The terrors of snow … and clingfilm

Yikes! Is it just me or does the sight of snow fill other people with fear and oppression? Oh. Right. It is just me then. Ah well. I did think it was more than ridiculously cold last night – so much so that Lord H took pity on me, as I grabbed my bedsocks, dressing gown and hot water bottle, and finally condescended to get the winter duvet out. At last! At last! Not that he actually put it inside the duvet cover though. No, he simply laid it on top of the one we were already in. So I can see there may well be more struggles ahead in terms of personal heat maintenance …

This morning, I had my usual fight with the clingfilm we currently have whilst trying to wrap Lord H’s sandwiches. I don’t know what’s wrong with this batch, but each time I try to tear a slice off, it rips, divides itself into two and starts to fight back. It ends up in my hair, on my neck or wrapped round my sleeves – anywhere but the ruddy sandwich. What’s wrong with it? Does it have issues? Does it really want to be kitchen foil or a Tupperware box, and therefore feels trapped in its actual status? It’s a mystery, but I’m beginning to talk to it to try to soothe its wounded feelings. And I fear that it’s only a matter of time before it talks back. The only way of getting it to play ball is to get Lord H to do it. When he hears the screaming (mine) from the kitchen, he rushes in, wrestles the clingfilm holder to the floor, somehow manages to find a slice that hasn’t been ripped to shreds by my efforts, tears me off a decent amount and sticks the top of it to the shelf so I can simply pull it off (as it were) when needed. A couple of weeks ago, he even stuck five pieces along the shelf during one weekend for ease of use as the following week went by. Which meant my mornings were relatively calm and lovely. Unfortunately, he hasn’t had the time since then, but I live in hope. And I’m looking forward to starting a new batch of the darn stuff, which might be more amenable. Ye gods, I really do need to get out more.

None of this excitement stopped the snow that came upon us in the night of course. Very pretty of course, but not if you have to go out in the darn stuff. Though actually it wasn’t that slippery – more like thick layers of fluffy sugar on the car. And by the time I’d got to work, the boys with the brooms had already been out, clearing the paths and adding grit, so the Estates & Facilities department win the Superhero Medal of the week. So far. Not that Lord H is that far behind though – especially as he did brush the snow off the outside stairs this morning, to save the pain of struggling up them tonight.

Ooh, and Clayton (http://www.myspace.com/dwbsoho) has asked me how last night’s Guildford Writers (http://www.guildfordwriters.net) meeting went. I enjoyed it actually. Thanks for asking, Clayton. There were a fair number there, but they all had good stuff to read – all novels, except me with my flash fiction pieces. It was nice to get back into the swing of it again and, even though I still hate reading my stuff out – it makes me feel so darn vulnerable and not even half as good as everyone else – it was as always very useful to get comments, especially on the second piece, which needed to be cut down to below 100 words. They managed this, with words to spare, so many thanks for that, GWs. I also think it was good for me to get out and do something else, apart from worrying about personal stuff. And I do so love hearing what everyone else is writing and making what I hope are useful comments on it. We also have a laugh, which is nice. I need that too. Perhaps next time, I’ll try and be brave and take some of “The Gifting” along, if I can bear the thought. You never know … Funny how the novels always feel so intensely personal, whereas the shorter pieces and the poetry don’t – and that in spite of the poetry talking about subjects and feelings far more supposedly “personal” to me. Maybe I’m just a dab hand at displacement.

Today, I’ve been proactive in terms of sorting myself out and ordered a SAD light from Britebox (http://www.britebox.co.uk) in the hope that it might help these winter glooms. Goodness, that makes me feel in control of things – almost! It’s supposed to arrive within the next couple of days, so I hope the instructions are easy and that it doesn’t fuse the flat. And if you hear that I’ve been dancing in the streets of Godalming, you’ll know it works.

Oh, and Lord H’s artwork to show a happy rabbit under a SAD light is this:

OOOO
^^^^^^^^

=:-)

One day, I swear, I’ll produce a booklet of Lord H’s computer art. It’ll be a wow. And especially meaningful now in what is National Rabbit Week (http://www.nationalrabbitweek.co.uk). How I wish we could have an office rabbit, like we used to have a school hen when I was young. That would be soooo good. Still, not to be, I suspect. Perhaps Wayne (http://www.myspace.com/wblackhurst) will give us more photos of his rabbits sometime soon, and I can slake my thirst on that. Over to you, Wayne …

At lunch, I went to the first of my back strengthening courses at the Sports Centre. I shall find my inner core if it kills me. Actually I thoroughly enjoyed it, though I’m very achy right now. Lots of very useful floor exercises and also with using one of those large exercise balls. I was terrified of mine at first (I’m sure it was glaring at me) but I ended up loving it. The trainer is going to give us homework to do while we’re on the course (it’s five weeks), so I am aiming for the perfect back. Which might be a dream too far for a writer? I was rather amused though at the beginning when we had to stand next to a wall and see how far we could put our hands between our backs and the wall itself. M’dears, I could have got an elephant through. And its accompanying relatives. But sadly you’re only supposed to be able to put your fingers through the gap. Ah well. At least I give the trainer a lot to work with.

This evening, I have been shopping and then, tonight, I’m hoping to look at the edits for those flash fiction pieces and get the first draft down of that poem I started on yesterday. I do have this sneaking suspicion though that the “poem” might well turn out to be more fictional in form. I’ll have to see. Perhaps a writing thought for later? You never know.

Today’s nice things:

1. Clingfilm teamwork with Lord H
2. Ordering a SAD light
3. Planning some writing for tonight.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com

Meeting Manipulator

Ye gods, my feet haven’t touched the ground today. Which, I have to admit, is a thousand times better than being depressed and slow as yesterday was. I have arranged extraordinary meetings just in case we weren’t having enough meetings in the original schedule, put on a new meeting just to keep the punters on their toes, cancelled a meeting that nobody could be bothered to attend, and am working towards rescheduling it just in case their interest might have awakened later on. And along with all this, I have hustled for rooms and equipment, dealt with catering, completed the minutes I started yesterday and drafted a plethora of agendas just in case some darn fool out there might want to attend an additional and as yet unformattable meeting if they have a spare half hour. That’ll show ’em. Of course, I may well have forgotten something absolutely vital in the middle of it all (anyone seen the Registrar? – is he waiting for a meeting …?), but I doubt anyone will notice as their meetings will flow so smoothly (ha!) from one to the other that nobody will see the join. In my ruddy dreams, eh?… The life of a minutes secretary is a real rollercoaster, you know.

Lunchtime was spent chairing the next UniSWriters meeting. Another meeting – gosh! Nobody had done much work over the holidays, although Alan produced an utterly wonderful start to a story about a cantankerous but charming llama. Called Rasputin. Hope he finishes it, as I’m desperate to know what happens. It’s a Watership Down tale but for llamas. Yes, we do have them in Surrey, you know. Llamas, that is. Sadly, people here can actually go llama-walking in the Surrey Hills. Seems bizarre to me though. Oh, and we did a rather useful writing exercise on emotional tone and perspective, which I gleaned from the terrifying Mslexia Magazine (so it’s not all bra-burning and poetic obscurity then …). Everyone produced really good stuff from it, and I think I might even have got the skeleton of a poem I’ll work up later. We’ll see.

Tonight, I’m off to Guildford Writers (http://www.guildfordwriters.net) for the usual fortnightly meeting (argh!! Not another meeting – please, please, somebody take me away from all this!...). Think I feel well enough to go this time too. But I’m really not up to reading out anything from the novel, so have printed out a couple of pieces of flash fiction to take. I hope that will do. I do so hate reading stuff out – it never gets any easier, more’s the pity.

Oh, and it’s been the boss’s birthday today, so we’ve had chocolate cakes and baklava. Hurrah!

Today’s nice things:

1. Being busy
2. UniSWriters
3. Cake.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com

Oranges and poetry

Well, the combination just has to be good for you. And today oranges are the only fruit. Or at least they are in the Lord H/Brooke household, where the supply of apples and bananas has reached the vanishing point. And no chance of me getting to the shops before Wednesday. Ah well. I do have a small supply of dried apricots, so should still be able to keep scurvy at bay.

The usual Monday morning drag today. It was an effort being awake, let alone attempting to look like a competent administrator. I think it’s the same for everyone though, as we were all heads down and no talking. Or perhaps we were all actually asleep and the typing noise was simply everyone’s noses rebounding off the keyboard. Wouldn’t surprise me, but I couldn't be arsed to turn round and check.

Took the minutes for the Wellbeing Group at lunchtime. It was a bit fluid, but we do have some ideas - hurrah! One of which is the Students' Union coming up with the goods once more. They're organising a "Know Yourself" month during February and March, with a focus on mental wellbeing and self-awareness. Sounds great to me - luckily staff are included, so we won't have to chain ourselves to the door and beg to be let in to the fun stuff again. That'll make a change.

