Oh God

I was going to blog about lots of stuff today as I have oodles to catch up on, as kids have just gone back to school. But I've just seen on aol that Jane Tomlinson has died, and it's taken the wind out of my sales a bit. I will be back, but probably tomorrow now.

If you have never heard of her, she was a wonderful, amazing, courageous woman who on being told that she had terminal cancer seven years ago took herself off the gym and started training, first for marathons, then for triathlons, Iron Man and the like, raising millions of pounds for charity along the way.

As a rather crap runner and putative triathloner, I have always found her story immensely inspiring.

My heart goes out to her family, particularly her husband who has been an amazingly stalwart support. He must be feeling so bereft.

Bugger. Isn't life crap sometimes?

WF Deedes 1913-2007

So farewell then (in the great Private Eye tradition) Dear Bill...

I'm not given to feeling sad when people I only know through the column of a newspaper die, but I have to confess to feeling terribly sad about the demise of the late great columnist, WF Deedes.

Long before I started reading WF Deedes in the Telegraph I knew all about him - or I thought I did. This is mainly because I like most of my contemporaries read Private Eye in the 80s and roared with laughter over the Dear Bill letters. It was only many years later when I started to read the Daily Telegraph that I discovered what a good egg he was.

(There I've admitted it, I read the Torygraph. I shall now have to go to therapy - to most of my more left wing pals admitting that is tantamount to saying you are somewhat to the right of Ghengist Khan. My natural inclination is actually to read both sides of the political spectrum, but Spouse reads the DT, and I never get round to buying the paper. Thanks to the internet and the very brilliant bloggers around and about like Dave Hill at Temperama and Political Umpire on Fora, I do get more then my required daily fix of both sides of the fence, which allows me to sit just where I belong, firmly in the middle, but that, as they say, is another story.)

Anyway, I am grateful to Spouse for introducing me to the Torygraph, because among other things for the past ten years or so I have regularly read and enjoyed WF Deedes column. He was amazingly a journalist for over 70 years. Until two years ago he regularly travelled the world covering stories in all sorts of war torn places most of us wouldn't dare to go to. He was a humane, just and compassionate man, who wrote with searing honesty of the evils he saw in the world, yet retained the most incredble optimism in the face of man's inhumanity to man. At times of great crisis, as for instance after 9/11, he was capable of raising the spirits by pointing to the simple things in life, frequently finding comfort in nature. I for one will mourn the coming of Spring without his wonderful descriptions of the flowers in the hedgerows et al.

His was a remarkable life. Not only did he start his journalistic life in Ethiopia in 1931, but he was also a war hero, an MP and minister and the editor of the Daily Telegraph to boot. It is a cliche, but, they really don't make em like that anymore. Though a decade older then my father and fil, he represents all that was truly great and noble about their generation.

And he was the inspiration not only for Dear Bill, but William Boot in Scoop (which I read long before I even knew who Bill Deedes was). That I think is a really neat trick. To be immortalised not just once, but twice in print.

He apparently carried on working till pretty much the end, filing his last copy two weeks before he died. It was a typically forthright piece on the evils of the conflict in Darfur, which he likened to Nazi Germany. Given that he saw the effects of both, I think he is better placed then most to make that judgement, and it is one I totally agree with. Darfur is indeed a stain on humanity's conscience. I wonder if we'd hear more about it if it was a war being waged by white supremacist religious bigots against almost anyone else?

If you want to read it in full you can here:

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/opinion/main.jhtml?xml=/opinion/2007/08/03/do0308.xml

Remarkable last words, from a remarkable man, who led a remarkable life.

He will be much missed. Not least by me.

Holiday Snaps

Well as requested by lovely Bec (and who am I to refuse lovely Bec?), here are some holiday snaps.

There is a reason why I don't post pics on this blog very much. Apart from the fact that I don't really want photos of my sprogs on the internet, I am also so technologically inept it takes me forever and a day to get pics up. It doesn't help that currently my main computer is not linked to the internet, and I have had to download the pics onto it and transfer them across. Somewhere in the process several photos stubbornly refused to copy so it has taken me over an hour, and I haven't got all the pics up that I wanted to. Still for what it's worth here they are...


We were staying in the resort of Cala en Porter on Menorca, and our beach looked like this...

We went to visit some caves where by day you can have a nice drink staring at the views, and by night it is a nightclub. Hmmm. Having looked over the edge at the scary drops I'm not sure I'd fancy being pissed as a newt there...

Down the road from where we were staying, there was a bar with some fantastically tacky tribute bands. The Horde were very taken with this lot. (Having been brought up to the dulcet tones of Dancing Queen, this is perhaps not surprising...)

We went to visit these horses...

Who did this....

Am I alone in worrying about the state of their joints?


Every night we had a visit from this little fella - who we named Gordon the Gekko. Although we thought we'd killed him on our last night, as he leapt on the blind to escape us and fell off. He did a very good impression of a lizard playing dead, and then to our relief scooted away into the corner. Gordon no doubt was even more relieved the next day that we'd gone home.

And these last two photos are here in honour of a friend, who started Spouse and the kids off on this little pastime. Thanks to an obsession with dragon making that started on a beach in Bournemouth, everywhere we go they all have to build dragons. I could have joined in, but I used the opportunity to go for a swim instead.

So meet Horrormouse... He's rather fine isn't he?

He created a lot of interest on the beach, and Dumdad, you will be amused to know that hordes of Menorcans came to take photos of the kids standing by their creation, and nary a one asked me if I minded. Back home they'd have to be police checked and filling forms in triplicates

As we left four little Menorcan boys were hopping around Horromouse taking no notice of this plaintive plea left by no 1 (it reads, Horrormouse, Do Not Tread On Him, if you were wondering). I have a feeling his demise came fairly soon after our departure....

A final word to my friend (also one of my longest standing readers).... Let Horrormouse be the gauntlet, and battle commence.

Do let us know what you can conjure up!

Stop Press!

I have some important news about this....

Rather then being published on 3 September as I thought, the pub date has been put back to the end of November.

Pub dates are funny things as they attain a not unnaturally huge significance in the minds of an author and their family and friends, and yet they are often chosen rather arbitarily/shunted about because of factors beyond the author's control.

Apparently the crap summer has meant that summer reads haven't been read, and everyone's anticipating a late September rush (How Climate Change Affects The Publishing Industry - you heard it here first!), soooo my poor little newbie debut title risks being swamped (scuse the pun) and washed away.

The plan now is to bring it out just before Christmas, a less crowded time in the publishing schedule where it has more chance of making an impact.

It is at times like this I really really appreciate having worked in publishing and understand the vagaries of this often strange world.

I might be feeling more anxious if I hadn't had the experience of publishing a fantasy list (also ironically in September), which was welcomed with open arms by booksellers who overbought the stock, only for them to send most of it back when it didn't sell through. The list never recovered, and to my frustration despite having some wonderful books in it, sales thereafter were never as good as they could be.

I am more therefore more then content to hang fire for a couple of months to avoid that happening to my book.

Besides, it gives me more time to work on my website, progress on which has rather stalled over the summer.

And luckily my book is pretty seasonal so it doesn't matter too much when it comes out. In fact... as my premise at the start is that the heroine is in a wintry state emotionally, and the first two songs I used for inspiration are Forever Autumn (for her) and California Dreamin' (for him), I think it works out better probably. Of course, this does mean the poor beleagured designer who's already gone through lots of hoops to get this fetching cover has to do some more tinkering to make it fit the wintry theme - if ever I owe someone a drink, I think it is probably him/her - but I think all in all it will probably work out for the best.

Although I will admit, I have the feeling at the moment that I am standing on a precipice, and I don't think I quite dare look down....

PS - googling as myself, as once you become a nearly published author one is egotistically inclined to do, I realised that I am now officially up on the Avon site. So if perchance you are interested in me and my little literary effort, click here to find out more.

http://www.avon-books.co.uk/pastures_new.aspx

Gods Behaving Badly

I am pleased to say I have finally got around to reading this:

This tiny little cover doesn't do it justice in the slightest.

Although from a practical point of view I prefer reading paperback books, I have a weakness for hardbacks that dates back to my early days in publishing when I worked in the production department. I love hardbacks; the beauty of a clean hardback case, the wonderful feel when you crack open the spine. I always feel I've got a real book in my hands in a way I don't with a paperback.

And on that front Gods Behaving Badly doesn't disappoint. The jacket looks and feels gorgeous. It's got matt lamination, spot varnishing, embossing - all the tricks of the design trade which done badly can go horribly awry, but which have been used here for a simple and glorious harmony. Not only that the hardback case is a stylish black with (my favourite) gold blocking on the spine. (In my production days when we were bored we'd eschew black for the wildest most garish colours we could think of, but really, nothing beats black and gold I don't think). And best of all it's got endpapers - my favourite bit of a hardback - and they too are utterly gorgeous.

