Forgot to mention yesterday that when I went into Waterstone's in Guildford, I was thrilled to see five copies (five!!!) of Pink Champagne and Apple Juice on the shelf. At eye level too, good grief. (Normally any of my books are placed on the bottom level, no matter if that is alphabetically correct or not, or in a box behind the counter as the bookshop is so traumatised by actually having them in at all ...) Not only that but they were actually facing outwards. A miracle has occurred indeed. I was utterly ecstatic! However, my joy was dashed a couple of hours later (if you remember, I'd been writing, m'dears ...) when I came back downstairs to discover that they'd been reshelved so it was strictly spines only. Bugger. Oh the agony.
I then spent a few seconds searching my conscience, found it was out to lunch, so took one copy of Champers and placed it face outward on top of Graham Hurley's latest. Well, bloody hell, he's a bestseller - the bugger doesn't need the sales. I most certainly do!
Fuelled by that deceit, I have done the same today in Godalming Waterstone's with A Bottle of Plonk, though I'm sorry to say I couldn't do it for The Moon's Complexion as the darn thing was too tightly shelved, and groaning and pulling the whole shelf out might have caused too much of a kerfuffle. Even for me. Still, at least I'm doing my bit for The Golden Gals. In my fashion.
Talking of which, I suspect this may be just me, but bookshops are a nightmare rollercoaster of agony and ecstasy for me at the moment, and have been for some time really. I love them of course - all those lovely little treasures to get my hands on and read - what could be nicer? But at the same time, I am frothing at the mouth, weeping and green with sick envy, thinking why oh why can't some of these be mine, and centrally sourced because the bookshop wants them, rather than being forced to order them in because of our begging?. God, but it's a nightmare. Honestly, entering a bookshop these days is like eating too much cheese - I love it but it just brings me out in hives. Deep, deep sigh ...
Oh, and here's yesterday's poem about bats:
The bat detector
Bats swoop and swirl
across twilight skies.
We watch and wonder as
the man with the detector
points the oblong box upward,
catches the pulse of their
calling, each beat a myriad
unheard notes as wild and lilting
as the flight which forms
them. See how they swing
faster as they track their helpless
prey, blink the sound
into silence when the chase
is done. May our flight
too be as full and free
as the bats which dazzle us
once, before being lost
in the trees tonight.
Anyway, to cheer me up, I've played another ace game of golf this morning - hurrah! - and I think I've gained my best score ever. Double hurrah! I even parred the last one. My, how I love a big finish.
I've also popped into see Gladys, who's cheery but tired. Much like me last week, really. I didn't stay long as she obviously wanted to rest, but it was nice to catch up, as I've missed her over the last couple of weeks. Whenever I've called round, she's been hiding - but I fooled her this time by calling when she was in the kitchen so she couldn't escape in time. Aha! I am indeed the Evil Pastoral Visitor. Cue manic laughter ...
This afternoon, I've typed up yesterday section to The Bones of Summer - and Craig and Paul have at last left Devon and are back in London, hurrah! They seem to have been down there for weeks, though they've only had an overnight stay, and it's great to be back on more familiar territory. For all of us. Phew. What the bloody hell happens now though? Lord knows - but I'll think of something. I hope.
Tonight, it's pizza, garlic bread, ice cream and wine - bliss. And I'm going to watch TV till my brain explodes. It's good to have a plan.
And I've (finally!) finished reading Jill McNish's Transforming Shame: a Pastoral Response. Lord, but it was very technical - more for the theologian or psychiatrist than for us bods on the street, really. Though it did have one or two high points - I particularly liked her reinterpretation of the parables of the loaves & fishes. In which the basketfuls of crumbs etc gathered up afterwards aren't a meaningless addition to an already complex visual & narrative symbol, but the parts of our personalities that we want to get rid of or hide, but God wants to keep and cherish. I liked that. A bloody lot. It means something. Which may in fact be the first religious revelatory moment I've had for months of course ...
Today's nice things: