutes for finding and getting on the next train," but not me.

I looked at my watch a couple of times as the hour of departure drew near and thought, "No no, not time yet" and continued to read my book and munch my sandwich.

I had brought sandwiches with me, but they'd been in my bag over 24 hours and smelt a little suspect. And tasted slightly wrong too. But there was a little shop immediately opposite my seat, so that was OK. I really couldn't be bothered gathering all my belongings together and risk losing my seat into the bargain, so I turned to the man next to me and said, "Look, I'm just leaving this black rucksack here while I go into the shop. It's not a bomb."

Amazingly, he believed me.

(it wasn't a bomb)

So anyway, with two minutes to spare I gathered all my stuff up, went in search of a display, arrived just in time to see my train disappearing from the display, puzzled over it for a minute or two, asked a man, who said, "It's down the other end! Turn right, then left! You've got ten seconds!"

So I ran, really fast, and I huffed, and I dodged the stupid standing-staring people, and it was all right. The train was still on the platform.

"NO!" said a voice.

I ignored it.

"STOP!" said the voice.

I ignored it again. Probably some nutter-lady.

"THE DOORS ARE LOCKED! NO!" said the voice, in a tone you'd use if you were looking after a naughty child who kept doing something they weren't supposed to do. Somebody else's child. And you were somebody who really hated kids.

I turned to see a frowny-looking lady in a uniform, wagging her finger and being all cross with me for wanting to get on her train.

"But it's right there!" I said. "And I need to get on it!"

The train wasn't going anywhere. It was just standing on the platform. The guard was ambling up to the driver's cab. I looked at him appealingly. He raised his eyes sympathetically, but "NO!" said Nasty Lady again, and I stood there and watched helplessly as the train failed to leave and the doors failed to open and Horrible Pouty Woman glared at me like I was some kind of train-entering vandal.

And finally the train left, and I started to cry, and had to go and hide in the toilets and sob a little, or at least I would have done if there wasn't a long queue of doddering toilet-visitors all failing to understand the basic concept of putting-20p-in-a-slot and me standing well-behavedly in line behind them with tears falling down my cheeks but finally losing patience and shouting at some poor woman who was struggling to understand the big green arrow pointing which way she should go, "GO!" I screamed at her. "Through there! Now!" and she did and I did and then I hid in a cubicle and cried and hoped she guessed I wasn't quite feeling myself.

But then I realised I was in the middle of Edinburgh and it was two hours until the next train so I went and had a look at Edinburgh and cor blimey stone me, but what a beautiful city it is. I climbed something called the Scott Monument all the way to the top, despite being slightly too fat for the final staircase, and squeeezed myself out the top with a little pop! and admired the amazing views. And the sun was sunning and I felt a little better.

When I got on the next train, Big Old Meany Woman was there again, with her clipboard. I gave her a Hard Stare.

And then spent another 3.5 hours on trains and it was pretty grim to be honest.

Still, Edinburgh's nice.

___

Telling Stories

2007-10-10T23:58:00.000+01:00

I had a great day on Friday. I spent the afternoon rehearsing, and then in the evening I met up with one of my best friends and we went to a Manchester pub.

I was expecting a small group of people in a grotty pub back room. But I had forgotten how beautiful this particular pub is, and underestimated the popularity of my chosen activity. Even though I took it very seriously and spent a good couple of hours practising, I still thought my audience would be small, and didn't anticipate the stage, and the rows of chairs, and the large room packed out with discerning people.

Nor did I realise that there would be professionals performing before the amateurs took their turn. By the time the opportunity arose for the ordinary folk to have a go on the stage, I was ready to pull out. I could never compete. I'd be a flop. But I'd spent all that time practising...

Ah well, I thought. Serve me right if I have to eat a little humble pie and acknowledge my incompetence. "Excuse me," I said nervously to The Woman With The List, stuttering and swallowing my words. "I was wondering if maybe I could have a little go..."

They were very busy though. I thought they wouldn't be able to fit me in. Except they did.

"The trick is," advised the friendly professional beforehand, "to know when people are getting bored. If they look bored, just stop."

I stumbled up to the stage, started to introduce myself...