Before you've even opened a page you feel this is going to be a wonderful experience.

And it is.

It's always a bit of a worry when something is hyped as much as GBB has been, that it might be a disappointment. I didn't think it would be. I've read the opening chapters, I've read Marie's blog. Like I said before I went on holidayI am sure this is going to be huge. But still... There's always that smidgeon of worry, and I so wanted to like it.

Happily I can report, that I didn't just like it, I absolutely loved it. Marie's squabbling gods are hilarious. The plot is rollocking. Her hero and heroine are fab - I couldn't help but fall for a hero who secretly reads the sorts of books where a man presses his lips against a woman before ravaging her - and the whole conceit of the book is so clever and funny. I'm happily not given to jealousy about other writers, but if I had a book I'd like to have written, this would definitely be it.

I'm not going to do any spoilers, but I particularly enjoyed the idea that Angel Tube station (a place I used to use regularly when I was younger) is in fact the entrance to the Underworld. Neil, the hero reminded me of both Martin Freeman in The Office and Simon Pegg in Shaun of the Dead - he is utterly unlikely but turns up trumps. I am in love with him completely. And Alice, the self effacing heroine, also quietly turns out to have hidden depths.

Gods Behaving Badly is a wonderful wonderful book, thoroughly deserving of its hype. I can't wait for her next one...

Mattel Recall

Oh shit.

My house is full of Polly Pocket.

No 3 is really going to love when I tell her it's all gotta go...

Talking of holidays...

No 1 couldn't sleep tonight and came downstairs, just as I was off to bed (Spouse had long since gone). We were having a bit of a chat about stuff, and then she mentioned that she and no 2 make up stories about one of our photo albums from a holiday we had in Crete in 1992. God knows why...

Anyway, she went to get the album and I said, let me tell you what really happened. Suddenly. There I was. Much younger. Much slimmer. On a great (and from memory wildly drunken) holiday in Elounda, in Crete. It had all the elements that a good holiday should have. Sun, sea, alcohol and most importantly it was spent with good friends.

Looking at those pictures again. I'm bloody sorry I'm not as thin as I was. Bloody sorry that I'm not as young as I was.

But on the upside.

The people that matter haven't gone away.

And sitting with no 1 beside me, it's nice to know I've gained a few extras along the way...

Even so. I know it's shallow, but it would be nice to be that skinny again...

Happy Holidays

Twelve years ago, Spouse and I took a backpacking trip around Turkey. We had more or less decided by then that we were going to finally do the Baby Thing, but wanted one last joyous freedom fling before we did. And having done several backpacking trips without much funding, were revelling in the notion that this time around at least we had enough money to bail out of emergencies like sleeping on the beach as we'd done in the past.

I remember being very fed up before we set off as I was late, which meant the thought of coping with tedious women's things while travelling, plus I had a rather romantic notion that it might be nice to concieve while on holiday. I was actually six weeks late. Which should have told me something except a) I was irregular as clockwork and b) I had taken a pregnancy test which had proved negative (experience later taught me that my body doesn't operate the way of the textbooks, but I didn't know that then).

So we set off from Gatwick, flew to Antalaya, staying overnight in a rather grim Turkish b&b before heading off down the coast to Alanya, a beautiful and then quite unspoilt resort, from where we took a day trip to Northern Cyprus, climbed mountains, took boat trips (though thankfully in retrospect we didn't take part in a wander through a cave that ended up with you jumping fifty foot into the sea), before heading down to Side, an amazing town built entirely around the ruins of a Roman town.

It was only when we got to Side that I began to question why I was a) feeling sick all the time (I had been assuming it was Turkey tummy) b) felt knackered (Spouse kept saying I had become so boring he was going to go on holiday without me and c) was going off fags (I'd been blaming the funny taste of Turkish smokes). The penny finally dropped when we were sitting in a restaurant, I took a sip of beer and it tasted like poison. Suddenly I couldn't drink anymore. "Are you pregnant?" Spouse said in a rare moment of clarity, "I have no bloody idea," was my response, as my body was responding in the way it normally does prior to usual occurences. Besides, I'd never been pregnant before, so I really hadn't a clue. By number four I had worked out that a) my cycle being so erratic means that pregnancy tests don't work for me until I am at least a week overdue and b) About week 7 was the time when I stopped wanting to smoke/drink.

But I didn't know that then...

Of course, I came back, took a pregnancy test and voila, there was that very definite and scary blue line. I can remember sitting on the edge of the bath in a state of shock. I had only just decided to have a baby, and pretty much fell pregnant at the first attempt. I appreciate this an enormous piece of luck, but it was also pretty shocking and took some coming to terms with I can tell you.

So that was that. I was pregnant. We'd had our last swansong holiday, and we bid farewell to our freedom.

I only mention all this because we've just come back from Menorca, and for the first time since then Spouse and I have managed to relax on holiday.

Milestones include:

Actually reading all the books I'd taken with me.
Not being too stressed when the kids were in the pool (apart from no 3 who has just learnt to swim but does this rather alarming impression of the Man from Atlantis, popping her head up every so often to splutter for another breath).
Swimming nearly every day in the sea and not feeling guilty that Spouse was having to deal with mayhem on the beach.
Taking no 1 out swimming with me and being amazed at how far she could come.
Taking a pedalo out and not worrying (too much) that we were all going to drown.
Going out in the evening, and thanks to cheesy entertainment at the bar, leaving kids enjoying it while we sat and had a grown up drink.

That last one was well worth it. It's been years since we've been able to all go out and have a relaxing evening without tears and tantrums.

Menorca isn't the most exciting of locations, but it was pretty, the views across the bay stunning and the beach really safe, which is great for kids.

After enduring years and years of stressful holidays, it was wonderful to just be able to chill out for once.

And remember, for the first time in twelve years, that holidays, actually can be fun...

PS anyone who wasn't hanging about this blog this time last year might be amused to go into the archives for last August and see what a contrast THAT was...

I'm off, but before I go...

... I just wanted to say a big thank you to all the new bloggy friends I've made over the past few months. It's been a blast, and I've really enjoyed "meeting you" as well as the people who've been faithfully reading my witterings for longer than that.

I'm off to Menorca in the morning (trying not to stress about the flight - I wish I could take valium to get me through it, but who'd look after the children??), but I did promise someone that I would shout long and loudly about her book which is coming out next week (annoying just to late for me to buy it for a holiday read).

Last year I read one of those magical stories you read occasionally in the papers about a young struggling author who had had her first manuscript accepted overnight, was offered a fabulous advance, had agents fighting over her etc etc. I might not have taken much notice, except the book in question sounded such fun, and for once well worth the hype.

The book in question is called Gods Behaving Badly by Marie Philips, and is published on August 2 by Jonathan Cape for £12.99.

If by some amazing chance you HAVEN'T heard about Marie (and if you haven't, where oh where have you been?), the story revolves around the Greek gods having lost their powers and knocking about in a house in North London. Aphrodite sells telephone sex and Apollo has an unfortunate habit of turning young women who reject his advances into trees. I've read the first two chapters, and laughed out loud. Marie is both witty, clever and fun to be around, and I can't wait to read the rest of it.

I am absolutely certain this is going to be the Big Thing of the summer (or as certain as you can be in this business).

I am still slightly gobsmacked that thanks to the nice bookarazzi crowd I have been able to meet Marie online - it isn't every day you encounter people you read about in the papers - and it has really been a privilege. I am sure that this is just the beginning of a long and illustrious career.

You heard it here first...

That Boy Wizard (no spoilers here though)

My one claim to fame from the residues of my career in children's publishing (ok actually I have two. The other one was rejecting Jacqueline Wilson), is that but for a quirk of fate (called failing a job interview) I might have been JK Rowling's editor.

Ten years ago I had just returned to work after a period of maternity leave. For all sorts of reasons I won't go into here, it wasn't at all a happy time. I found it hard to slot back in after six months away, I was missing my baby hugely but didn't feel able to say so (let's just say for a children's company it was at the time remarkably family unfriendly), and the job I loved was becoming more political by the minute, so I was starting to hate it.

Publishing's a funny sort of career to have. There's no formal structure or career progress. To get to be a commissioning editor often requires huge doses of luck, and the term "editor" can vary hugely from company to company in terms of the job spec and the responsibilities. It is in short the sort of career where to some degree you make your own luck.

I started my work life in academic publishing, took a variety of different jobs to broaden my experience, then, when I realised a) I was never going to get promoted where I was and b) I wasn't actually all that keen to stay in academia I jumped ship over to children's book - a decision I never regretted.