This afternoon, I found myself sinking into a slough of despond again, and only managed to drag two pages of the minutes out of my notes and up onto the screen - when really I could easily have got the whole lot done. Got quite tearful a couple of times, but I don't think my immediate colleagues noticed. Thank God. I do hate explanations which involve weeping. Mine, that is. Though Sally from Student Advice did pop in and had a lovely chat with me - I can always talk to her (thank you, Sally!) - and we've arranged to go for coffee when we're both free in a couple of weeks' time, so that will be nice. Apparently, this may not - for once! - be all my own fault though, as today is supposed to be the most depressed day of the year. Bloody hell - I didn't know there was a rule. Think we should have been warned! Still, at least Lord H sent virtual hugs through the email, which are always appreciated, as in: (((Anne))). He's a genius with the keyboard ...

Oh, and I made two important decisions last night – mainly for my own mental wellbeing, let alone anyone else’s. I’ve decided to stop putting “Maloney’s Law” in the marketplace and have offered it to the Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) Gang. One reply is keen so far (thanks, Irene!), but no response from the others yet. But don’t get too excited if the answer is yes, as it’ll take its place in the queue along with everything else, so I imagine the back end of 2008, at the very earliest. But there's lots of other good Goldenford stuff coming before then, so don’t forget to save up for the best books in the south!

And I’ve decided to self-publish another poetry collection – my last one was in 2004, so it’s about time for another, I think. I’m not going to wait for any more small publishers not to respond (there’s really no point trying the main poetry publishers – unless you’re related to Hughes or Plath, they don’t even bother replying …), so I’ve sent an email to Poetry Monthly Press (http://www.poetrymonthly.com) to see if they’re interested in printing it. They run a small self-publishing facility for poets, and it would be nice to get something out there this year that I can at least control. And it’ll have some award-winning and magazine-published pieces in, so probably worth a couple of quid or so. And hey stop press on this - Martin Holroyd from PMP has asked me to send him a floppy disc of the collection, which I'm calling "A Stranger's Table" after one of the poems in it. So I've spent tonight getting it organised and copied to disc. It's now wrapped in an envelope within an envelope ready for posting tomorrow. I hope he agrees to let it go through his system, as I know he doesn't take everything.

Ooh, and the lovely Sue Haywood has decided to opt for playtime advertising of "Pink Champagne and Apple Juice", a picture of which you can see here: http://www.teafriendsandchocolate.com/sue/ - under her blog of today's date. Great picture, Sue! Thank you very much! Not sure what Health & Safety would say though ...

And Lord H (bless him!) has bought apples and bananas, to add to our orange supply - so they're not the only fruit after all ...

Today’s nice things:

1. Making two publication decisions
2. Getting through Monday - thank God!
3. Seeing the picture on Sue's site.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com

Mad priests and birthday lists

Went to church today in a fairly neutral frame of mind. Lord H was serving and doing prayers, so I was happily sitting in a pew on my own when our lay reader came to sit next to me. A lovely gesture on her part, no doubt, but actually I would have been happier alone. Still, they're not to know that. And I can honestly say that I did have every intention of going up to communion, but the really appalling sermon the Very Reverend Alex preached was just so bloody inhumane that I decided that no way on earth was I going to take communion from such a out-and-out tosser. Though I probably should have been warned when I saw it was him; I'm sure he's pissed me off with ridiculously narrow-minded and downright cruel sermons before. Anyway, today's effort was a jumbled journey through various terrible things which happen to people, culminating in a story about a young widow whose husband had dropped dead at the age of 31, and when she'd turned to help from the nearest priest, this piss-stupid individual had said that she should be comforted that her husband had been taken as God had work for him to do in heaven. Words fail me!! Apparently these were supposed to be words of comfort which brought hope and a changed attitude to the unfortunate widow in question, and inspiration for us all. Well, bollocks to that is what I say. If any damnfool cleric is ever stupid enough to say such arrant and cruel nonsense to me, I shall kick him in the goolies and stuff his pectoral cross down his throat. What the bloody hell is the church thinking of by giving us such inhumane idiots as the Very Reverend gentleman?? Mind you, perhaps they are trying to promote him out of harm's way where he can do the least damage? I say just stick a red-hot poker up his arse and have done with it. I'll be first in line. And no ambulances. Please God bring us normal priests who know that grief is grief and should be respected - and felt - as such, and not smoothed away (as if it bloody well could be!) with honeyed "christian" nonsense. Honestly, I am getting more and more fed up with the church - and if that's the way I'm supposed to believe and the kind of God I'm supposed to believe in, then frankly I'm not interested in either. Give me humanity any day. And, in my opinion, the Good Lord Himself would probably kick a few arses and feel the same.

However, there is some good news about today: Lord H has finally succumbed to marital pressure and given me a birthday list (his birthday is in February) so I can actually buy something he wants. Each year, I have to chip away with my special nagging tools until I get some kind of an answer, but this year he has surpassed himself; instead of leaving the list on the dining-room table without talking about it in the usual manner, he wrote two items on a post-it note and stuck it in the doorway of the spare room. I walked past it several times, thinking it was some theological note with a phone number of someone he needed to call - until taking a closer look revealed it as a list in his usual undecipherable handwriting with an ISBN number at the top. Marital communication is indeed a complete mystery to us both. As you can see. It also worries me that the second item he wants is an origami kit. Oh Lord, is he going to start making a model of St Paul's out of folded paper? I sincerely hope not ...

Have written a poem about our night out yesterday - obviously it's such a rare occurence that I was moved to verse. Nothing deep here - it's basically just what I saw while we were eating, but here it is anyway:

Night out, The Seahorse, January 2007

At the neighbouring table,
framed by wood and window,
a family browses through
an Eyewitness Guide
to somewhere.

The man gets drinks,
collates supper orders
while the woman smiles
at her children.
They do not notice:

the girl, long hair
flicked back,
writes slowly in a blue notebook,
perhaps describing her trip
or imagining the one to come;

meanwhile her younger brother,
frowning over his mini chess-set,
dark eyelashes quivering,
ponders the future
in black and white.

Another Saturday night
in Surrey,
a good weekend
this time.

Most of this afternoon, I've spent reading and finishing off Lisa Gardner's "Gone". Great thriller stuff. Firmly based within the genre, yes, but still a good read as the characters were very well drawn. And a great page-turner. I'd recommend it, and I'll look out for more of hers in the future. Have to admit also here that I had planned to watch "Swan Lake" on the TV this afternoon as it seemed an ideal Sunday activity, but when push came to shove it just seemed way too worthy and I couldn't be arsed. No changes there then. In the meantime, Lord H is burning incense in preparation for the jamboree next week when St Peter's welcomes its new vicar. Yes, sadly, we do have church incense in the house. The winter evenings fly by. God, I hope the new boy isn't another VR Alex. Lord preserve us all indeed ... but I'm not holding out much hope.

Tonight, we're going to slob in front of our video of "Midsomer Murders", whilst eating Gingerbread Men (bought of course). Bliss. Rubbish detectives kick ballet into touch any day.

And this week's haiku (in honour of my first dance class) is:

While we waltz, music
whispers to our skin, gentles
us into rhythm.

Today's nice things:

1. Coming home from bloody church
2. Reading
3. TV.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Fruitcake and Ver-ses

Following on from yesterday's National Insurance sad person's issues, I must say that when Lord H came home last night after work, I told him the story of my conversation with the Tax Office, and he at once came out with the correct version of not only his own National Insurance number, but mine also. Yes, folks, we are indeed the perfect example of sad Mr Accountant and His Wife. We really ought to get out more ...

And as usual the Church Times arrived with yesterday's post. The top story on Page Two was of a man who has spent three years building a four foot high replica of St Paul's Cathedral. In a fruitcake. With icing. After Lord H and I had finished shrieking with laughter and rolling about on the floor clutching our stomachs, we had to agree the following: (a) it's nice to know that some people are even sadder than ourselves; (b) it may indeed be a cunning plan actually to replace St Paul's with a fruitcake replica, life-size, at some stage, and this is only the working model. This, to my mind, could only be a good thing - as every time in my life I've visited St Paul's I've always been told either to stop talking or to leave. They are not the friendly face of the Church. A fruitcake version may be more socially useful; (c) there is at last proof that the Church does provide an important function towards society, as it's obviously where they put the mad folk. At least the streets of the UK are safe on Sunday mornings.

Oh, and I forgot to say that I finally got round to visiting poor Gladys yesterday. Post the storm, she was very shaky indeed. We spent some time having the same conversation about Christmas that we had before - but, as Lord H says, at least she does know Christmas has happened, which can only be a good thing. And she seemed more deaf than usual, so I was in full shouting mode to ensure she heard me. Unfortunately, the thing with shouting is you grow quickly used to it, so when Gladys' fully hearing neighbour came round to tell us something domestic about the garage, I found I was shouting at her too, and couldn't seem to switch into normal voice levels at all. Still, I suspect the neighbour must be used to this, but she did step back a few paces with the shock to start with; I don't have a quiet voice in the best of circumstances. Ah well.

This morning, I've been reading through my Coping with Change course notes, and embedding some of that very useful stuff in. Or trying to. I've also jotted down a useful reading list for future reference, although already Lord H has nipped out in full marital support mode and bought one of them for me - Susan Jeffers' "Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway". What a sweetie he is. And, much to my delight, it seems that one of my poems, "Sundays", has been accepted by the Ver Poets short poetry anthology, which should be out during February, so that's something to look forward to. I've also entered for a couple more poetry competitions today in my usual monthly routine. Which makes me feel that I've achieved something useful in the writing world, even though I haven't actually done any writing.