...and bloody hell, I think I was as surprised as anyone else. Instead of the nervous newcomer, needing a little encouragement on her first time, the stage worked its magic, the adrenalin took over and I was A Performer again.

I'd forgotten how stages affect me. I'd forgotten how much I love being in the limelight, how well I respond, what a consummate dyed-in-the-bone attention seeker I am.

I sang, I joked, I used silly voices, I watched them laugh and smile and catch their breath and I realised, this is something I can do. Will do, again and again. Will be paid to do.

I'm a storyteller.

Available for weddings, bar mitzvahs, corporate events, whatever.

And bloody hell, it ain't half fun.

___

Same Old Same Old

2007-10-04T23:29:00.000+01:00

Nothing's changed really. Same old obsessions.

Not pregnant. Want to be. Haven't a clue how I'll manage it if / when I finally get there. Sad about menstruation, which is also physically painful.

Terrified and excited about book. Might get sold, might not get sold, might not know for long time, might have to wait for ages to get any news. Obsessed. Trying not to be.

Worried about money. Running out of. Haven't earnt any since I was made redundant. Need to make a living. Can't decide what to do about it. Can't afford to wait and see what happens with book. Too many options, not enough confidence or motivation. Would rather stick head in sand.

Sometimes pleased with how varied my life is and how many different interesting things I get to do per week. Sometimes terrified by future prospects, or lack of. Happy one minute, sad the next.

In short: all over the fucking shop. Again.

[sigh]

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Felix Pics

2007-10-04T23:21:00.000+01:00

This was originally just a few links to some photos my dad sent me, which he'd put on facebook. I'm not a member of facebook and it didn't ask me to log in or enter any passwords or anything, so I assumed that if I could see them, so could everyone else.

I've tried putting using different links to see if that works, but if not I'm intrigued. How did facebook know I was me and not somebody else, when I all I did was follow a link from an email? Did the email somehow contain cookies? In which case, wtf? I don't like the sound of that!

I'm very interested to know whether the revised link works for non-Facebook members. Le me know in the comments box.

Three pictures of Felix (my son, 5 yrs old) up a tree, talking to my cousin Matthew at a family wedding, and on a car roof.

Awww.

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More Research

2007-10-03T12:01:00.000+01:00

Here is a great site refuting all the moon landing hoax theories.

Shame, that. I loved the idea of NASA creating such an enormously complicated hoax... but no. They really did just go and land on the moon instead. How boring of them.

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Research

2007-10-03T10:21:00.000+01:00

Well, I can now officially confirm that xkcd is very educational. He keeps mentioning stuff I haven't heard of, and then I have to go look it up. Like Godwin's Law, for example.

But anyway. Go have a look at this cartoon here and then come back and tell me about this "perpetual motion subculture" of which he speaks. I've never heard of it, and can't find any mention on Google...

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Ambition

2007-10-03T10:09:00.000+01:00

I had Big Plans for today.

And then I followed this link from Anna's site.

Oh well.

(this one is particularly good)

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Dylan Message Thing

2007-10-02T14:44:00.000+01:00

I found a link on Electric Katy's blog to this thing where you get Bob Dylan to send someone a message. I don't know if this link will work, but this is what I sent.

At first I thought that was the point - it's supposed to randomise your message, which makes it all so much more entertaining anyway. Then I realised I just filled it in wrong.

But anyway, it's a great service. I like. And in case the link above doesn't work, here's what Ally received:

DEAR ALLY
VERY
WOULD YOU
TO COME
WITH ME?
I LOVE YOU
MUCH
LIKE
TO THE THEATRE
LYO&S XXX

(I love you much like to the theatre, tee hee)

___

See if you can guess what I meant to say...

Insecurity

2007-10-02T12:17:00.000+01:00

I seem to remember saying in a previous post that once I've worked on a piece of writing I'm normally pretty confident about its quality.

I take it back! I'm racked with insecurity!

Ahem. And now I'm going to go watch more Coronation St. I love Coronation St.

___

Restless

2007-10-02T11:41:00.001+01:00

Well, at 3:45 this morning I finally sent off the latest revision of my novel to my agent. And now he's getting all the stuff ready to show it to publishers (UK, US and international) at Frankfurt Book Fair in less than a fortnight's time.

I've focused on little else for the last ten days, and today I simply can't sit still. The thing I'm really struggling with is letting go. This is it now. What I emailed last night, that's what will be shown to publishers. Or will it? Can't I edit it some more? Please? What if it's not good enough?

I've never had an agent sell my work before. I'm used to doing all the legwork myself, but now I have to sit back and leave the job for someone else. But... but... this is not easy for a control freak.

So, what shall I do today? I was at my desk from 8am to 4am yesterday; a 20-hour day with a two-hour break for childcare and dogwalking in the middle. I've earnt some time in lieu. So I could do as my agent suggested, and watch some daytime telly. Or read a book. I'm currently reading Nirvana Bites by Debi Alper and enjoying it enormously. Or I could sort out my tax return. Or write some blog posts. Or answer my emails. Or do some housework. My back is complaining about the amount of time spent at the computer in the last 48 hours, so yes, time away from the desk would be good...

I keep sitting down with something for ten minutes, then getting up and finding something else to do instead.

Maybe I should try and earn some money. That's not a bad plan...

But let's face it. Today is a wash-out. Indeed I don't hold out much hope for the whole of the next fortnight, and I bet you 20p I'll be back and editing that book again within days. I just can't leave it alone.

And then... Frankfurt! Editors hearing about my book!

What if someone buys it?

What if they don't?

The most likely scenario is that various people express an interest at Frankfurt, and then in the weeks and months afterwards they read the ms and ponder, and chat, and ponder some more...

So, more waiting then.

I'm used to that. I can do waiting. And in the meantime I'll watch Coronation St. No, read Debi's book. File my tax return. Go for a walk. Find some work.

Anyone fancy a trip to the cinema??

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Swimmingly

2007-10-01T22:13:00.000+01:00

Just a quick note...

I've been working dead hard and am very proud of myself. I used a combination of methods and will write it all up in due course, but for now I'm still frantically trying to get a new revision of the book ready for my agent, and (thank all deities) am being very productive and hardly procrastinating at all at all. And to prove it I shall now go away.

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Getting the Fear

2007-09-26T11:19:00.000+01:00

There's this thing that I do, and I've done it for a long time now. Well actually, it's something I don't do. But anyway. Here's the thing.

Sometimes when I'm faced with a piece of work, I won't do it. I'll do anything but. I'll make a cup of tea, go to the loo, surf the web, check my emails, surf the web some more... you get the picture. When I was a software engineer I would do all these things rather than write software. When I'm Being A Writer, it's the writing I'm avoiding. I do it a LOT, and it drives me mad.

The only significant insight I've had about it is that it's about fear. If I try and force myself to do the thing I'm avoiding doing, I start getting all the symptoms of anxiety. I seem to be terrified of making a mess of it, so rather than risk that, I avoid doing it at all.

The only surefire cure I've ever come up with is gritting my teeth and getting on with it. And the irony is that when I finally do get on with it, I feel immensely better. But still, after doing a chunk of work and feeling better, I go away from my desk for a piss or whatever, and then when I return... it starts all over again.

Here are some not-very-helpful facts:

1. Despite knowing that doing the work makes me feel better, and despite having this proved time and again, I still can't make myself do it.

2. Despite being apparently fearful that what I produce will be utter rubbish, I've had it proved to me many times that I do NOT produce rubbish. I'm actually rather good at the work that I do. And to further compound this apparent conundrum, once I've finished a piece of work and offered it to the world, I rarely have insecurity about what people think of it. I know I've done my best, and if they don't like it, well, not everyone can like everything, can they?
So why the hell am I so paralysingly terrified of producing poor work at the start of the process?

3. My brain is a wily beast. The process is rarely conscious. I don't think to myself in the morning, "Oh my God, the prospect of work is terrifying me so I'm going to do something else instead." No, I just quietly think, "Ah yes, here we are on another day. Good. I'll get to that in a minute. I just want to..." As the day wears on I become more and more aware that I haven't actually done any work yet, and more and more convinced that I will, in a minute, just after I've... whatever. Although the fear and the desperation does become less subconscious and more bloody apparent as the hours tick by (and takes the form of an internal dialogue: "For heaven's sake, just do some work!" "No. Don't want to." "But it'll make you feel better." "No no no, I won't I won't." "But why?" "Lalala, I can't hear you...").