I had a huge huge dose of luck at this point because the company I joined was expanding and I arrived just at the moment when we were launching a series which was to be its first great success. I ended up running the series and commissioning other related series, and was happy as a sandboy until the company grew so much that from being a cosy happy smallish team we became more and more facelessly corporate. It wasn't a change I relished and I felt increasingly restricted.

Hence my decision to go looking for another job. And lo and behold there was an ad in The Bookseller for Bloomsbury, a publisher I chiefly knew from having had a pal there at that atrocious Princess in Love book came out (but it WAS fun visiting the offices the next day and hearing all the gossip about it) and for being the home of my favourite living author (aside from Terry Pratchett that is), Margaret Atwood. Did I want a job there in those pre Harry Potter days? Did I ever. Apart from the fact that I'd be able to escape the misery of the situation I was in, the thought of working in a place I thought of with awe definitely appealed.

Alas, it wasn't to be. Though I had a very jolly and positive meeting with the then new head of publishing, I think perhaps I wasn't keen enough to work full time, and well, ok, she didn't like me probably. Anyway I didn't get the job. So my near brush with the most amazing publishing phenomenon of recent times is just that a near brush...

It's going to sound a bit daft, but it did take a long time to connect that job interview with the fact that had I got the job I'd have been editing Harry - I might even have given up writing my own stuff for the chance to do that - mainly because at the time, just prior to publication of the first book he wasn't exactly the main topic of conversation at the interview. If I remember rightly my putative employee spent more of the interview talking about Louis Sachar's Holes then Harry Potter. Though I do think the boy wizard may have come up in passing.

I only mention this because having just read HP7 it struck me anew what an incredible journey it's been for JK Rowling.

Being in the industry I probably knew about Harry Potter before most people had even heard of him - we had an editorial assistant who came from Bloomsbury raving about him. To my eternal shame I rather smugly thought, It can't be as good as all that (in my not very good defence we were the no 1 children's publishers at the time!). But when it came out, I couldn't resist reading it. I love fantasy so much and it is exactly the sort of thing I would have eagerly published, if I hadn't had my fingers burnt with a fantasy list a few years earlier (and been told, don't laugh by someone at Smiths that fantasy doesn't sell). For years after HP became successful our MD spent a lot of time accusing us all of having missed and rejected him, but I know for a fact if Harry had landed on my desk I'd have given him full attention, and ditto my colleagues - and especially my boss who edited Philip Pullman's Northern Lights.

What I will say is this though. I'm actually rather glad Harry didn't come my way, not because I wouldn't have relished the opportunity to work with such a brilliant author, I would have, but because I know my company at the time wouldn't have made the most of the marketing in the way that Bloomsbury did. I watched in awe as they came up with genius promotion after genius promotion. We'd have never have done that, and I doubt Harry would have had the success he's had if we'd published him.

So I'm not bitter about missing out (well, not much) and have really enjoyed the experience of reading his story along with the rest of the world.

But you know the thing that makes me the gladdest about the Harry Potter phenomenon?

It's the fact that thanks to JK Rowling people now take children's books seriously.

During the ten years I was working in the children's book industry, time and time again I found myself having to defend why I wasn't in the serious, more important bit of publishing - namely the adult section. Apart from stating the bleedin' obvious, I LOVE children's books and really enjoy what I do, it used to really nark me that people really missed the point. Where, pray dear reader, do the readers of tomorrow come from if we don't create them today. I have actually met twenty year olds (in fact I met one on Saturday) whose enjoyment of series I edited thirteen years ago has stayed with them into adulthood, and on Friday night when we walked back home from a party (via Waterstones natch) it was full of twenty somethings who've grown up with Harry Potter. Not all of them will read something else, but some of them might.

And now it is definitely ok to be seen reading a kids' book.

So I raise my glass to JKR. She and Harry have done my industry (and the children of the world) a great service. And I for one am very grateful - even if I'll never get to be her editor now.

No spoilers here - I promised - but the last book?

It's fan - bloody - tastic.

So there.

One More Step Along the Road I Go...

I appreciate I am rather late in writing this, as the children broke up last week, but I'm busy getting ready for our (I hope) rainfree holiday on Friday...

The end of term was rather fraught in our house. I had two children leaving schools. No 1 was leaving primary school forever and no 3 is moving up from the infants to the juniors.

Cue, lots and lots - and far too fucking many to cope with for this poor stressed mum - of leaving activities.

In the final fortnight of term we had:

One Leaver's Disco (no1)
Two Leaver's Plays (over two nights, no 1, over one night the following week, no 3)
One Leaver's Trip to local cathedral (also no 1, and happily without parental involvement)
Two Leaver's Assemblies (nos 1&3)

Unhappily the assemblies were orginally booked for the same day (no one but no one in the schools my children attend seems to understand the art of communication), but after a poke from yours truly, the infants kindly agreed to move theirs backward by a day.

No 3 in the main isn't too fussed about the big change in her life. She's pretty much outgrown the infants, has been desperate all term to join her big sister in the field next door to her school (this represents the highlight of life in the juniors apparently) and though she moaned about beng anxious about her play she was really very happy to stand up and be the narrator. Me, I was of course bursting with maternal pride, as AT LAST, after three attempts at it, I finally have a child who is the teacher's favourite.

It is a standing joke in the school that the teacher's favourites always get to be the narrator in all the school plays, and none of mine have achieved such glory so far. At least, not until no 3 came along. No 3 from the time she tottered into preschool seems to have the knack of making teachers like her. They raved about her so much and so embarrassingly often at nursery I used to refer to her as my child genius. Well, the child genius is all grown up and turned into teacher's pet. I was laying bets on her getting the narrator slot, and lo and behold I was right. The embarrassing thing about this of course, is that everyone else notices, and you have to protest loudly, look it's REALLY not my fault the teacher chose her, I haven't been bombarding her with promises of free dental treatment and a copy of my book, HONEST I haven't...

So despite a little wobble the day of the performance, and being rather exhausted afterwards as we had to have a disco post performance (this took place inside this year as the rain had caused the following danger: Wet Grass Is Hazardous was the reason giving for coming indoors), no 3 is dealing with the change in circumstances quite well. And I managed to get through hearing, One More Step Along The Road I Go without cracking up. Which is quite good for an old softie like me.

No 1, however was another matter.

Readers of this blog may have picked up that no 1 has had a bit of a rough year 6. It started right at the beginning when she came home with the forms for secondary school (Why oh why they saw fit to give the blasted things to the kids I don't know. It's caused me no end of trouble). She became very anxious about losing her friends and moving on to the new school, which was compounded by the stress of sitting for grammar school despite my best efforts to make things laid back and easy. This was followed in March by the discovery that not only had she failed to get into grammar school but she'd failed spectacularly badly. In the midst of her misery about this it became quite apparent that her wretched teacher had been piling the pressure on about how scary secondary school was.

Never mind, says Mum, at least you're going to the school you wanted to now.

Ha. Bloody Ha.

Three weeks ago no 1 went for a day at her new school. She was full of excitement and looking forward to it. But when I went to pick her up she burst into tears and said she'd had a miserable day. Turns out she's not with any of her friends bar one which was her main reason for wanting to go to that school and not the one she failed to get into. Never before have I truly wanted to bang my head against a brick wall, but really I very nearly went and did it. I HAD said over and over again till I was BLUE in the face, that she might not be with her friends at the school she's going to, so she may as well go for the grammar school as more then likely she'll make new friends anyway.

No 1 doesn't normally do crying, so it was something of a shock to spend not just the next two hours comforting her but for her to burst into tears at the slightest provocation nearly every day up until the end of term. If it was my drama queen no 2 I wouldn't bat an eyelid, but no 1 is such a bite your top lip kind of girl it came as real shock I can tell you. And of course, being the softie mum I have become - I used to have this hard Cancerian outershell till motherhood ripped it off me - the weepier she became the weepier I became. I tell you we've been drowning in this house without any help from the rain thank you very much.

Spouse meanwhile has been retreating into the garage to play with his new toy - a kit car Catheram 7 , which I PROMISE to blog about because I find the whole thing so funny, but it may have to wait till I'm back - and looking on bemused. As well he might. Unlike me he grew up in an exclusively male household. Poor lamb has NO idea what is about to hit him. Because without a doubt on top of the stress, hormones have been playing a big part. When I tentatively suggested to no 1 that her being this weepy might have something to do with All That, she looked absolutely horrified and said Oh no! Not that too....

Poor kid. I'd forgotten quite how lousy it is dealing with all this stuff.

But as a parent I can tell you it's damned wearing.

We had tears because she was ill and insisted on going in as it was her dress rehearsal (the school called me in and she missed it anyway.)
Tears because I suggested she miss the first performance of the play as she'd been ill. I relented in the end as her teacher said it was ok.
Tears because she was chosen to be in the novelty race (AKA the Race Where They Dump the Crap Ones and she knows it) for Sports Day.
Tears because she didn't want to do Sports Day.
Tears during Sports Day because she lost her race (she didn't even try, I was watching)
Tears at the end of the day because she'd lost everything on Sports Day.
Tears because she was the only one (of course) upset about leaving school, two of her friends are going to grammar school and she's not, she is devastated she got such a bad mark, she thinks her life is over etc etc.

I was like worn out rag by the end of the week.

And it got worse, when I went to her assembly and watched her grumpily read a poem out (she didn't want to do it), trying not to cry in between the moments when she laughed, shooting filthy looks at me every time I tried to take a photo and generally doing a grand job of making me feel as miserable as she did. I was ripe for a good bawl before I'd even started, and it only took one other mum to go for me to be wiping the tears away, along with half my row.

Luckily no 1 didn't spot me crying otherwise that would have REALLY lost her her street cred.

I have to fess up here to having been taken aback by the strength of my emotion. I have three kids still to go through the school, so it's not like I'm saying goodbye to it.

But...

My little girl is about to take a very big step along the road. And it seems like minutes since she took her first one.

I am conscious of time's winged chariot more and more as she gets older. The last seven years have sped by. Give it another seven and I'll be waving her off to uni (I hope)...

The years pass in our adulthood and make very few changes. We get older, gain a few grey hairs, pile on the pounds. But essentially we change little. But our children change beyond recognition with each passing year. And it is only now that I realise how brief their time in childhood is.

No 1's time in childhood is very nearly up. I hope it's been fun for her.

But what I really really hope is that the step she takes next is even better.

Oh. And that she stops crying...

Pastures New

Woooo! Well as you can see I finally have a cover for my book, Pastures New which is going to be published on 3 September, price £6.99.

First off, I have to say a big thank you to the lovely people at Avon for providing me with sucha fab cover and for all their support.

My last post elicited a response from a Ms I Want To Be Anonymous who I apparently went to school with. Whoever you are, please do email me as I'd like to say hello properly!! And yes you can tell all of our old school pals about the book....

I will I hope be blogging shortly over at Bookarazzi about my journey to publication. Suffice to say it was a long one, and there were many points along the way when I nearly gave up. Had it not been for my many lovely friends in the RNA who have been so supportive, my agent, my family (Mad Twin especially) and Spouse I think I might have...

But it's all come good now and I feel ever so slightly overwhelmed.

Mil is thrilled to pieces as it's going to be published in German (as I am), but I would have been happy just with England...

I must dash as have less then 24 hours till there will be no time for anything for six weeks, and I have to polish the first ten chapters of the next one so I can send it off to my agent for scrutiny.

Was feeling it was a pile of rubbish, but MT has made me feel better about it again.

The current book is about a dentist being sued, and I hope is a slightly tongue in cheek look at the madly obsessed with celebrity Looking Glass World we currently seem to inhabit.

I am utterly in love with my hero.

But then I should be.

He's a combination of Spouse and David Tennant. with a little bit extra thrown in.

It doesn't get much better then that....

It's sooo much fun being a writer!

I may be absent from the blogosphere for a bit as I am going to curtail my internet habits till I've read the new Harry Potter as I don't want any spoilers. So please if you too are an HP fan and you read it before the end of the weekend, DON'T TELL ME WHAT HAPPENS!!!! And I promise there will be no spoilers here.

I have a five pound bet on with no 1 that Snape is a goodie. No doubt if she wins, she'll spoil that one for me....

42

Is, as every Douglas Adams fan knows, of course the answer to life, the universe and everything.

It is also the name of one of the best episodes in the current series of Dr Who. (I just put that in so I could think about David Tennant for a few minutes...)

And - ahem.

It apparently is the age I reached at the weekend. Though of course in my head I am still 21.

My eldest daughter very kindly made sure that I hadn't forgotten this fact by drawing my a card which said Happy Birthday Mum - 42. Wow!

Yes, like SUPER WOW.... thanks so much for reminding me.

She'd gone to all the trouble of drawing 42 candles on the cake, though she evidently ran out of enthusiasm for the kisses (she drew 5 kisses x 42 instead).

In her enthusiasm to do the card, she and her sisters also forgot about the breakfast they had prepared earlier - much earlier. So I got congealed porridge, rubbery toast and a cold cup of tea. But the thought was there, so that's the main thing.

Spouse meanwhile proved that he is definitely the man for me, by buying me a tardis shaped birthday cake complete with David Tennant. Sadly DT didn't jump out of it (as one of my friends suggested he might), but another friend pointed out the usefulness of a tardis for someone who is still 21 at heart.

So if you'll excuse me, I'm off to do a bit of time travel.

(Mad Twin, care to join me???)

You've been tagged

Um....

Darling Bec from Becandcall (who I am soooo glad to see back in bloggyland) tagged me um, a week ago to do a meme.

Somehow I have managed to hang about the internet for nearly two years and never been tagged before. I am not even at all sure I know what a meme is.

Apparently the rules are that I have to give eight random facts about myself (though quite why anyone needs/wants to know eight random facts about me I don't honestly know)... and then tag eight other people. I have to check out with these eight others whether they've done this meme before, cos I haven't a clue what's going on.

So, Bec. Thanks a bunch.

Here goes nothing....


1. I am a fifth daughter of a third daughter. Sadly that doesn't make me a witch.

2. I have no idea where my grandmother came in the family pecking order, so my chances of being a witch have just reduced further.

3. My husband is a third son of an only son. So he isn't a wizard/warlock either.

4. I really wish magic were true. (Can't you tell?).

5. I have never recovered from the disappointment of discovering that Narnia wasn't hidden in the back of my wardrobe.

6. I am looking forward to the last Harry Potter book mainly to prove to my oldest daughter that I am right and she is wrong: namely that Snape is a double agent.

7. I have yet to work out a way of whiling away the time till Dr Who returns. (Watching endless repeats will help).

8. If I can't have magic, I'll settle for David Tennant instead.


Um... so now I have to tag some people apparently.

Is this a bit like chain letters, and will all the people I tag hate me forever?


If they'll let me, I tag the following people:

Lesley Cookman
Bernardine Kennedy
Lucy Diamond
Kate Harrison
Rivergirlie
Struggling Author
Lisa Rullsenberg
Zinnia Cyclamen.

If you object, I won't mind at all....

On the hoof

I am frantically busy this week as I've just got back from the Romantic Novelist's Association Conference (amazingly to discover the house hasn't been trashed) and I have a thousand and one things that needed to be done yesterday. Also listening to the astoundingly young but immensely wise Cat Cobain (editor of Headline's Little Black Dress range) talking on Sunday about the need for writers to contain their internet habits, I recognised myself so completely in her words, I have decided her recipe of internet free days is something I really need to do. So I'm literally in and out today.

However. I wanted to just point anyone who reads this blog and is into books and blogging and the link between, to go forthwith to a new site called. www.bookarazzi.com which a group of us who hang about online have pulled together to talk about books and blogging and other stuff that interests us. You'll find reviews, news of our latest releases, stuff about the wierd way writers' brains sometimes works and lots more besides. So hope to see some of you there!

I will be back. But possibly not for a few days...

The New " Must Have" Symbol

The New "Must Have" symbol is four children apparently.

Well so I read just now in the Bookseller by way of The Times. The Blairs, the Jaggers, the Gores... and me.

Apparently having four is soooo 21st century, da-ah-ahling.

Somehow methinks the Blairs et al don't share my stress levels.

Let me tell you about my week so far and see if you agree.

Sunday
As previously mentioned here, was the day of the Race for Life.

Because we have four children, and two of them wanted to run with me, that meant Spouse had to deal with the two others (luckily my wonderful mother was on hand to help this weekend, but this is rare as she lives 200 miles away).

Wonderful mother cooked us lunch, which was just as well as No 1 had volunteered to take part in a Guide's cooking competition, the details of which were only delivered through my letterbox at 5pm (cue frantic recipe decision making/followed by quick lessons in stir frying while trying not to miss any of the last episode of Dr Who).

We got back from RfL at 12.15, no 1 and I were off out again at 1.30, together with lots of bits of paper, some cooking equipment and two guides I didn't know.

Cooking comp starts at 2pm, we arrived to discover that very vital bit of paper containing their menu has been left behind. Can't you go back and get it? asks the guide leader. Between gritted teeth I say, well I'd rather not, as it is an hour round trip. Luckily no 1 produces some paper and pen and rewrites.