Had an utterly delicious nap this afternoon - well, submitting stuff to competitions is sooooo exhausting, m'dears ... And tonight Lord H is taking me out for an airing - we've having a meal at one of our local pubs, The Seahorse in Bramley. This is truly exciting as we'll be able to find out if they are likely to have fishcakes (one of Lord H's favourites) on the menu this year - each time we go, they're always "off". Perhaps 2007 will be their year? You never know ...

Today's nice things:

1. Getting a poem in the Ver Poets anthology
2. Thinking through my course notes
3. Dinner out with Lord H.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Teeing up in the mud

Whirled round the Godalming shops today like a dervish, and even had enough courage to go into the boy motor shop in order to get more oil for my car. Not that it is a boy motor shop, you understand, but it is a motor shop, so full of boys. Mind you, as I was wearing trousers and a woolly hat, they may not have known the difference, especially with my grandfather's nose. Darn it. However, being a girl in spite of it all, I did have to stand in front of the oil shelves and take out my diary to check the exact type of oil I needed, even though I had memorised it before entering. They may well have cottoned on to my gender at that point - as of course boys don't have diaries. They have funny electronic things they can poke at (as it were), if they have anything at all. Or they are born knowing oil types as part of the species. It's hard to say. There were several smirks while I paid for it at the counter, but I frowned and refused to make eye contact, so honour of some kind was satisfied. Probably.

Back at home, I tackled The Gifting again with the kind of sinking heart that says: hey, babe, you can't write a novel so don't be ridiculous; or you'll never finish this, so why bother? But after the first few stabs at the keyboard and maniacal laughing, I actually managed to get a scene transmission half-page across in some kind of fashion (though I may well tweak it with vigour later), which brings me to the point where Johan (secondary character, but a key man) has to tell the story of where he's come from. I like to get my teeth into a main section, so that's good news. And - great excitement - I've thought of a cunning twist for 3/4s through which will shake everything up once more. Hurrah! Just have to write the darn stuff then ... Ay, there's the rub. And I've done (almost) another 1000 words, which cheers me. Achievement obsessive that I am.

Which brings me to teeing up in the mud. Though, come to think of it, that phrase also describes my writing life pretty damn well. Marian and I played golf in a post-storm Britain, and had fun bouncing off trees which hadn't been there last time we'd played - or at least not in that position - and landing splat in the mud, when we were hoping for something of a run-on effect. Hell, is that too much sad golfing terminology? Well, you know what I mean ... Actually, one of Marian's shots was utterly fantastic, over the ditch and curving beautifully onto the green, and looked really professional (argh! that word again! somebody beat me, now!), thus gaining a "10" in the Golf Cool stakes. Or it would have gained a 10 if I hadn't shrieked with joy at the sight of it and danced up and down with my club in the air. Hmm, bet that's not done during the Ryder Cup ...

And, talking of sad people (ie me), I was on the phone to the Tax Office today to make sure I could pay in their kind rebate cheque without fear of arrest and incarceration, and when the woman on the phone asked me to give her my National Insurance number, I found myself quoting it to her without even looking it up. Bloody hell, but that's sad. And it was right too. God, but that's even sadder. I should really get out more. Or possibly stay in more and not interfere with the day-to-day lives of normal folk.

Tonight, I'm going to do as little cleaning as possible, eat pizza and ice cream till my brain explodes and drink lots of red wine. It's good for my heart, apparently. But who the bloody hell cares about that?

Oh, and good news on the reading front - Roger Morris (http://rogersplog.blogspot.com) has another book out soon - "The Gentle Axe" - which, as a tip-off, will definitely be worth reading. His first book, "Taking Comfort", is seriously hot stuff and everyone should buy it. It's classy, readable and - to me - like an English version of Murakami. You heard it here first.

Today's nice things:

1. Writing more of The Gifting
2. Golf shrieking
3. Impressing the Tax Office.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Strictly Come Coursing

Today, I've attended not one, but two courses in the search for self-improvement, and jolly good they were too. Ye gods, but I've actually had a good day. The age of miracles is not dead. And speak it softly on the street corners but I think I might actually feel happy - it's hard to say as I can't really remember what the feeling is like, but I've heard rumours ... But (being me) I have to ask: how long will it last?... Pessimist that I am.

The full day course of today as organised by work was Coping with Change - and bloody hell but I got a lot out of that. Various highlights spring to mind, including: drawing a lifeline for ourselves to note key points in our lives and times when we were happy or sad. I seem to have spent a lot of time being unhappy, with key high times being academic success at school or university and getting married to Lord H. It was especially interesting that being married to said Lord H has given me the longest running bout of general happiness ever in my life. Three cheers for the man indeed! It also struck me that even the bad times didn't last for ever, so the three key points which came out of that particular exercise for me were: (a) Everything changes; (b) Bad times don't last; and (c) Marriage is nice. Okay, not the deepest revelations ever, but they suited me. We also watched a video about how to find where our happiness lies and how to keep up with where it is, as what makes us happy changes too. Which isn't something I've thought of before. So I have to learn to keep an eye on that, so I'm not doing something just because it was okay in the past - as it has to be okay now too. Simple ideas, but effective. I think I'm going to spend some of my weekend going over my notes again and taking it in more. Self-awareness and planning for being on an even keel - somehow! - is perhaps the key.

Also astonishingly, I also managed to do some writing networking which ended up with the course presenter asking for my personal and Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) business cards. I even had them on me - which is another marvel. Sometimes, even I can look vaguely like a professional (but don't panic - I'm sure it won't last).

And straight after work, I've gone to my first ballroom/Latin American beginners' dance lesson - with a friend, Keith, from Woking. Neither his partner, Brian, nor Lord H were keen so it seemed like the ideal solution! Though there were some scuffles as to who would wear the glittery frock ... I picked K up from home and we had fun poring over his naked rugby calendar before we set off - verdict: not as good as last year's but what the heck, it's still naked men and you can't go wrong with that. And, hey, but the dance class was genuine fun, and we weren't bad at all, in my opinion. I think we might be able to discover our inner rhythm before too long at this rate. You never know. Tonight's dance was the waltz - which is more exhausting than you would think, and goodness me but my right arm was very tired indeed by the end of the lesson - all that keeping it straight out sideways, you know. I'm not very strong - obviously ... And it was only for an hour! Yes, I am a wimp.

Have just finished reading Maggie O'Farrell's "After You'd Gone". Ye gods, but it's bloody marvellous (though I could have done with a slightly stronger ending). I was gripped for 75% of the time and in tears for the remaining 25%. Which meant it didn't matter at all that the plot was obvious and could be seen coming from several miles away at all points - as I was so swept away by the power and emotion of it. I can definitely recommend it.

Today's nice things:

1. The Coping with Change course
2. Going waltzing
3. Catching up with Keith & Brian.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com

Counselling and chicken soup

A day off work today, as I'm in tomorrow instead for a course. I really struggled to get out of bed this morning - don't laugh, as it's very difficult when you have a huge black ball of depression in your stomach which you are forced to carry around with you. It gets in the way of everyday life, such as washing, dressing and drying one's hair. I'm actually thinking of sending a letter to Marks & Spencer in Guildford asking if they'll consider making a Depressives' designer range - which would include lots of items in black or dark blue (oh - that is the sum total of my wardrobe so, hurrah, I'm halfway there already ...) with large front pockets in which to put your depression ball. It would be so much handier. I'm sure it would be a success for them. We have a lot of depressives in Surrey. It's because it's so dull.

Which brings me, somehow, to today's counselling session. Kunu has once again worked a marvel in little under an hour. I started my session feeling as low as shit and wondering where I could put my db (see above), but she managed to get me talking as to why I thought I was so low all of a sudden. Answer: I've been hyper and slightly out-of-control (hell, that's a surprise - not ...) for the last few days, so I've been gearing up for a fall. Don't I know it. And then yesterday's difficult moment at work plunged me right back into the drama of my childhood self (ie of being the one with no friends, a shed-load of enemies and no idea as to how you change one to the other), which I've been re-enacting ever since. Ye gods, but primary school was shit. One little upset now, and I'm back in the land of Billy-No-Mates. Still, and miraculously, talking about this to Kunu actually cheered me up, and the resulting rebirth of my energy levels sent me soaring again. So we have decided that I need to plan practical strategies for coping with the down times and the up times, and keeping things simple during both. Hmm, so no pressure then (joke!). And for our next set of six sessions, we're going to focus in on my trigger points of childhood and family. Oh, I can see my Spring is going to be a barrel of laughs indeed. But it makes sense though - just hope I can manage the ride. And this week's counselling homework? - I have to find things that help me to feel calm. That should be fun ...