It's number 3 that's the bugger. People have made various suggestions to me over the years, for ways I might beat this thing. Little exercises I could do, or incentives I could offer myself, all of which would be fine if I were consciously avoiding work, rather than believing wholeheartedly that there isn't really a problem and I am about to start work any minute.

And yes, if I'm honest that's been my major problem so far this week. I'm supposed to be working, and I'm not. And it's making me miserable. Although, hyperanalytical being that I am, I don't know whether my non-workingness is as much a symptom of some deeper malaise as it is the cause of the malaise... argh. Going round in circles.

So anyway, here's the thing: I will feel better if I do some work. But I'm not doing any work. So how can I make myself do some work?

That thing mentioned in number three above, that denial of the problem, coupled with this very deep-rooted urge to avoid doing work at any cost, has made me less than effective at putting people's suggestions into action in the past. But here's my promise: If you make suggestions to me, of ways I might beat this thing, I will promise to try VERY HARD to implement them, and not do that other thing I do, of being all superior and thinking things like "Pah, heard that one before, I don't need to do that and anyway it'll never work". I will pick one suggestion per day, and do it. And see if I can find something that works, that I can use again in the future. Or maybe just a whole bag of tricks that I can try one at a time every time I get stuck in one of these ruts.

But for now, I'm going to go back to the one I normally use, which works, eventually, for a bit: I'm going to grit my teeth and bloody well get on with it.

I'll just make myself a cup of tea...

___

That Is Not All

2007-09-26T09:19:00.000+01:00

...except that's not all. While I'm here I may as well do a catch-up post.

I confess I'm having one of my what's the point? periods with respect to blogging, and I further confess it's been fuelled by my dramatic drop in visitor numbers. This blog was apparently more popular than it had ever been six months ago, with visitors coming out of its ears. I suspect that was down to a combination of factors - people linking to me and me having Something Dreadful Happen being the biggest. And then recently my blog fell off the face of the planet when Purpleocity got sick, and that lost me several readers, but it was already unpopular by then.

And all right then, I admit it. The quality's not been great here lately. I don't know why. It's partly about time - I keep having great ideas for blog posts but no time to write them, but... well, my life has been far busier than this in the past and I've still found time for good blogging. Maybe that's it. Now that I'm a full time writer I don't have that hunger to write in whatever small moment I can find. I'm sated.

And then I wander around the blogosphere as I have been doing this morning, and, bloody hell, there are so many good writers out there. Why in hell am I attempting to compete, both as a blogger and a professional writer? Shouldn't I just bow out and leave the field to the really talented ones?

Well, anyway. I'm still here. Not sure why, but I am.

In other news my week in Andalucia seems to have dropped some big stones in my pond and left a few ripples, even though I'm struggling to define what or how or why. And in the meantime I'm supposed to be rewriting Act III of My New Book. Although it feels pretty much like an old book by now, seeing as I've been thinking about or writing it for three years, and... oh, all right then, that's partly it too. I promised my agent I'd have a Version Ready For Showing To Publishers by the end of the week, and I'm bricking it.

Or maybe not. Maybe not feeling scared so much as... bemused. Can this really be it? Am I finally at the point where my book will be shown to publishers? I've had so many false starts, it's hard to have any real faith. And then what? Will somebody buy it? Will they pay me enough money for me to start work on another straight away, rather than glance at my bank account, go "Oh, fuck!" and rush about trying to get people to pay me to write stuff, any stuff, just please-will-somebody-give-me-money?

And the worst of it is, it'll probably be weeks before I know the book's fate. Weeks of feeling rather vague and thinking I probably-ought-to-be seeking out income, but I also probably-ought-to-be editing and making this book The Best Book Ever.

I don't feel very dynamic, that's the thing. I feel like I'm lying in the dark, sweating and flapping a fan about feebly, waiting for someone to open the door and say, "Here you are! We've been looking for you! Come with us, we have a new life for you ready and waiting."

Hmmm. Who's going to open the door?

___

People Who Don't Blog... But Should

2007-09-26T09:09:00.001+01:00

I just discovered this blog, which I love.

That is all.

___

Do They Think What I Think They Think?

2007-09-24T13:55:00.000+01:00

I've never been a shy person. I’ll happily march unaccompanied into large groups of strangers, and don't worry in advance about how things might go.

It's afterwards that the doubts creep in. When I analyse the events of the day and wonder why this person didn't laugh at my joke, or what on earth possessed me to say that to someone else.

And so here I am, thinking back over the week I just spent on a yoga and meditation retreat in Andalucia. And instead of remembering the blue skies, the yoga on the rooftop with stunning mountain views in the background, the incredible thunderstorm, the lizards and wild boars or the glorious food, I pick over the less successful of my social interactions.

Not the shared hugs or laughter, the moments of intimacy or the entertaining tales of interesting people's lives. No, I think about the time when I heard laughter and went to seek its source, only to find a small group of people engrossed in a conversation I couldn't join. At first I tended to my own business and left them to theirs, but then I sidled closer and made myself available to be included. Except that I wasn't, so I drifted away again. Apparently nonchalant, but feeling ostracised.

And it didn’t stop there. Once I'd given up and removed myself altogether, I started to stew. Did they ignore me? Were they purposefully cruel? Did they hate me? Did they laugh about me behind my back?

Did they find me irritating and transparent? I've been there myself: Happily enjoying a conversation when a new person arrives, someone who isn’t party to the things we discuss. But they hover and look hopeful and I think, argh, come on. You can’t be part of everything. Take your blatant requirements elsewhere.

Naked need makes everyone uncomfortable.

Or maybe they had no thoughts at all, took my presence at face value, assumed I would understand that the discussion was about things I knew nothing about, and therefore why should I be included?

This is the most likely interpretation, particularly when you know how I’ve edited events. I wasn't ignored. There were various small interactions with me, pleasant ones, friendly ones, ones which I choose to forget.

But I liked these people, and I wanted them to like me too. Approve of me, seek me out as their friend. Because although they weren’t unpleasant, they bonded with others more than me. And that's just the way life is. And what about the conflict between my desire to make friends and my need for my own space? The fact that I kept disappearing and sitting on my own with a book? The pre-emptive strikes, when I assumed I was going to be excluded so removed myself before it could happen? Maybe people thought I was stand-offish, or that I was rejecting them?

Another time, we arrived together in a place but they quickly moved away. They walked ahead, but they were still visible, still within reach. What to do? Pretend / assume it was an accident and chase after them? Melt away on a different path? I caught up with them. There were some awkward moments, until finally I excused myself. Alone, I brooded again. Did I imagine it? Was there a sigh of relief when I left?

I found myself a seat and sat down, and angsted and stewed some more, until I was crying, alone, in public. Torn between grief at my loneliness, frustration at my hypersensitivity, anger at their insensitivity, confusion at what the hell just happened and who thought what and who did what and wasn't I just being silly and stupid, all over again? I wanted them to return and find me like that, to realise what they’d done (What? What did they do?), for it all to be resolved in a giant hug. I thought about passive aggression, something I've often been accused of and always struggled to define.

One of the messages repeated throughout last week was, "Be kind to yourself." But how should I do that without sinking into self-indulgence? Would it be kind to tell myself, never mind, they're not worth it? Or to say, you imagined the whole thing? Or you're not stupid, you're just human?

It's bloody complicated sometimes, this being human lark.

I'm coming back as a pig.

___

Back

2007-09-23T23:08:00.000+01:00

Last night airport security staff confiscated and destroyed my 22-yr-old sentimental-value-and-also-immensely-useful Swiss Army penknife.

This morning I discovered Felix and I have heads overrun with lice - just the latest infestation to add to a house full of mice, a snatch full of thrush and a foot full of verruca. This afternoon I ran out of fuel and had to push the car off a busy road.

Oh, and the dog has cut her foot again.

Still, Andalucia was beautiful and I'm glad to be back.

But what with only getting eight hours sleep in the last three days and having a week of busy-manic work ahead, I may leave the detailed explanations till later. Much later.