At 5pm No 2 has a party five miles in the opposite direction of the cooking comp, so I tootle over the downs with her, and luckily meet a friend who offers to bring her home before going back to get no 1 from her comp. Spouse meanwhile is playing in the garage with his new toy (of which more later. I think it deserves a whole blog to itself), so I am on driving duty.

Cue lots of hanging around to discover no 1 and her chums haven't won the cookery comp, before getting home for 6.30, feeding the Horde and chucking them into bed.

Monday
I spend most of the day clearing up from the chaos of the weekend, saying goodbye to my mother, taking mil to an appointment ( I bet the Blairs et al don't have that extra bit of fun either), before scooting to school for pick up. By a hair breadth I managed to remember it was no 4's parents' evening and because I have four children they all ran riot in the playground till I'd done. Then it was off to swimming lessons as per usual. Except it wasn't as barring no 3 they all jacked up and I didn't have the energy to argue. So I got mil to sit with them while I took no 3 to her lesson. Got back, fed everyone (had left no 1 in charge of the dinner, so it burnt), scooted round the house putting washing away before going out to my triathlon swimming session which was a killer one this week. The first Monday of the week involves tee shirts. Sadly for any voyeuristic male fans out there, it isn't a wet tee shirt competition, we have to swim in the bloody things. This week he made us swim 500m. Which was easy.

Tuesday
No 1 had to go to her new secondary school for the day. Because I have four children this would have been a logistical nightmare without a friend helping me out. I dashed back from a quick coffee with the Race for Lifers and spent the day frantically working on the wip, which (mainly because I have four children) I have been sorely neglecting of late.

Go to pick sprogs up in a hail storm. They are all excited as they now know who their new teachers are and no 3 has visited the junior school for the first time.

No 1, alas, is somewhat less then enthusiastic when I get her home. In fact she collapsed into floods of tears which lasted so long she was nearly outdoing the rain. The reason? She's not with any of her close friends. Now, if you were reading my blog some months back when we had the debacle of her not getting into grammar school, you'll know the reason she didn't want to go there was so she could be with her friends (DESPITE me telling her that she might not be.)

So between gritted teeth, I was ever so supportive and neglected dinner, children, getting myself ready for new parents's meeting at said school that evening, just so she could let it all out. Now does Cherie have time to do that I wonder???

Today
I have been for a swim, dashed into town to get some shoes for no 1 who is attending her leaver's disco on Friday. (Some idiot has decided the theme should be Oscars and everyone has gone mad. We have people ordering limousines, kids having their hair done, parents getting the boys and girls together on dates. Sheessh! They're eleven. Why do they need to grow up so fast?They won't thank us when they have.) I also had to buy black tee shirt and leggings for her school play next week.

Tonight
I have to pick up some extras as its brownie night and I do a swap with a friend. I still have all the camping equipment in the car,and because I have four children, plus an extra two there is now no room in the car, so we shall have to walk. I have to get them to brownies, take the equipment down, and then zip over to school for no 3's new parents meeting. I've been for the other two, so I may skip that one...

Tomorrow
no 4 has a school trip (don't get me started about school and money. Because I have four children I am constantly shelling out for this that and the other. I may as well just give them my sodding cheque book), and I have to go and see the sex film that no 1 is watching next week.

Friday
It's no 3's school trip (luckily I have got out of helping), no 2 has cookery club, no 1 has dancing and the disco. I am also going on a rare trip away (HOORAY! I am going to the Romantic Novelist's Association Conference where I get to be a grown up for a couple of days as well as meeting some of my wonderful RNA pals). I am feeling terribly guilty about going as no 1 is so fraught and having big friendship problems at the moment, and if the disco is a disaster I won't be around afterwards. The next day she and no 2 also have a piano exam which no 2 is creating about. I am sure they'll be fine, but ooooh, the guilt. Because I have four children, I get four times the guilt.

Somehow, I doubt very much that the Blairs, the Gores and the Jaggers have quite so much to do with their offspring on a daily basis...

But anyone thinking of having four children to boost their status. I'll just say five little words.

Don't even think about it.

(or if you do. Get a live in nanny).

Gotta Run With It...

Well yesterday was the day.


Super Fast Mum, Fastest Teacher on the Block, Best Improver, Running Girl and I were joined by Virgin Runner and Yoga Queen as well as Nos 1&2 at the start of Race for Life. Every other race I've taken part in, I've been pretty much on my own, so it was really great to be part of a group.


The atmosphere on the race course where we ran was also great. Without wanting to be corny, I guess most of us are there for personal reasons one way or another, and we get a chance of a minute's silence to remember them. More movingly, though I felt was the opportunity just before the start to cheer for a whole minute in celebration of the people we've lost. I liked that, and it's certainly motivating at the start of a race.


Last year it was very hot and no 1 and I made the mistake of going with the walkers, so it took us ages.


This year, we all decided to skip the aerobic warm up and headed straight for the start line.


The weather of course has been slightly tempestuous to say the least (though we have luckily escaped flooding - there are benefits to living on a hill), and yesterday morning looked very gloomy. Luckily just before the start the sun came out and we were able to offload our anoraks on Fastest Teacher's very noble Spouse.


As I had the sprogs, it was never my intention to run a fast race, but being at the front of the pack (let's face it, an unusual experience for me), despite my running chums leaving us behind we amazingly did the first k in 6 mins.

Blimey, I thought we'll be finished in half an hour at this rate.


I had, however reckoned without no 1's capacity for slowing down. Bless her, she really wanted to run all the way having walked it last year but a) physically she is like me not really built for running and b) she does have a huge mind over matter thing going on, where she finds it difficult to keep running. I can sympathise because this was exactly the way I used to be till I started running properly three years ago. To be fair to her, she also was recovering from a nasty cold and had a very painful stitch and had to keep stopping.


So the next kilometre was a bit slower, and then at 2.5 k she stopped running altogether, and we walked pretty much till the 4k mark. From 3-4k there was big hill, so I was pulling her up it at one point.


I tried a variety of motivational techniques on her from, Come on you know you wanted to run it all, which elicited a rather bad tempered response, to all three of us running together holding hands and trying out Mil's mantra: Ich Kann, Ich Will, Ich Muss. It did sort of work, but there were points when I could see she was finding it tough going, and I was thinking, oh god, how much of a meanie should I be?


No 2 meanwhile was going great guns. She is a natural runner, and was impressively speedy. If we'd been going at her pace I think we'd have done it in 35 mins.


As it was we got to 4k at 37 mins and I realised we were going to miss my target of 40 mins, so told the girls we could get in in under 45.


By then we could see the end of the course (which was really great actually. I enjoyed it much more then last year when it was a lot more wiggly. Plus the race course is my favourite place to run, so it felt pretty heavenly to me) , and then Spouse, the littlies and my mother put in a welcome appearance which spurred both girls on.


We ran/walked the last kilometre and no 1 really gave it her all at the end. I had to slow no 2 down so we could cross the finish line together (last year no1 having walked all the way cheekily ran on ahead) at 43 mins.


I would have loved to have run with my pals - but it was so brilliant coming across the line with the girls, I don't care that we didn't do the best of times.


Sorry for being so bossy, I said to no 1 as we left the racecourse. I couldn't have done it without you she said, giving me a hug (which if you knew no 1 you'd know was a fairly rare occurrence). I wanted to cry at the beginning said no 2, because I thought I couldn't do it. And now I want to cry because I have.


They were both as pleased as punch with themselves, as well they might be. It's a fantastic achievement for a nine and eleven year old and I am soooooo proud of them.

And the mums who run did brilliantly too.


I haven't got everyone's times, but Super Fast Mum came in first in 30 mins and the others weren't very far behind. Congrats to all of them too, because apart from me and SFM, none of them have done much running before.


So far we've raised nearly £100 on the website but I don't know what we've done between us. Thanks so much to everyone who's sponsored us.


It was a great race to be part of. And even better cause.


All power to Cancer Research and the people who work so hard tirelessly to try to find a cure for this wretched disease.


It was a privilege to take part again.


And like Arnie....


I intend to be back.


In the meantime, girlies if you're reading... anyone on for that 10k in September????

http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/MumswhoRun

Mums on the Run

Wind in my face, sun on my back. Running up to the downs and round the race track on sunny mornings - this is what makes me run.

Today I had a great run with my school run chums. As I mentioned in my last post, we're taking part in Race for Life on Sunday. For the past couple of months some of us have been meeting up regularly to go running. I still regard myself as a bit of a novice when it comes to running - I've been at it three years and I am still slow, slow, slow.... But apart from one other super fast runner, I seem to know more about it then the others - which isn't saying much, but hey, who cares. For once I haven't been at the back of the pack, where by rights I belong. And on occasion I have even come in first (mainly when superfast mum isn't running).