Back home, I've decided not to visit Gladys today, as I don't think I'm up to it, so I ferreted round my cupboards for some lunch instead. The choices involved either chicken soup or ... um, chicken soup. After a lot of thought, I chose the chicken soup option, as it seemed the best way forward. Good choice. But I added chocolate afterwards too, so all was not lost. During lunch, Lord H also rang from work to ask how his lunch was - which he'd carefully wrapped and left in the kitchen this morning. I said it was fine and would certainly be fully defrosted by the time he next saw it. So that'll save the daily battle with the carving knife tomorrow then.

This afternoon, I've thought about my novel but not done anything about it (sorry, Caroline ...), deciding instead to do some writing purely for enjoyment. Hey - result! So I've done another (longer) piece of flash fiction - about a marriage proposal of all things - and have also sent one of yesterday's pieces, which I've revamped, off to a flash fiction website (http://www.birdandmoon.com) just in case my luck is in. We'll see, but I'm endeavouring to expect nothing, and to keep calm. Hurrah.

A feeling which has not been helped by logging into my work emails and seeing the amount of shit which lies in wait for me tomorrow ... Oh God. And I'll have so little time to deal with it all due to my all-day course. Damn and bloody damn. Perhaps, one of my first methods of keeping calm is not to look at work emails while I'm not there. Kunu will be pleased ...

Oh, and after some discussion on the Writewords (http://www.writewords.org.uk) site, I think we've agreed that in actual fact commercial publishers do not exist: it's all a scam run by nefarious agents who soft-soap our fevered brows and send our work off to the great dustbin in the sky before sitting down with their gins and laughing at us in the style of Big Brother. Either that or I'm actually living in an alternative universe where no outside communication is ever received. From anyone. I mean, hey you guys, even a "no" would be appreciated, as long as it's a simple one with no la-de-dah crap attached. It would help put poor old "Thorn in the Flesh" - which my agent sent out to a plethora of places in August last, and which since then has garnered nowt but a terrible silence - out of its misery at last.

Hey ho, time for a calming moment, I think. As if. Hell, maybe it's time for a nap.

Today's nice things:

1. Counselling
2. Laughing and pointing at Lord H's lunch
3. Writing another piece of flash fiction.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Reflexology, religion and guilt

A dull day in the office today. Most people were out in the morning and I was the only chicken left for a while. Last one out turn the lights off, eh?... Managed to get some more minutes sorted and continued reading about religions and higher education. Today’s focus: Christianity. The content of the brochure didn’t fill me with much confidence though, especially as the writer appeared to be splitting hairs between the religion of Jesus (aka live as the historical Jesus lived) and the religion about Jesus (aka live with Jesus as an inner spiritual presence). Well, that’ll muddle the pew-dwellers for sure. Ye gods, what’s wrong with having both? Why does everything have to be an either/or situation? And what the hell does it all mean anyway?? I know I’m not very keen on the whole Christianity circus right now, but even I know that’s not an issue that keeps the Pope (or indeed the Archbishop) awake at night. It makes me wonder about the accuracy of the other brochures though …

Anyway, the desert of the day was punctuated by the oasis of reflexology at lunchtime. Much-needed bliss. Wish the therapist might be able to make me feel better about the ruddy publishing world, as well as physically, while she’s at it. But I accept that may well be beyond her remit, or even skills.

Tonight, it’s our first Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) meeting of 2007, and I’m supposed to be doing the minutes as usual. But I have to admit that I really don’t feel up to it at the moment, as yesterday’s rejection winded me and I’m still feeling raw – and not only that but my last half hour at work was spent having something of a contretemps with a colleague, which left me feeling pulped. Not that I did the sensible thing and said something reasonable about it at the time though – no, being me, I went for the laugh it off and lie option, so I now feel doubly shit. And at home, I’ve been hit by a wave of depression (hurrah – what a jolly evening I’m having, folks!) so I’m really not capable of going out tonight. Luckily one of my fellow Goldenford directors has said she’ll take minutes - so thank you hugely, Irene (http://www.thisthatfromireneblack.blogspot.com). However, I am still overcome with guilt at not going when I really should. Oh well, Dr Tim in the depression book tells me that guilt is better than resentment or exhaustion, so I suppose I’ll just have to live with it.

Oh, and I’ve written my first piece of flash fiction for a long time – which feels okay. Haven’t done that for months, possibly years. At least it makes me feel like I’m being creative in a fictional sense, rather than staring at my novel and weeping at the hopelessness of it all. Bloody hell, never say I don’t over-emote. Anyway, here is the piece:

Telephone list:
When the phone rang, she smiled. He always rang on Fridays. Today his call was not unwelcome. Stepping over congealing blood and just a hint of smashed bone, she picked up the receiver. ‘Good morning. May I help you?’ After a pause, she spoke again. ‘Oh yes. You were next on my list of people to see,’ she said. ‘Do come round.’

Oh, and for good measure, here’s another one:

The lesson:

‘What do you mean you don’t have the instructions?’ Grimes hissed, glancing at the couples passing by on the lane only a few yards away. Miranda felt her face redden. ‘I thought you had them,’ she whispered. ‘Aren’t you always telling me you’ll take care of the technical stuff?’ ‘Yes, but …’ he paused and she watched spittle form at the corners of his mouth. ‘How are we going to get the stash if we don’t know where it’s hidden?’ ‘I dunno,’ she shrugged. ‘We’ll have to search for it, I suppose.’ With a sigh, Grimes leaned over and began to rummage in the nearest dustbin. ‘Stupid cow,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll teach you a lesson later for sure.’ Miranda just smiled and felt her fingers close round the cold, metal bar in her pocket.

Today’s nice things (you see, Elle – I remembered!):

1. Reflexology
2. Writing two pieces of flash fiction
3. Not being at work right now.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com

Ratings and rejections

Another day with an okay centre and a bloody bad ending. Ye gods, you'd think I'd be used to it by now - but no. Still at least all the crap is firming up my decision not to put my next novel out to the commercial marketplace. Believe me, it's not worth the hassle. I think these days I'd most definitely advise any halfway decent writer to self-publish or set up their own company with like-minded friends, and give the whole bloody commercial (ha! so-called) publishing world a wide berth.

Anyway, the day started sensibly enough - I spent most of it typing up the minutes I took last week at the Nursery Management Group meeting, and sorting out the boss's idiosyncratic meeting arrangements. Note to bosses everywhere: it really is far better if you just let your secretary do the organising. You don't have any abilities in this field. Trust me. And the normal grey hell of Monday took on a brighter hue as Ruth, one of my colleagues, had brought me a spare chocolate Santa left over from Christmas. Bliss indeed. Mind you, I worry about Ruth - how can anyone have "spare" chocolate? It's a mystery. But I'm not complaining, as it was two minutes of pure pleasure while I ate it.

At lunchtime, I sauntered round the lake and stared at the birds, trying to decide which was a coot and which a moorhen. Had to google it back at my desk in the end, and I now have the definitive answer: those with white beaks are coots and those with red beaks are moorhens. So now you know. And talking of birds, we have finally decided that the wonderfully lyrical bird which performs each day at 4pm outside the office window is definitely a blackbird. We checked the BBC birdsong site to find out, and it's an almost perfect match. Another mystery solved - hurrah!

And Stephanie at the Health Centre has brought me back a kiwi in a snowstorm from her trip home to New Zealand. Marvellous! I can now add it to my snowstorm/fluffy pen collection. Never say I don't have a mission in life. I also have the Holy Family in a snowstorm, and the old Pope too - so I think the kiwi will add essential secular gravitas to the desk.

Some good news on the Amazon (http://www.amazon.co.uk) front - my rating on "Pink Champagne and Apple Juice" has shot up to be only 5 figures today, so some wonderful person must have bought it. A thousand blessings upon you, and please God you enjoy it, whoever you are. I shall bask in the temporary glory to the full as, no doubt, next week I shall be back to my usual six figure rating. Ah well. And speaking of potential misery, those no-good bastards (I speak only of my opinion of course ...) at Two Ravens Press (now to be known as Two Bastards Press - and no I'm not giving you the web address as I really can't be arsed) have rejected "Maloney's Law" on the grounds that it's not literary enough for them, even though they think it's an exciting read and a good thriller. Well, up your arses then, TR(B)P - oh sorry, I see there's a broom handle already up there. That'll explain your narrow-minded stiffness. I'll say it again - bastards. Which means there's only one more publisher considering M's L now, and I utterly refuse to send it out anywhere else, as I really seriously can't take any more bloody grief about it. I've chased that particular publisher today and if they say no then I'll try Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) to see if the gang might want to consider it. Because when push comes to shove, I'm really not being beaten by these bloody narrow-minded commercial publishers who are too much up their own arses to give a good novel a chance. Oh, if I had any power, I'd make sure they all go to the wall and leave room for good, decent novels to see the light of the day, rather than the unreadable crap they make us put up with. You heard it here first - so watch this space.

Today's nice things:

1. See above for any - sorry, but I'm too angry and pissed off to do this tonight.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com

Mops, poems and tuts

Hurrah - no need to go to church today as I'm no longer doing the 8am service since giving up my role as Sacristan at Christmas, and we've never gone to the 10am Family Service anyway due to not liking choruses. Or children. Or anything written by that ruddy Graham Kendrick (the only songwriter I know of who can never manage to fit the tune to the words, no matter how much he thinks he can). Give me an old-fashioned hymn any day. At least they have depth.