[scratches head]

[stumbles into bed]

___

Girls' Fun - Part Twenty-Three

2007-09-14T21:30:00.000+01:00

[I'm transcribing edited highlights of a diary I kept when I was 15 / 16 years old, in 1985. Index here.]

[For previous instalment, see here]

Mon 27th May, 1985 (Young Clare is 15 years old)

HALF TERM.

Am still pining over Philip. How very adolescent I’m being!
Spent morning tidying, baking a cake etc cos in afternoon Sally came round. We sat around talking for a while, then went out for a bike ride. Weather wasn’t bad, and all started off fine, then we started to argue. But then we calmed down and managed the rest of the bike ride in amicability and peace. It chucked it down on the way back. We did 16 miles. I’m not very tired but I am a bit.

Tue 28th May, 1985

Got up early and revised til 2.30, so when Rach appeared (she rang last night and arranged for us to go into town) I pretended it was a surprise and she was asking me if I wanted to at that moment, and Mum let me. Rach’d brought Matt with her, which was a surprise.
Anyway, spent all afternoon in town. Rach was shopping for clothes, and so was Matt, and both of them will only trust my opinion and not each other’s, and got fed up traipsing round to each other’s shops and started bickering a lot, leaving me in the middle. V. AWKWARD as it meant Matt would only take any notice of me, and treated me with preference, and considering I’m his ex….. v. awkward.
Also he kept flirting with me and saying ‘Give us a kiss’ (I didn’t). The upshot is I’ve decided never to go into town with those two again, especially as I find it hard to resist his flirtations, and also when they made it up later, I ended up gooseberrying while they snogged on a bench, plus the fact that I still fancy Matthew, so I got jealous, all v. dodgy and delicate.
Babysat for Mum’s friend Caroline in evening. Felt melancholia descend as I realised I haven’t seen or heard from Philip for a FORTNIGHT!

Wed 29th May, 1985

Was a lovely sunny day today. Mum hogged garden most of time but when she didn’t I lay in sun pretending to revise. All day got hardly any revision done – didn’t even start til 2, and stopped at 6 – was v. depressed and feeling sorta dull all day, mooning over Philip, and wondering how long my feelings would last this time, and thinking how awful it was that it would never be out in the open, and I’d never know what he really thinks and feels about it.
Sally rang in afternoon. I’ve been willing Philip to ring and jumped about 2 feet in the air every time the phone rang. Have decided to ring Philip tomorrow on some pretext or other. A fortnight without Philip is just too long. I’ll get his record back from Matt on Fri and take it round to his house.

Thurs 30th May, 1985

Lay in beautiful gorgeous BOILING sun all day, managing to get a good few hours before Mum arrived, and then moving on to other lawn when she did. Tried to do a bit of Physics revision, but was too sleepy cos of sun.
Rang Philip in evening and played him the tape of himself. ‘You witch!’ he said (friendlily). Played him tape I made of John too. Ha ha!
Unfortunately lay on my stomach all day so backs of legs are RED and nowhere am I brown.

Fri 31st May, 1985

Had to get up v. early today cos had to be at Browns for babysitting at 8.15am! Felt v. groggy as went to bed quite late last night. Suzie was at a friend’s so was only Kate to look after, PLUS 4 KITTENS and TWO CATS! Gorgeous! Sat in sun a lot of time, but aren’t any redder or any browner.
One of the cats was borrowed, apparently, and shitted all over the kitchen. Pooh!
Got payed £8, but apparently grandparents coming on Monday so they won’t need me, so I won’t get the money I expected! So spent most of evening planning different ways of getting money to buy gorgeous clothes I saw on Tuesday and last Sat.
Mum PAID me to do 1.5 hours revision! But I read a funny book. Didn’t revise (much).
Yesterday on phone first thing Philip did was ask after O-levels. Ain’t that sweet?

Sat 1st June, 1985

Got up v. early again and felt v. groggy again and mowed lawn, trimmed edges, watered and weeded all morning, and Dad paid me by the hour. ’Nother gorgeous day, and eventually put mini-skirt on and went into town with Rachel with all £25 of my well-earned money and bought GORGEOUS shorts with braces, GORGEOUS T-shirt with pink silky girl on front, GORGEOUS pink blouse cum jacket and GORGEOUS pink lace for hair. Wore everything all evening, cooked and felt GREAT.
Two gorgeous boys followed me and Rach but I wasn’t in the mood.