Today, though, today was great. We ran 4.4 miles and thanks to SFM setting a blistering pace, we all posted pretty good times. I found myself struggling to keep up with them at times, and hats off to the mum who's organised us all, for being the best improver of the lot of us.

So in honour of our run. And to inspire everyone for Sunday, I thought I'd post a roll of honour here...

Coming in at no 1 is Super Fast Mum in a staggering 42 mins (9.5 min miles)

At no 2 we have the Fastest Teacher on the block with 43 mins (9.7 min miles)

In third place (just) is your very own Maniac Mum with 45.30 on the clock (10.29 min miles)

At no 4 we have our Best Improver at 46.30 (10.52 min miles)

In fifth place is Super Sprinter who raced in at 49.20 (11.18 min miles)

And last but definitely not least is Running Girl at 49.49 (11.24 min miles).


Congratulations one and all, and hope we all post PBs on Sunday (I won't actually, unless the children really really surprise me....)

And thanks to you all for the inspiration, and reminding me just why it is I love to run...

http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/MumswhoRun

And now for something completely different...

On July 1 I will be taking part in The Race for Life. This year nos 1&2 are accompanying me, and I am hoping that they will both run a bit more then no 1 did last year...

I have also teamed up with some other mums who are running in it too, and we have a webpage at JustGiving
http://www.raceforlifesponsorme.org/MumswhoRun

I promised I would publicise it.

I appreciate there are lots of demands on people's purses all the time, and I am crap at asking for money, so this is not a hard sell. I am going to donate the amount I promised them anyway.

As many of us have, though, I have lost people to this dreadful disease, and I shall be thinking of two of them on the day.

Apart from anything else, it is an intensely moving experience seeing the names on peoples' backs and the runners taking part who are also ill.

And I'm really looking forward to doing it with the girls. No 1 was really pleased with her achievement in finishing last year, and I think it's great for them to have the opportunity to take part in something like this.

Am taking a bit of a break from blogging otherwise, as I am waaaaay behind on everything, but thanks to everyone who has passed on nice comments about the posts I've done about my dad. There may yet be more to come.

But not just yet...

David and Goliath

On another point entirely (though as my father always stood up for the underdog, perhaps not entirely unrelated) a blogging friend of mine is just David like bravely going to take on the Goliath of a corporation she worked for. Having been in a similar position at work at one time, but not having had the courage for the fight back then, I admire her stance and wish her well.

For more information go to:

http://www.yorkshirepuddingclub.blogspot.com/

Afterword

The day of my father's anniversary, when I started thinking about him (well ok, it was Ray Davies, and Days who got me properly started - and Dumdad for reminding me), was the day we went to Germany. I started the week thinking about him, and spent it remembering fil. We came back the day after the anniversary of my father's funeral.

I like patterns, they form the ebb and flow of life somehow.

Another pattern is that in a few weeks I'll be forty two - twenty one years ago my father first fell ill.

He died shortly before another big birthday, my thirtieth.

This year isn't a big birthday year. It isn't even a big anniversary year - his tenth came and went without my feeling the need to talk about him.

Perhaps it is because the ebbs and flows of my life have taken me first into a career in publishing, during the period when he recovered from his heart bypass and lived a happy retirement in Shropshire, while his death propelled me into my next (and most important) career of motherhood. Now, as my children grow old enough for me to look at the world, I am starting a new career as a writer.

Patterns. Ebbs and flows.

Or maybe just so much baloney... (I do know I get carried away).

Maybe the reason this has come out now is that he isn't here to see my first book published. But without him, it never would have been.I spent so long searching for him, wishing I could find him. And now, I think I realise, he has been with me all along.

My favourite character in Pastures New has echoes of him, and my current heroine is about to launch an a life change after losing her dad. The experience of losing my own seems to be part of my writing. The experience of knowing him, is what makes me do it.

And always, always, when I see gold roses, or look at the stars, I think of him.

To end on a funny note.

My dad was spontaneous and often rather barking. He had a habit of putting a notion in your head and then wandering off, leaving it festering for a while.

The house we lived in was full of creaks and whispers. He had a huge imagination, and so do I.

I think this story sums up what connects us, in the end...

Shillelagh

Did you hear that noise? My father says poking his head round the door.

I am sitting in the dining room of our house, studying for some exams. I hate this room. Being as the house faces north, it is always cold. But more then that, it is the room where both my grandmother and aunt died. I always imagine ghosts. Don't be silly, says my mother, if there were such a thing as ghosts, they'd be friendly ones.

Even now, though at seventeen, I am spooked by this room. But it is the only room where homework gets done, so here I sit.

Father and I are alone in the house, but he is just about to go out.

I could have sworn I heard a noise, is his parting shot, as he bangs the door shut.

I am completely alone now, and the house creaks more then ever. I have the dining room door shut, but I can hear every single shift of a floorboard.

At the top of the stairs is a step which creaks.

It creaks very loudly now.

I am the only one in.The top step is creaking....

No. It isn't. Don't BE stupid.

I try to concentrate on my work.

I hear another creak. And another. It sounds as though someone is coming down the stairs.

Don't be silly. It's just this house. It always rattles.

But the creaks don't go away. They come more frequently and more loudly then ever. There is someone in the house with me. AND I AM ON MY OWN...

I am feeling sick with terror, no amount of concentration is going to cram any more knowledge into my head about Martin Luther.

There is someone coming down the stairs.

They are coming towards the door. The only way out of the house is through it. What am I going to do?

Then it comes to me. In a moment of quite mad insane glory. There is a shillelagh hanging in the kitchen. If I climb out of the window, and run round the back of the house and grab it, at least I will have a weapon.

So feeling only faintly idiotic, I throw myself through the window, and in panicky haste, go and grab the shillelagh. I walk through the house holding it aloft.There is no one there.

Now I feel truly idiotic.

I go back to my books and sit with the shillelagh on my lap.

Some time later, Father returns.

Everything all right while I was out? he asks.

Fine, I say.Sometime later I secrete the shillelagh back into the kitchen.

Did he know?I have no idea.

But I never breathe a word.

The shillelagh also has a guest spot in Pastures New. Now I know why...

Sunshine and flowers

I stand at my father's graveside holding a gold rose. We've chosen gold and red for his funeral wreath - his favourite colours brighten the sadness of this day. Mother wants us to place a gold rose in the grave. So I am standing here, on a windswept Shropshire hillside, in the June sunshine (why are the moments of the greatest sadness of my life so sunny? It doesn't seem right somehow) waiting to say goodbye to my father.

Some moments later, I walk away from his grave, having deposited the rose. And yet, I have no memory to this day of having thrown it in. I couldn't remember the next day, even. I wonder whether it's because I am not yet ready to accept the finality of this.

You don't lose people all at once, you lose them in bits and pieces. So speaks the narrator of John Irving's fine novel, A Prayer for Owen Meany. I think that's very true.

Over the next few months I try to get used to a world without my father in it. I have been blessed with a solid happy family background. My parents are the bedrock and centre of my life. To lose my father feels as though the foundations of my world have been rocked for ever. Can I, will I, ever survive the storm?

The one thing that sustains me through the early weeks is the sure knowledge that, had my father have come round from that final heart attack, his quality of life would have been unbearable. I couldn't stand losing him, but I wouldn't have wanted him back under such circumstances.

It also felt as though it was the right time for him to go. I thought back to the conversation we had had about his heart bypass. In the end he didn't get the chance to have it, but fate rolled the dice one way, and I don't think he'd have been that unhappy with the result. He had seen us all grow safely into adulthood. Some of us were married, some of us not. A few of us had children (my only regret is he never saw mine). We were all pretty settled. I think he breathed a sigh of relief, and thought he could let go.

However we rationalise these things, though, grief is an odd and unpredictable emotion. I know he is better off. I feel glad he is no longer suffering. But the sense of loss is incalcuable. It hits me unawares, and at unexpected moments. I think I am fine, and then a great wave of sadness will overtake me, and I reel from the shock of it. Each wave seems higher and more painful then the last, and I feel battered and bruised in their aftershock.

Although I have odd moments when I cry (to my astonishment and slight frustration I find myself completely unable to cry at the funeral), I find I cannot really give into the emotion. The block of ice remains firmly wedged in my chest, and sometimes I think I am cold and heartless. I should be feeling this more. And yet, I seem to be unable too.

I go to bed at night and long to dream of him. If I can't have him in the real world, maybe he'll be waiting in the wings somewhere in my subconscious. But most nights, I awake disappointed. And on the rare occasions he strays into my sleep, I cannot see his face, or his back is turned to me.