So, a lazy morning followed by a lazy roast lunch and an equally lazy afternoon watching Michael J Fox in "The Secret of My Success". Cute film, though not great - but you can't really go wrong with the great Michael J. in my opinion.

In the meantime, we are having an interesting time with mops. I managed to break our mop a couple of weeks ago, and Lord H bought a new one last week, complete with spare mop parts. Ready for when I next break it, I imagine. Curiously, since that time, everywhere we go, we are followed by women bearing mops. Even in Brighton yesterday, we spotted three. Is there a national mop crisis, which I am not aware of? Or has the country been taken over by a sudden desire to keep the streets clean? Or are our womenfolk revolting with the only weapons at their disposal? Sometimes, I think I'm living in the twilight zone. Still, at least it's better than secreting illicit knives about one's person.

And, whilst I haven't been writing any fiction (poor Simon - he's still waiting for me to get him out of his current predicament ...), I have been busy with the poetry, and have managed to get two poems down this weekend. One for a Valentines Day competition in Writing Magazine (http://www.writersnews.co.uk) and one about my grandmother, which I reproduce below:

My grandmother

always thought
I was a little pagan,
someone lippy who didn’t believe
quite how she did
although our anger was the same.
She sang opera
at the kitchen sink,
songs from the shows
while stoking the fire
in cold northern mornings.
Her voice woke us
in summer holidays
filled with coal and sweet pink biscuits.

We were never quite comfortable,
she and I,
never sure how to be together.
Perhaps we didn’t try for long.
But I remember one day
in my bedroom
a bird flew over my hair,
sparking ancient childish terror.
I screamed
and the bird spun upwards and from wall to wall
in wild, unreconstructed flight,
a whirlwind of feathers and fear.

Disturbed by the noise,
my grandmother pounded upstairs,
calling my name, the note of panic
sky-clear in her voice.
The bird’s wings flapped a storm around us.
Her hand snapped out,
as fast as light or sound,
and caught it.
A quick movement,
a click, a silence,
and wings hung limp and soft
over her pale fingers,
the bird’s neck broken,
an angel in death.

She left without speaking,
taking the fresh carrion with her.
I never asked what became of it,
if its fate was fire or burial
or if she simply threw it in the street
for the rag-and-bone man’s cart.

Later, I cleared the mess of feathers
from my small room
and banked the memory down.


Hmm, a tough cookie, my grandmother. And good on hand-eye coordination too. Ah, memories, eh?...

Which brings me to tutting. Apparently, Lord H tells me I do this now without thinking and even before he's done anything wrong. Well, I like to save time, as you never know what he might be about to do. I don't like to have my tutting box empty. Be prepared, as Grandma used to say. Oh, and I've just finished reading the Selected Poems of James Fenton. Loved some of them, but others left me cold or were just plain irritating. Personal favourites are: the marvellous "I'll Explain", the haunting "Tiananmen" and the bleak but beautiful "Fireflies of the Sea". And I see I only have three poetry books left to read now, so I'll have to go on the hunt for more fairly soon.

This week's haiku is:

Brighton:
City of bright lanes,
couples, the windswept pier
and, always, the sea.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

A day in Brighton and my camp grandfather ...

My, how like the home life of our own dear Queen - a day in Brighton, Philip? Ooh, yes, let's, ma'am. So that is what Lord H and I have done today. And goodness me, it was windy on the pier. Very exciting too. I took two pictures of gulls and looked at the stormy brown waters. Very Wuthering Heights. Or it would have been, if there'd been a Height. We also stared longingly at the diamond shops in the Lanes, and wondered if we'll ever be able to afford an eternity ring. My heart is set on an emerald and diamond one, but hey it can wait another year. Or so.

But the real excitement of the day came when we popped into one of Brighton's second hand bookshops and I came across a copy of Paul Delany's "The Neo-Pagans: Friendship and Love in the Rupert Brooke Circle". No, no, the great poet is no relation to me, I'm afraid (more's the pity ...), but I have to admit to the fact that my grandfather, Justin Brooke, was one of the RB circle at King's, and is always described, rather charmingly, in any of the Rupert B biographies as a man "with an entirely superficial nature." Shame I never actually met him - I'm sure we'd have got on like the proverbial. I like to think that I'm keeping up the family standards of superficiality and ... um ... rather big noses. Interestingly, the photo of JB which looks horrifyingly more and more like me as the years go by is also in the Delany book, so I bought it on the grounds of family loyalty. And on flicking through, I found another, younger photo of my grandfather, which looked completely like my father, so that was quite scary, as my father's been dead for years. However, I'm distinctly not mentioning the photo of my grandfather in drag playing Miss Hardcastle in "She Stoops to Conquer" purely because of his apparently legendary 22 inch waist. Which is right next to the photo of Rupert Brooke playing a very camp Stingo in the same production. The Flower of English Youth, eh? It's astonishing we won the war at all.

Other good news - on my trawl round Godalming yesterday, I found a glorious half-price calendar of half-naked firemen, so snapped one up at once. We in the Lord H household do so enjoy our naked calendars - and aren't too bothered which sex they happen to be. So I am now gazing adoringly at Andy from Norfolk, who is interested in motorcycling, gym and socialising. And is the proud owner of a very fine chest. Yummy.

Today's nice things:

1. Finding a photo of my grandfather in drag
2. The fireman calendar
3. Brighton pier.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Champagne and Gay Erotica

Ha! Thought that would spark the interest ... it's certainly made my day a little less grey in any case. Was really pleased to receive my fifth review for "Pink Champagne and Apple Juice" on Amazon last night, courtesy of a reader called Megsl, which - in case you haven't heard my wild screams of joy yet (really? have you been away?) - I have reproduced below:

"Pink Champagne and Apple Juice is a book full of larger than life, intriguing characters. Anne Brooke has the capacity to create the kind of bizarre characters that have such a unique flavour they will, I'm sure, enter the realm of classic characters. I loved the flamboyant "Uncle John" and the moody Heinrich who turns out to be pure gold in the end. I warmed to the kind of philosophy that lies behind much of Anne's writing and which encourages us to be whatever we want to be, to be that bravely and spiritedly, and to be damned as to what others think."

I'm particularly fond of that last sentence, I have to say - only wish I could always live it myself.

And I'm feeling a lot better than I have over the last week, thank the Lord. I even found myself singing in the bathroom today ("Wonderful day" from "Seven Brides ..." if you're wondering, and no I don't have Jane Powell's range. Sadly. Or even a soprano voice.) and eating normally. Hurrah. Lord H is 99% pleased. We both acknowledge, with amusement, the 1% that lies beneath, where he actually appreciates it when I'm ill, knowing that (a) I'm quiet, (b) I'm biddable, and (c) he knows I won't come and disturb him when he's playing Sim City. On such wry awareness are marriages built indeed ...

This week must be writing mag week - not only has Mslexia turned up, but I now have my copies of Writing Magazine & Writing News (which I much prefer, I have to admit). And, yes, I've had a quick check and I'm not in either this month. Pause for egotistical sighing. However, I did pick up that the editor of City Boy and Best Gay Erotica is on the look out for material (including novel extracts) for BGE 2008, so I'm sent them a scene from "A Dangerous Man", in which my hero, Michael (artist and part-time prostitute) first has sex with Jack (rich financier employer). Well it can't do any harm. And heck, it's the scene I most enjoyed writing - and interestingly the only one where my editor from Flame Books (http://www.flamebooks.com) made no changes. When the book comes out (as it were), I promise to give you the page number. After all, I'm a great believer in saving time.

Have just finished reading Pulp.net's short story (with some poetry) anthology, "Down the Angel and Up Holloway". There's some very strong stuff in there. I particularly liked Julie Balloo's portrait of a family falling apart in "Pop Goes the Weasel". Great writing. It took an age to arrive, but was well worth it.

Oh, and I popped my head over the scary modern parapet and had a brief look at the ins and outs of podcasting - it all looks like a very good idea, but the amount of information you appear to need to know has driven me back into my Luddite cave and I am still gibbering. I suspect that you will have to go on imagining my voice for a while yet then ...

Today's nice things:

1. The "Pink Champagne and Apple Juice" review
2. Singing in the bathroom - badly, but who cares?
3. Re-reading my Michael/Jack sex scene - heck, I'm only human after all.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Counselling, play and writing terrors

Bloody hell, a lie-in today. Or almost, as Lord H's alarm went off at 6.30am but I lazed around till 7. Never let anyone tell you that being born in the country is a good thing for future life - you'll never think 8am is too early to get up again. Where I was born, by 6.30am you were washed, dressed, breakfasted and ready to take the 15 minute walk to the nearest bus-stop for school. Idyllic, not ...

Attempted to blast a hole through my urgent shopping needs before going to Counselling this morning, but it seems that the Law of Diminishing Shopping Returns has once again kicked in; now I've found a shampoo I like and actually want to buy, the powers that be have taken it off the shelves. Ye gods, how many times is this going to happen? Focus Groups must lie in wait, checking my purchasing routine and smiling to themselves, knowing they're going to be able to make my life a misery later (does xxx product work? ooh, no, we've not seen anyone buy it, m'lud ... and so on).