Sun 2nd June, 1985

I told Rach yesterday that I didn’t ever want to go into town with her and Matt again but just told her it was because I was boyless and she wasn’t and it made me jealous and I didn’t like being a gooseberry. Didn’t mention I fancy Matt, though.
Carefully arranged myself in the sun all day from 10 in morning to about 6, splashing sun-tan lotion wot Mum bought me at intervals and also doing quite a bit of Physics revision. It paid off! My arms are a GORGEOUS deep brown; I look foreign! Back of my neck too. Legs are red again but look as though they might turn brown.
Forgot to mention me and Rach saw Sharon and Sally’s bruv yesterday. Stopped and talked about nowt in particular. Still think he’s gorgeous.
Had a stupid idea to visit Mike on Thurs, cos dreamt about him last night. Will probably do it, too. Silly me.

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Blog-Squat

2007-09-14T15:31:00.000+01:00

Marie Phillips has recently made her blog Subscriber Only after some unwanted attention in the wake of her book deal, which is a shame cos she just wrote a hilarious post which I wanted to nominate for Post of the Week, but couldn't cos her blog was subscriber-only... so she's agreed I can copy it here for PotW purposes. So, without further ado, I bring you Marie Phillips, squatting on my blog*.

"I thought the meaning of life was writing. It isn't. It's Prince.

Prince is a very good example of how to get it right, and when I next have a reading, which I believe will be at The Ivy House pub in Peckham (tbc, as they say) I will be doing it just like Prince. Before I am even in the building I will play a long video featuring lumanaries from my line of work plus, for no good reason, Salma Hayek, talking about how great I am, how incredibly talented and how much better I am at reading and writing than anyone who has ever been, or ever will be born. I will then arrive in a cloud of smoke through the floor of my custom-built stage - I don't have my own symbol (sad oversight) but it will be in the shape of my iconic signature, MaPhilps - accompanied by two unbelievably lithe and sexy scantily clad twin females who can do the splits and that really hard one from yoga when you lie back between your own legs, but (it is most unfortunate) will have little use for that move where they play air-guitar using their own legs as the guitar. When I begin to read, enormous bouncers will roam the audience threatening anyone who so much as looks at their camera phone with dismemberment - this show is for your memories after all. I will be FUNKY. I will read all the best bits from my book plus a lot of good bits from other people's books, and a few really bad bits from other people's books, which I will read very badly while my twin dancers fight each other with pink plastic light-sabres (look, I know it sounds like I am making this up, but I'm not.) Then we will break it down. I will retreat to one corner of my custom-built stage and read a medley of bits from my blog, some classics and a few boring bits that you have forgotten. This will go on for slightly too long. Then we will bring it up again! I will read some excellent passages from my novel that will get you super-excited before breaking off quite obviously before having finished and disappearing down into my custom-built stage. Then I will wait for bloody ages while you clap. Then I will come back up through the stage in a new outfit and read some really great bits of other people's books from the seventies. I will do this in a way that is FUNKY. I will end by reading some of the greatest moments from my novel, before disappearing into a cloud of smoke with the words "Take some time to get to know God." (This will be more appropriate for me than for Prince. I might say "Gods" instead of "God".) You will clap and go wild. But I am not coming back. I am not coming back. Those rumours you've heard of me coming back are just rumours. I am not coming back. The house lights will come on. I am not coming back. Half of you will go home. I am not coming back. Just when you are almost sure that I am not coming back, I will play a cackle of maniacal laughter over the PA system so that you know that I am coming back. But I am not coming back. I am not coming back. But hang on, what's this, a bunch of roadies wheeling in a suspiciously Marie-sized flight case? I AM BACK! BACK IN A BOX! I will come out of the box. Now I will read the best loved bits of my book which I haven't read yet to the accompaniment of an excellent FUNKY keyboard that plays the best loved bits of my book at the touch of a button. I will bask in the ego-pumping glory of your screams of joy. And then I will get back in the box and the box will be wheeled away. DO NOT TOUCH THE BOX. Now I'm really not coming back, but some of you will have paid a fortune to get into an after-party that I might have turned up at. This won't be sensible, because I am not going there either. I will be somewhere else, somewhere mysterious. The rest of you will spend seventeen hours trying to get home from one of the least well-served places on earth for public transport, but I won't care. My name is Marie. And I am FUNKY."