One night, though, I dream that I am in the house where I grew up. It is dark outside, and from the top of the stairs, I can see a shadow in the door, which I know is my father. I go gladly to greet him. He flings the door open. It is not my father as he was at the end, but my father from fifteen years ago - wearing a battered old raincoat he liked to wear and a stupid hat. It's been a hideous nightmare, this misery I've been living in, my father isn't dead at all. How stupid I've been. But then before my eyes he starts to disintegrate and turns to straw. I wake up in a cold sweat. My father is gone. My psyche is playing tricks on me. All that is left is a man of straw.

The sun continues to shine throughout that summer, but I feel lost in a dark tunnel. Lost and incredibly alone. Once I go to buy flowers for a friend. I walk into the shop not thinking about my father. But all the flowers I see around me are in gold and red and yellow. I cannot breathe and walk away. I bring back blue flowers instead.

Spouse is hugely supportive, but I am unwilling to overload him with my grief. And even though I share it with my siblings my own experience of it is peculiar to me, and a burden only I can carry as they must carry theirs. I am also horribly conscious of not boring my friends with my troubles, so I eke out my confidences sparingly, telling one friend one thing, someone else another. It is only when we are on holiday some months later, that I realise, that in doing so, I've barely confided in Spouse at all. Unwittingly I've locked him out of the worst thing that's ever happened to me. I have two nights when I sob uncontrollably in his arms, but even then, I don't do so for long. What I really want to do is stand on a mountainside somewhere, completely alone and howl like an animal. Grief at its base is a primeval and raw emotion. I don't want anyone, not even Spouse, to witness me like that.

I work with people who are mainly younger then me, and just as I did all those years ago at university, I feel somewhat out of kilter with them. This is outside most of their experience, and I feel I have taken a vast step into the unknown. A book I read over and over again is Blake Morrison's When Did You Last See Your Father? He at least understands what I'm going through. And I think I agree with him that losing a parent is liking entering the grown up club. My life is now mine to take charge of. My father has left me with the tools, it is up to me to complete the job.

Around the time of my 30th birthday, Spouse and I go away for a weekend in Cornwall. It is a magical sunny weekend, and I feel like I am finally emerging from the dark. He gives me an eternity ring. I suggest tentatively we might think about having a family.

Life really does go on.

The people that go before us light our path and show us the way. My father was the best of guides, and I miss his wisdom still. He taught me to think, to stand up for myself, to fight my corner but never to put someone down, to care for and protect the people around me. He taught me the importance of poetry and books, I wouldn't be doing what I do without him. Words are my business, and his greatest legacy to me. For the longest time I couldn't see or feel his presence in my life. I felt cheated that just as I got to know him, I lost him. I wish more then anything he could see my children. I know how much he would have loved them and they him. I tell them about him constantly, so they will know him the way I know my grandmother. But more and more now I recall his wisdom, his kindness, his strong sense of fair play, and I realise that the lessons he taught me will remain with me always.

He left me far too soon, and I will never stop missing him.

But the light he left burns very bright, and guides my way still.



Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Father and Son (in law)

You're not too fond of that young man, my father asks me persistently, in the summer of 1986.

My heart still skips several beats when I see him, being away from him is torture, I can't imagine life without him.

Not too fond, I say.

I know what lies behind this. My father sees his clever daughter is in danger of getting sidetracked by a man. All around him, the world is changing and even in our slightly old fashioned circles, teenage girls are getting pregnant. He doesn't want to be a grandad, just yet.

Luckily for him, I don't want to be a mum, either. And though I am in love, I am not about to let that stop me from pursuing a career. If I can only work out what that will be...

It is around this time he tells me the story of my grandmother. I wonder, now, if that was deliberate. Look, he is saying, you've got opportunities. Don't waste them.

After hearing that story, I have no intention of doing so.

He paces nervously around me that summer, like a lion at the head of his pack, protecting his female. Every time we are alone, he delves further and further down a road down which I really really don't want to go.

Young men are full of passion, he'll begin.

Are they? I answer. I've never noticed.

They aren't to be trusted, you know, he'll persist.

Some of them are, I'll reply, butt out, leave me alone, he's my choice.

When I'm feeling really mischievous, though, sometimes I tease him. Ok. You want to pursue this line of enquiry (knowing full well that the answer to the unspoken question isn't going to be one he likes), the next time he starts on about young men having desires, I boldly reply so, what's new? He probes no further and retreats for now.

But it continues all summer. A bit of him wants to know how far I've gone. A bit of me wants to tell him. But I never quite have the courage to go there. The truth would upset him. Sometimes things are best left unsaid.

To his credit, although he is anxious about where this relationship will take me, he also gets on very well with Spouse. I think he's pleased with my choice, but worried I've made it too soon. Maybe he's right. But what do you do when you meet the person you want to spend the rest of your life with at nineteen? My dreams had always factored in marriage at thirty. Was I meant to say, go away and come back when I'm ready?

Time, of course, is the test of these things. And when it was the right time, my father couldn't have been more pleased for us.

We came up to Shropshire to announce our engagement.

Our first attempt ended disastrously. Father went to bed early, leaving Spouse no time to get him alone. We were off early in the morning, and left without the deed being done.

A month later we came back and he suddenly announced he was going away for the rest of the weekend.

In the morning I haul Spouse out of bed and chuck him downstairs to go and do the necessary. My father seems either oblivious to what is happening, or is as nervous as Spouse. Everytime he walks into a room, Father walks out of it. Time is ticking away and his train is in half an hour.

In the end, in desperation, I just yell, PARENTS!!! We have something to tell you.

So we dispense with tradition and tell them together.

Father is delighted and sends out for champagne. He can't drink it with us, as he is off out any minute, but champagne we must have.

Spouse is no longer a rival, but the person charged with my care.

And my father has another son.

Moonbounce

My clever clever sister DID get to send her poem to the moon and back today.

For more information, follow this link:

http://timesonline.typepad.com/technology/2007/06/moonbounce.html

Melt Down

I am standing in a church with Mad Twin, ready to walk down the aisle with her not as a bridesmaid (our feminism eschews such a notion) but as her Best Woman. I am so happy.

The last two months have been very tough. I am back at work with a young baby,which is hard enough but on top of that Fil has had a stroke and is still in hospital. He was taken ill the same week as my mother was rushed to hospital for a gall stone operation. I was torn in two. But we thought fil was dying and Spouse needed me, my mother is being looked after by the rest of the family. I couldn't be in two places at once. My father's strictures about my first duty of care being to Spouse have never seemed more apposite, or more difficult to adhere to.

But now I am here. At my twin sister's wedding. A beacon of light to which I've been looking forward for many many months. A moment of joy amidst much misery. Mad Twin being the independent soul she is, insists that she doesn't want anyone to give her away, though our brother drives us to the church.

It is only as the first hymn sounds that I am overcome with the most immense feelings of loss and desolation. The last time I stood waiting to go down the aisle was at my wedding, with Father by my side. It is not quite two years since he has died and for the first time it hits me he really really isn't coming back. The shock of that realisation is totally unexpected.

I sniff my way down the aisle behind Mad Twin, and sit down at the end of a pew. Pull yourself together, I admonish myself. This is HER day, you're meant to be happy. And I am really, I am.

But...

Two years ago Spouse had all our parents and in an incredibly short space of time we've lost one, and nearly lost another two. How can life change so utterly and brutally?

I manage to get myself under control eventually, but at some point in the service I am aware that my mother is crying. My mother NEVER cries. It is enough to set me off again. Tears stream down my cheeks, and in the end I give up trying to stop them coming. Mother passes me a tissue and we sniffle our way through the ceremony. By the time we get to sign the register I am bawling my eyes out. A floodgate has opened, and I cannot shut it.

What's the matter with your sister? The best man asks, perplexed. Long story, says Mad Twin. The priest has a box of tissues, I get through dozens while I wait to sign my name. The tears keep spilling out of me - the way the words I am having to write about my father are spilling out of me now. All those months when I couldn't cry, and I wanted to. All that time, when I could have done it privately, and here I am - me, who abhors public displays of emotion - bawling my eyes out for the world to see.

I manage to get it together for the photos, though I look suspiciously red rimmed in most of them, and I'm finding it incredibly hard to raise a smile.

Spouse comes and gives me a hug, which sets me off again. My sisters take it in turns to look after me, but I am a mess. I've gone into meltdown and the block of ice which has lodged in my chest since my father died has finally been swept away by a torrent of emotion I can't control.

Blimey, says my new lovely bil, I always thought you were such a hard nut.

So did I. So did I.

Since fil has been ill I have been like stone. Unflinching and hard, because my job right now is to support Spouse, mil and look after no 1. I cannot afford the luxury of breaking down, until I am here, with my family, and it is permissible.