The session with Kunu (counsellor) was quite relaxed today. We seemed to deal with my inner child quite quickly and move on. We also touched briefly on last week's rejection misery and the angst of moving (or attempting to) in the publishing world before looking at my understanding of my ten-year life cycle and how I move on from each period.

I think we've decided that ages 0-13 were the Childhood Years; ages 13-18 were the Teenage Years; ages 18-29 were the University & Meeting Lord H Years; ages 30-39 were the Early Married Years; and now I'm in the What the Heck Do I Do Now? Years. The current set being more challenging as there are no apparent rules or structure, as I've done the School-University-Marriage thing, and I'm not having children (thank God!), so now there's a big blank space between me and the Grim Reaper, with no apparent key life points to face. Hmm. Never say Kunu doesn't cut to the chase.

We then decided that as I'd done all the structure stuff, it might be okay to look at finding a balance between my obsessive approach to achieving as much as possible in as short a time frame as possible, and actually seeing life as something to enjoy rather than circumnavigate. So it may yet be that the 40s become my Enjoyment Years. Who knows? Greater miracles have happened ... So this week's counselling homework is to do more stuff I enjoy. Which probably fits in with things my inner child liked doing, and certainly fits in with my 2007 resolutions, so there might be hope for me yet.

This afternoon, I've made a start on doing biographies for my characters in "Pink Champagne and Apple Juice" for the Sue Haywood project (http://www.teafriendsandchocolate.com/sue/) and I now have a skeleton outline for all my major people. Hurrah! Yeah, yeah, I know that as a novelist, I'm supposed to have this stuff at my fingertips and I am letting the side down by doing it after the novel has been published. But sod the rules anyway. Who needs 'em? And I do have to say at this point that I did once have the bios - in online note form - but a computer crash in the distant past wiped them out and I never retrieved them as I'd nearly finished writing the book at that point. That's my excuse anyway, and I 'm sticking to it. On the other hand, I am at heart a fly-by-night, seat-of-my-pants writer, and I enjoy the terror of not knowing what my characters are like till the finger hits the keyboard. Or even what the buggers are going to do. Hell, if I'm surprised at what they get up to, I can probably guarantee you will be too ...

Tonight, after a lovely, lovely nap late this afternoon, I'm going to do sod all. It's my favourite hobby, and (as above) I'm entitled to do more of it. Roll on wave after wave of crap TV. Heaven. I might read a little more of my Mslexia Magazine, which arrived today. If I feel strong enough. Is it just me, or does the sight of Mslexia on the hall table fill everyone else with guilt and horror? I know it's a mag I'm supposed to like and get inspiration from. But on the whole it simply makes me feel inadequate as (a) a woman, and (b) a woman writer. (Which of course brings me back to the fact that I never do really feel either male or female - I'm just Anne, and somewhere in between, wishing I had a unisex name like Chris or Les or Alex - Yeah, I'm up for that! ...). Anyway, some of the stuff in Mslexia is so literary and worthy that it makes my eyes spin. It's exhausting, m' dears. I think I'm going to start up a new magazine called "Crap Writer and Proud of It" - any takers out there? No literary submissions considered.

Ooh, and I feel hungry for the first time in days. Hurrah!

Today's nice things:

1. Counselling
2. Napping
3. Feeling hungry - hell, I must be getting better!

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Art, religion and children

Not the ideal mix, but there you go. Staggered nobly into work today once more, and attempted to look like a keen administrator ready for anything. Ha! My acting skills sometimes astound even me … The morning was spent going through brochures on major world religions and how these affect student life, so I am now the acknowledged expert. At least within the four walls of the office and while I can remember the stuff, so best ask any questions today as by tomorrow all that wisdom will have vanished.

Also posted a copy of “Champers” to Diane from MySpace (http://www.myspace.com/detoxnurse) today – so thanks, Diane, and I hope you enjoy the read! If not, I promise to try to improve for next time … I also picked up a late Christmas card from an artist, Michael Strang (http://www.michaelstrang.com) who exhibited at the University last year. I wrote a poem about one of his pictures at the time, and he saw a copy of it and liked it, so was kind enough to drop a line of thanks. His pictures are great, in my opinion, so take a look at the site and enjoy!

Come the afternoon, come the next meeting of the Nursery Management Group. Groan. Definitely not my favourite, as (a) I never quite know what’s going on as it’s run by Human Resources, and they are of course a mystery to us all, Gawd bless ’em, and (b) I hate children. Indeed, I am the only member of the group that’s never actually seen the nursery, and I’m determined to hold fast to that act of faith as long as I’m able to. Still, I’m only there to take the minutes, so meeting a child isn’t a requirement. Phew. And, talking of which, the HR woman who runs it has suddenly announced that she's off on maternity leave in March. Hope she uses the ruddy nursery if she comes back ... And just what is wrong with people anyway?! Anyone would think children were desirable, or is it just me ...? No, don't answer that! I was so confused by it all on my way home that I tried to get into the wrong car in the University car park. Still, all black Fiestas look alike to me and there were three of them all together. Safety in numbers, I imagine.

Tonight, I intend to collapse on the sofa in front of the TV and do as little as possible. Might even turn the TV on, if I can find the energy. I need the rest, as it happens - as there was another rejection waiting my return. Sigh. This time from Arcadia Books for "Maloney's Law." Still, at least they didn't try to overegg the pudding by trying to be nice - an omission for which I am as always more than grateful.

Today’s nice things:

1. Posting a copy of “Champers” to Diane
2. Getting a Christmas card from Michael Strang
3. Not having to meet a child.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Back in the saddle ...

… groaning. Decided I was probably well enough to stagger into work today and act the martyr. Heck it’s good to have a hobby. And I do it so well. Still I managed to survive the day, catch up with the paperwork and sort out various potential meeting disasters, so I think I’ve earned my keep. But it was noticeable this afternoon that when I commenced my mammoth five minute nose-blowing exercise (no, best not to think about it too deeply, trust me), office doors were closing all round as my colleagues fled to the hills. Can’t say I blame them, to be honest.

Still, I enjoyed my first reflexology appointment of 2007 – come to think of it, this was probably what shifted my … um … blockages in the first place, so I only have alternative therapy to blame. And the Student Advice & Information people were kind enough to invite us to a belated New Year shortbread and sherry party, which went down well. Mind you, I decided to go easy on the sherry, bearing in mind I have to drive home, and my eating is up the spout anyway, what with feeling ill. Today’s food intake so far: half a bowl of cereals, three dried apricots, one chocolate and three shortbreads. Oh, and half a lake-full of Lucozade and one small sherry. Great input for the dieticians amongst us then. But no wonder I’m really hyper at the moment.

Tonight, I have to pop into Tesco to worship at the feet of the great god of materialism once more – but as Lord H has already done some shopping at lunchtime anyway, my burden is less. Hurrah! For the rest of the evening, I’ve decided not to go out to the Guildford Writers’ meeting (http://www.guildfordwriters.net) on the grounds of being unwell, so instead I’m going to be doing as little as possible and ignoring the ironing pile. Anyway, isn’t the crumpled look going to be in this year?

Oh, and some news on the publishing front – at last! I had not one, not two, but three emails from Chevonne at Flame Books (http://www.flamebooks.com) yesterday evening – all saying the same thing, mind, but, being a secretary, I do feel happier getting things in triplicate. Apparently “A Dangerous Man” is, we suspect, being printed somewhere out there (possibly) and poor Chevonne is in charge of arranging an online launch, sending out review copies and attempting (brave soul) to market it. It all sounds very modern, but heck I’m not complaining – it’s good to get any kind of communication at all. And at least with an online launch, you won’t get a hangover – though no doubt modern technology can deliver those too if need be. I of course will be as drunk as a lord, come what may, so don’t expect any sense between now and the next millennium. No change there then … No date has been suggested for this virtual event yet however, so I’ll have to wait and see once more. By the time Michael gets his small but (I hope) perfectly formed moment in the sun, I shall have an NVQ in “playing it by ear”.

And the nice Matthew Taylor at Monkey Kettle magazine has accepted one of my poems, “Anger”, for his April edition, so heck that feels good too. So it looks like if I want to get my poetry published, I have to go for extreme emotion, and ignore all the balanced stuff. Which suits my psyche then!

I've just finished the latest Robert Goddard - "Never Go Back". The usual wonderfully readable stuff - tightly plotted and with two top-class leads. But the start is confusing - too many people who all have nicknames. Why do authors do that to us?? Don't they know names are difficult enough without giving everyone two? I ask you! Still, the people get bumped off fairly regularly so the stage is thinned out at speed, thank goodness. Definitely worth a read, I'd say.

Today’s nice things:

1. Reflexology
2. Hearing from Flame Books
3. Getting a poem accepted.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Sick day and the inner child

Not a great title for any novel, but there you go. Still feeling rough today, so am having a day's sick leave. Which means drinking my way through the European Lucozade lake, keeping Mr Kleenex in business single-handedly, reading a non-literary page-turner (of which more later) and watching my new DVD of "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers". How I love a Hollywood musical. It's not as good as "Calamity Jane" of course, but then nothing ever is. Ah times were simpler then ... And goodness what small waists they all had. I'm green with envy and regretting the demise of the corset.