*That rather makes it sound as though she's using my blog as a toilet or a place to practice her yoga. She isn't. At least, I hope she isn't.

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Ooh & Argh

2007-09-14T13:29:00.001+01:00

Ooh! "My agent" had a meeting with two editors yesterday and mentioned my book and they liked the sound of it!

Ooh! I've just seen a mock-up of a kids' book I'm doing in collaboration with e friendly artist and I really like it!

Argh! I've spent all day being writerly and not actually writing anything!

I'm off to Spain tomorrow for a week. I'll stick up another Girls' Fun post to keep you going (I transcribed several at once in a fit of procrastination a few weeks ago).

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New Feminists

2007-09-13T13:47:00.001+01:00

Very funny piece here ripping the piss out of Observer Woman's attempt to "do" feminism...

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Scared Again

2007-09-13T11:37:00.000+01:00

Argh.

I'm at that stage again, needing to write, scared to write. It might be rubbish. I might fail.

It makes no sense. How will I know unless I try?

Pah.

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But it Huuuuuuurts

2007-09-10T11:40:00.000+01:00

Look, I know I'm the queen of prorastination and a hypochondriac and all that, but I really am having difficulty concentrating today due to this almighty bloody blistery boily GIANT insect bite on my right-back-upper thigh and the fact that I have to SIT on it all the fucking time and it HURTS.

I can't even use one of those polo-shaped cushions people use for piles (not that I have one anyway) cos the sore bit is right on the part that would have contact with the cushion.

There's now a sore swollen red patch all around the bite with a diameter of 10cm, and ow ow ow ow OW.

And every time I get up or sit down again, it just gets worse. And it hurts to walk. And I'm convinced it'll stop me going to Spain or stop me from doing yoga or get all infected and manky while I'm away so that I have to have my leg amputated in Spain.

Does anyone know if the Spanish are any good at amputations?

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The Girl in the Cafe

2007-09-10T01:20:00.000+01:00

A DVD of The Girl in the Cafe - a film starring Bill Nighy and Kelly Macdonald - has been circulating blogland, in an attempt to bring it to a wider audience. You receive it, you watch it, you review it, you pass it on. Last week was my turn.

What I loved about this film was its slow subtlety. There's not a lot of action, and yet it always held my attention. The performances are understated and the characters are self-effacing, but you want the protagonists to get together and it's gorgeous when they do. I'm a sucker for a love story, particularly one as beautifully teasing as this.

There were some lovely little moments: there was a misunderstanding with some "small towels" (flannels), I clapped my hands with glee when they finally kissed, and I loved the less-is-more-ness of the female lead's back story being barely touched upon. Nothing happens, but so much happens.

And then there's the politics. Hmmm. Y'see, I'm so much more of a cynic about politics than I am about love. It was a lovely message, and everyone loves an underdog, and worms that turn, and Innocent Small People standing up to Corrupt Big People and all that, but come on. Did it really tell us anything we didn't already know? And was it even slightly believable or possible? Of course not. The British politicians were painted far too sympathetically at the end of the film (sorry, but they really aren't that nice and don't have that many scruples), and there was a ludicrous naivete about the whole thing.

As for its intention as a piece of propaganda, I find that slightly mystifying. Surely it should have some message, some suggestion, for what people can do to help the cause of Make Poverty History (millions of people all over the world are dying because of poverty, and Western leaders have the power to help, by cancelling 3rd world debt and generally not being money-grubbing bastards)? And yet in the film, the demonstrators outside the G8 are barely mentioned, and instead it appears that everything rests in the hands of this one sweet woman who has found herself, by accident, in the presence of international politicians. Hardly a followable strategy for the rest of us.

So. Politically it was a bit pants to this old cynic, but dramatically... well, viewed purely as a work of art or a piece of entertainment, I loved it and it made me cry.

So there you go. I definitely recommend it. If you want to join in and review the film yourself, just go here.

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