Grief is an uncontainable unknowable thing. It hits you when you least expect it. and takes your breath away with its intensity.

I am grieving not just for my father now, but for the loss of my other dad. Fil, who quietly stepped into the breach when Father died, and took over his mantle, eventually recovers from his stroke, but he is never the same. And at the point when most young couples with babies are struggling to deal with their change in circumstances, we get hit with the double whammy of having to care for Spouse's parents. The carefree happy life I was fortunate to lead in my twenties has gone for good. I am thirty and feel weighed down with responsibilty and care.

I am also rather cross that this has happened right now, at the moment when I wanted to share my sister's joy at finding her soul mate.

Eventually, after a series of dashes into the ladies when it all gets too much again, I meet my godmother there after another paroxysm of weeping. Are you all right? she asks with concern. I have just pulled myself together and this sets me off again. By now my constant howling is actually becoming rather funny. Seeing that concern is the last thing I need, my godmother changes tack and says, Read any good books lately? I roar with laughter. It is just what I need to snap me out of it.

I go back into the fray, slightly worn out, and feeling like a limp rag, but able to at least enjoy the rest of the evening.

The highlight is dancing with my sisters to We are Family.

We are together. And that's what counts.

My father's best legacy is us.

Scharnhorst

On the subject of being a hero...

My father joined the navy in 1941, aged 17.

As a child growing up I loved to hear stories about snow on the bows of his boat (he was on the Arctic Convoys), or the time when he was in Sri Lanka and met a tarantula on the loo. His stories were invariably light hearted and funny, and he poked fun at himself for having been such a poor seaman he never made it to officer level (in fact he took his officer's exams just before VE Day).

He kept his medals in a drawer and made light of them. Oh I only got the ones, everyone gets, he used to say. The ones for just being there. He always made light of it all. And shrugged off any suggestion of bravery. As far as he was concerned he had never had any beef with the Germans, but Hitler had to be stopped. And that was that.

So it was something of a surprise one Christmas, to be sitting round the table only for my father to stand up, his voice cracking with emotion, raising his glass to the memory of the Scharnhorst. My knowledge of naval history is hazy, to say the least, but I had vaguely heard of the Scharnhorst, and Spouse who is keen on such things knew it was the flagship of the German navy, sunk off the Cape on 26 December 1943, 5o years to the day before my father's toast. My father's ship HMS Scourge was one of the destroyers present at the sinking of the Scharnhorst, and he described in vivid detail how the ship went down, and how so many brave men died.

He was clearly shaken by this memory, but I was, I am ashamed to say, slightly embarrassed by this revelation. I didn't quite know how to react to my father's emotion, nor to the realisation of the deep sense of horror which clearly remained with him, even after the passage of so much time. I wish now, of course, I had asked him more. (I do have one regret actually - it is that I never thought to ask those questions).

I wonder now if that's what he saw in those nightmares that plagued him his whole life. He frequently fell asleep in his chair (having endured very little sleep throughout his navy career, he resolved that whenever he got a moment he would always sleep), and I can remember him asking me to wake him if he seemed to be dreaming. I used to be frightened watching him twitch and shout out. He never once said what he dreamt about.

In June 1994, my father and his naval pals decamped to Normandy for the 50th anniversary celebrations of DDay. Spouse and I couldn't stay for the day itself, but we did stop by and see him pick up his medal at Caen Cathedral. It was a proud moment. He laughed it off as getting another one for just being there.

My father might not have told me much, but talking to other veterans, who like him, were only 20 then, I realised for the first time quite what a big deal just being there was. Here were these ordinary lads, taken away from their families for months on end, pounding the shores of Normandy for a whole month (I doubt I hit anything, my father, the gunner, quipped), sitting ducks for the Luftwaffe.

In fact, my father was lucky to make it back in one piece. Apart from the fact he went on the Arctic convoys eleven times, which was extremely hazardous, one of his stories involved the blackout before DDay began. A German plane flew overhead and they heard it dropping bombs in the water. One, two, three, my dad was counting in his head. The plane flew past, four, five six, he breathed out in relief as the plane flew away. From the base of the ship, someone shouted, Cor, I f***ing prayed. My dad, who was devoutly religious always laughed at that. If I'd gone to meet my Maker, he used to say, I'd have been saying three...

They were so brave. And so unassuming. All just doing their bit.

With the advent of the internet (how he would have loved the internet!), I can of course, now find out much more. I have come across maps which pinpoint the Scourge's position. But it is so frustrating not knowing exactly how or why he came to be there.

I do wish I has asked the right questions.

But I think perhaps he wasn't quite ready to tell.

Holding out for a Hero

Look it's Super Dad...
Whose Dad is it?
Wow it's mine...

Thus went the legend of no 3's Father's Day card last year.

Given that Spouse has brainwashed them with comic book heroes since they were tiny, it's no wonder that that's how they view him.

My dad was equally keen on comic book heroes, and maybe that's how we all view our dads when we're young - a cross between Superman and Dr Who. We know he'll always be there for us. The hero in our home.

Some time when I was probably around 13, I stopped looking at my parents through the starry eyes of a child, and fixed them instead with the coldly unforgiving stare of a teenager. (No 1 is beginning to eye us up in similar fashion - oh dear.) Though I never stopped loving him, I began to realise my hero had feet of clay.

Angry Bear
Yet Gentle Lamb.
Schizophrenic Dad.

Was how I summed it up in a haiku poem I had to write at school.

My father had an unpredictable temper, and his mood swings were swift and sudden. When in a good mood, he was the life and soul of the party, but there was always a tension - would I do something to set off that rage?

Actually. I didn't, or not very often. I hated confrontation, so I always took the no response, head down, don't argue back approach. Not so Mad Twin. But that's her story, not mine.

But during my teens, I can remember being very critical of him. Particularly when he vented his anger on my mother. It seemed so unfair, generally. And I used to get cross with her for just apparently taking it. It wasn't until I got married myself, that I understood their dynamic better. She was used to his storms, and would just let them blow over. Nine times out of ten he was terribly apologetic. And on the tenth time she would keep up silent pressure until he eventually capitulated. I thought back then, that he always got his own way. Now I think it was probably the other way round.

For women, our first experience of loving a man is our father. Depending on the kind of man he is, we get a template to either reject or embrace for life.

At nineteen, when I left home, I was quite deliberately rejecting my father's template. I didn't want to be with someone as unpredictable and angry as he was. Within weeks of leaving I had (did I but know it then) encountered the hero who would take me away from all that (I am not going to go into that here,though, as I know he wouldn't like it).

When it came to the choice, I thought I was making a very different one. And in many ways I have. Spouse isn't particularly literary, though he likes books; he's into cars, my father wasn't; and most importantly, he's very even tempered.

But...

My childhood memories are peppered with pictures of my father taking care of me. If I had a sore throat, he made the best hot toddies with honey lemon and brandy. Once, I remember coming home soaking and frozen having walked three miles in the snow, and he was waiting with hot soup and sandwiches. He did looking after incredibly well.

He always stood up for me if he thought someone had treated me unfairly. I can remember once how outraged he was that I only got a B+ for a story I'd written instead, of the mark he would have given it (A-). My teacher had marked me down for my bad handwriting. I didn't mind. But he did.

Another time I clashed very badly with a thoroughly useless and nasty Maths teacher. He was threatening to put me in the CSE class. I wasn't that good at maths, but probably not that bad either. I had to beg Father not to go into school all guns blazing. NO teacher was going to behave like that to a daughter of his. I was of course, mortified, at the time, but I look back now in grateful awe. It's quite something to inspire that righteous anger, I can tell you.

And though he could be immensely dense about the way the mind of a teenage girl worked, wondering why we dissolved into floods when he innocently inquired about the spot we'd been trying to cover up, he was just fantastic when the chips were down. The first time I ever got ditched, I walked home and obeying my mother's strictures that I wasn't to be melodramatic (and god forbid, cry), I kept my lip firmly stiff and up, until my father asked if I was allright. My hurt pride took solace in his open arms, as my father told me firmly that it was my boyfriend's loss.

Several years after I was married, I had one summer where I was taken very ill. I felt low and miserable, and went to speak to my mother on the phone. Father usually took the, you want to talk to your mother approach to phone conversations, but that day she was out. He had a well developed emotional antenna and stripped through my defences to the distress underneath.Within hours a bunch of flowers had arrived. Gold roses. Of course.

I see Spouse doing all these things with my kids and it makes me smile. He is very much the hero of their lives, and no 4 has already declared her intention to marry him when she grows up. I hope they all hold out for a hero. And get the ones they deserve, just like I was lucky enough to.

I was holding out for a hero.

And they were both there. All the time.

No wonder I write romantic fiction.