I'll see how well I am tomorrow, but I'm hoping this bout of swooning doesn't mean the rest of the year will follow suit. However, on the other hand, I am making good inroads on my heartfelt New Year wish never to have to do a Monday at work again. Suspect I won't be able to keep that up for long though.

And I've been thinking - on and off - about my counselling "inner child" homework. Kunu was keen that I try to think what sort of things my childhood self enjoyed doing. You've have thought the question was simple, but in fact I'm really struggling with it. It's hard to connect with who I once was. In fact I have a strong feeling that every ten years or so I slough off the former me like old skin from a snake and reinvent myself as something else entirely. Maybe this accounts for the trouble I have with my family? - they tend to relate to the old me (or one of them) and I have no idea what they're talking about. As a result, as I'm trying to do my homework, events from childhood skip in and out of my head like snatches of an old film I don't remember seeing, and it's difficult to grasp anything useful from the reel. All I can say at the moment is that I think the childhood me liked (a) being left alone (b) making up stories with her toy horses, (c) reading, and (d) school holidays (at least in the ghastly primary school years). Not much to go on, but I suppose it's better than nothing. Ho hum.

I've decided to conserve energy for getting well today, and do no writing. But, as I reached 90,000 words in "The Gifting" yesterday evening, the guilt factor is low - hurrah! And, by default, it means that I am carrying out my resolution of not pushing myself quite so much, ho ho. I think that the next bout of writing I'll be doing - perhaps starting it later in the week, depending on how I feel - will be related to Sue Haywood's (http://www.teafriendsandchocolate.com/sue/) proposed "Pink Champagne and Apple Juice" project, and to do with biographies for characters from that novel. It will be quite a fun project, I think, and also nice to have a break from fantasy for a while (or at least fantasy writing!).

And, as promised earlier, a note on the reading I've been doing today: having started Katy Gardner's "Hidden" yesterday, I've finished it today. Nice, readable stuff. Strongly placed in the "woman in jeopardy" genre, but I loved both the ending twists, which were first-class and which I didn't see coming. Good stuff. If you want a nice, exciting read and you like that genre, I can recommend it.

Today's nice things:

1. Reading
2. Watching my DVD
3. Thinking about inner children.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Some advice for authors ...

It's struck me that over the last couple of days, a few no doubt kindly and well-meaning authors have sent me their words of wisdom about their long journeys of writerly suffering followed by (oh! what a surprise!) the joy of commercial discovery by the publisher of their dreams. I imagine these classic and rather cliched tales of rags to riches are offered in the spirit of encouragement. Shame then that they only come over as condescending and banal.

I mean: do these good people imagine that I have not heard these tales before? (Oh Lord, countless, countless times, and no they don't help. Not one jot). It may come as a complete shock to an author's delicate constitution, but I do actually attend writers' conferences, speak to fellow writers, belong to an extremely high-quality but as yet commercially unpublished writers' group (http://www.guildfordwriters.net) and am a regular contributor to an equally high quality writers' site (http://www.writewords.org.uk). Ye gods and wash my mouth out with Carbolic - but I almost sound like a professional myself there. (For which apologies: I would never want that dubious label attached to my t-shirt ...)

So forgive me if I don't fall down in gratitude and throw my pen at your authorial feet. In fact, my advice to authors is this: if you do have a typical writer rags-to-riches tale that you are desperate for the world outside to hear, take the nearest sewing kit and use it accordingly to button the proverbial lip. We've all heard it before and we're deeply, deeply not interested. It might have been interesting and useful the first ten times (though I have my doubts even about that ...), but now I'm afraid your market has moved on. I suggest you might be wise to move with it. Find another angle. As they say.

In fact, dear author, I have news of my own, which may come as a complete surprise to you, so I hope you're sitting down and within easy reach of the nearest whisky bottle: hush my mouth, but it may even be that your own commercially published status does not come from the fact that your book has any intrinsic merits or quality of its own, but purely because it is deemed marketable in the current climate. Oh, my dear, pass the smelling salts, do ...! After all, the fact remains that our bookshops are stuffed with crap (some of which even wins awards - take the utterly unreadable Booker Prize shortlist of the last two years, for instance - though I do admit that the shortlist with Morrall on was one hot cookie) - and, oh dear me, your own book may well fall into that category. The fact is that commercial publication is nothing to do with quality and everything to do with luck.

In fact, if poor old "A Dangerous Man" ever struggles its way out of the Flame Pit of Despair (thanks again for the phrase, Jonathan ...) into the cold light of day, it will itself be my first, extremely small (and probably only) commercially published novel. It will be in that position (if it ever is) entirely due to luck. And if I ever once start to bore people with the completely uninteresting tale of how it got there, blah, blah, blah, I fully expect to be beaten to death with a copy of the Oxford English Dictionary. In fact, I shall probably do it myself, to save you all the effort. Hey, but what a way to go ...

Which brings me to a proposed punishment for any more authors who try to force their tales of woe and joy upon us benighted writers: every time their deeply dull and unhelpful story is told, they have to lose a finger. With no appeals. Hah! Bet that stops 'em. Three cheers for Writer Power!

Advice over. Phew.

The rest of my day has been spent battling with the Cold From Hell (which comes with special stomach side effects - what joy!). The plus point of this meant I could skip church without too much residual guilt, so Lord H had to go on his own and do Server duties. Apparently the Serving team managed to fool the visiting low-church vicar into doing lots of fun high-church stuff, including incense, without him realising that we don't always do it like that. Never say that the High Church regulars don't have some fun at the expense of their Lower (and of course much-loved ...) brethren. Even though the UK press always reports it the other way round. Sigh ... Apparently today's vestry gossip has been the upcoming installation of the new vicar at the end of January, which will be a bells 'n' smells party & lunch, to which all the local church Dames (and we suspect some of their Principal Boys - cue such phrases as: what a charming young man? Is he a relation? No, we didn't think so either ...) will be invited.

And, thank God, Lord H cooked today's lamb joint. Which meant it was edible for the first time in what seems ages. He had to leave the kitchen afterwards though, as I spent my usual ten minutes tearing off the rest of the meat from the bone, sucking up the marrow and laughing maniacally. Just like the home life of our own dear Queen ... Anyway, it's good for colds.

Tonight, I still have to ring mother (argh!) and try to sound normal, if ill. But that will cheer her up - she does so love a sick child. It takes her back to the good old days when she had some modicum of control over me. Aha! Then, I'm going to slump like a couch potato and wait for the Great White Hunter. My, but Sundays are fun.

Oh, and I've just finished reading Paul Auster's "The New York Trilogy". Bloody genius in my opinion. He takes the detective format and rips it apart to make something wild and literary and incredibly strange and human. It's like opening a box of Black Magic and finding it full of the utterly orgasmic Lindor milk chocolates instead. Read it. You won't regret it. He is soooo on my list of good authors now. Hey, there's a novelty!

This week's haiku (in honour of Lord H) is:

Home is for coffee.
Abroad, you taste the wild sky
and, smiling, choose tea.

Today's nice things:

1. Not going to church
2. Reading the bloody brilliant Auster
3. Eating lamb marrow.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Clarins and colds

Bloody hell - the first cold of 2007! It's all downhill from here, folks. Have spent a lot of today sighing artistically and snorting like an old horse. (So no change there then.) Oh and doing a lot of drooping of course. It's one of my great skills. However, the good news is that a whole two days have passed without receiving any rejections, so obviously the Great Literary Tycoons have chosen to take pity on me. For the moment. However, I fear they are biding their time, knowing there are still a whole glorious twelve months left of the year in which to tighten the screws. What joy awaits me indeed.

Still, I bravely squeezed out precisely 150 words of "The Gifting", most of which seemed to involve Simon beating out a fire. Well, it was a small fire. And he's not a macho man and derring-do really isn't his style. So any more than that and he might have been overwhelmed by it all, poor thing. And then where would I be? Twiddling my thumbs until he chose to recover, that's where. Ye gods, but this is a strange pastime. Somebody pass me a normality pill.

The afternoon has been spent getting my monthly fix of Clarins treatments. Nothing like a massage to make me feel like a real woman again. Maybe I'll have one delivered ... So, much to Lord H's relief, I will be all floaty and calm for a while - until the next crisis arrives. Much like Simon really - but without the Clarins fix.

Lord H and I were supposed to show willing in the normal couple stakes and go out for a pub meal tonight. But frankly, it's raining, we're tired and we can't be arsed. So it's a Chinese from Waitrose, beer and ice cream as usual. Ah, the bliss of a tried and trusted routine - you can't beat it. Anyone mention the Young Fogeys Society ...? Hmm, sounds like a match to me, guv'nor.

Today's nice things:

1. Clarins
2. Chinese
3. No rejections today!

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Whisky and words

Have been feeling like I've been drained of all energy today (query: is it Torchwood's revenge?) and am hovering delicately on the edge of a cold. Hell, and the year had been going so well - up until yesterday, that is. I decided last night to drown my sorrows in whisky (and consequently have thrown my new alcohol-lite regime into the roadside bushes with merry abandon). This helped a surprising amount - which just goes to show that the Scots are right after all. Och aye, the noo (or similar). As a result, I wrote a poem about it which - equally astonishingly - is longer than my customary three lines. Here it is:

Whisky song

Sometimes alcohol is the only way:
when you’re hunting the wild dogs,
or being hunted by them,
or when the blue day
you were stepping into
turns black
after all
and just when you thought
you’d cracked the bloody secret
of how to be happy.

Don’t believe it.
That’s when the dark rages roll,
those hours, days,
you can’t control
and when it happens
there’s no way on earth to do
what your precious gurus recommend:
walk away; procrastinate;
drink water or calming tea;
meditate.

No. Instead
do what your heart’s need tells you:
take the secret bottle of heathered gold;
pour long and deep; breathe in
the warm satin richness;
let its fierce kiss
burn crimson on your tongue;
swallow down that longed-for surge of happiness
into your body’s constant, clamouring
ache;
and medicate.

So there you go. Maybe poetry only turns up when I'm spitting feathers or in the black gloom. Or both. It's a mystery. But, hey, it's more than three lines - hurrah!

And, talking of writing, it's interesting how today's 1000 words of "The Gifting" have been full of poor Simon getting enraged and doing a lot of yelling. Perhaps my novels should be read purely as a diary exercise to see what mood I was in when I was writing them. Or, more accurately, what mood I was in the day before. But where does that leave the sex scenes? Hmm ...

Meanwhile, the march of time has journeyed onwards ... I picked up my new (name drop alert!) Armani glasses today (which look fine, thank you) and at once the world became significantly larger and more in focus. And there was I thinking that everywhere I went the world was slightly misty. Much like the Queen Mother, who must have imagined that England was terribly clean and strewn with rose petals. Bless her. Still, it meant that the residents of Godalming were far safer on my journey home. And Lord H has already emailed to say I look lovely. What a smoothie, eh? Though actually Lord H has gained at least a hundred brand-new Husband Points from last night - when he spent a long time listening, nodding sympathetically and hugging, even though he'd only just arrived from work and had yet to take his coat off. And he didn't even frown at the amount of swearing going on. What a hero. I can see I shall have to do extra cleaning and (perish the thought) even perhaps some home cooking in order to balance the marital niceness scales once more. What's that? Did someone say I'm overly competitive? Ah, surely not ...

This afternoon, after hammering out Simon's latest trauma, I gave in to the siren call of the sofa and have had a glorious two-hour nap. I can see myself becoming more and more like Lydia Languish who, from memory, spent most of her theatrical fictional time swooning on the sofa and taking smelling salts. Hell, don't knock it. It's a career after all.

Which brings me to thoughts of professionalism. There seems to have been a lot of talk about this on various writing sites recently, but I don't think that on a personal level I can subscribe to its unnatural demands. Rest assured that, whatever happens in the Curious World of Brooke, I shall never turn into a scary professional anything. Please God. I hope I shall always be me - a small corner of the virtual world which shall remain forever determinedly amateur, threateningly unprofessional and (hopefully) as searingly honest as I can be. Please God I never turn into one of those authors who (if I ever make it anywhere else but where I am now, ho ho) smile and smile, and say how wonderful the publishing world is, dahlings, and how charmed their life is now, and how absolutely awful those other wretched would-be writers are. And have one of those cut-glass accents too, even though they came from Bognor and spent most of their childhood in a caravan. Why do they all sound like that? Ye gods, is there a Stepford Authors club out there? Do you have to have your personality removed if you make it into the hallowed corridors of a mainstream publisher? And don't even mention those irritating airbrushed photographs which make every author look the same. I mean, I ask you! Perhaps it is after all a cunning plot dreamed up by a Government marketing department with way too much power and time on its hands. It wouldn't surprise me.

Today's nice things, then:

1. Writing
2. Getting new glasses - Armani! Hey, babe ...!
3. Still having a personality. (You might not like it, but at least you know what it is!).

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Counselling and decisions

Not two things which really should be combined, at least not in the same day, but there it is. That's the way the biscuit falls sometimes.

Counselling this morning was good, if challenging. We talked (or rather I talked and Kunu listened, with occasional interjections) about Christmas and how to survive it. Answer: do less out of obligation and more from enjoyment, which was what I'd tried to do in fact, with up and down results. We also touched on the whole shit-hot (at least for me) subject of achievement and personal value. Ay, there's the rub, eh? The issue being that the whole reason I get so worked up if things don't go well is that I'm pre-programmed to react to failure in one area as if it means that my whole life and self are completely without any value whatsoever. No wonder I get so bloody depressed - I admit I've probably always known this, but it's the first time I've spoken it aloud to someone else in such seriousness. So I'm stuck in this trap of not feeling fulfilled if I don't do well (in writing, publishing, work, anything, damn it!) and then not feeling I'm really worth it if I do. Ye gods, I'm amazed I'm still functioning at all.

Anyway, the upshot is that Kunu and I are going to look at my childhood in depth to see where it all went haywire and how I can deal with it now. Yes, psychoanalysis rules! - I'm going to be talking to my inner child who probably spends most of her life being shit-scared and wondering what the bloody hell is going on. Still, at least it'll make a change from talking to Michael (query: are there going to be enough seats in Kunu's counselling room for everyone in here?), and I can add an extra person to my personal schizophrenia sheet. Hurrah. And, weirdly, it does make sense to me.

After all that, I popped in to see Gladys and made normal person conversation (if loudly) for a while. Gladys' Christmas was dull, apparently, and she's glad it's back to the usual routine. We spent some time agreeing that 2007 is ridiculous as she'd only just got used to 2006, and smiling at Lord H's paper plane obsession.

Back home - and, oh Lord, another bloody rejection. This time from Snowbooks, who say that "Maloney's Law" is a "fine novel", adding that "in the length of time it's taken for us to get back to you, another publisher must surely have taken it on." Ha bloody ha. Slap my thighs and wait for the punchline. Taking earlier paragraphs into account, this meant that I was at once weeping at the worthlessness of my own existence, and gnashing my teeth and wanting to kill a publisher - any publisher - (or rather rip them limb from agonised limb) at the pure bloody frustration of yet again being told my work is good but that nobody will publish it. I am so bloody pissed off that, if told, you would probably not believe it. Or then again maybe you would.

Isn't it about time that publishers (however charming and adorable in their personal lives - and I am sure they are all angels of course ...) did three things: (a) got their act together to respond to people within a reasonable timescale if only out of common courtesy and if only to say that they haven't got round to your book yet; and (b) understood at least one tenth of the hell they make us go through while we wait - perhaps by having one tooth removed every month of waiting, without anaesthetic and whilst (as the good Alan Rickman once said) having their organs removed with the aid of only a spoon; and (c) stopped putting those hellishly frustrating "consolation honeycomb" statements in any reject letters at all. Under any circumstances. Take note, publishers: a simple "no" is fine. Never tease your victim. Trust us - we know when we're good. At least in those rare moments of confidence, we do. But we don't get those from the trade.

Anyway. Rant over - although the pain remains. And all this has been making me think more deeply along the lines I've been considering for a while now. I've been thinking that when "The Gifting" is finished, edited and proof-read (only 500 words done today, but hell I'm surprised I did any, to be frank ...), I might not put myself in the commercial publishing ring at all, as it's actually beginning to be more grief than I can take. Instead, I might simply ask my fellow directors at Goldenford (http://www.goldenford.co.uk) if they'd like to add it to our lists at any stage or, if not, then go down the self-publishing route once more. I certainly get a hell of a lot more enjoyment out of either self-publishing or going via Goldenford than I've ever got from the outside publishing world. And yes, I know that approach would make things extremely difficult with my agent, and no doubt bring us to the end of the road, but to be honest I don't think either of us would be that surprised. It's not, after all, as if I've ever been deemed important enough even to meet him. Another thing that rankles and makes me feel well up in the Z List priority stakes. Hey ho.

Tonight, I don't think I'll be doing very much. The day has drained me enough already so anything more than slumping on the sofa and vegging is beyond me. Again. Talking of which, Lord H and I watched last night's ending episodes of "Torchwood" with mixed feelings. Hell, the storyline was almost good - for once - and I even began to care about some of the people (namely Owen and Ianto. The rest of them, including Cap'n Jack, are just filling). But what the hell was that ridiculous Walt Disney storyline about two men kissing in the middle of a crowded 1940s dance floor??!! Along with the next gay man (or straight woman), I'm more than happy with some good boy-on-boy action, but please make it fit the context! In the real life of the time, they would have probably been jeered out of the hall and stoned to death by all those super-macho soldiers. As Lord H said, no wonder one of the kissing couple died in action the following day - his platoon probably shot him down themselves. And the other thing was: what was that equally stupid and very laughable last-minute King Kong-type creature all about? If I'm planning something really evil in today's modern world, I'd make it a damn sight more subtle that that. Less is more, after all. We're not in the 1950s now, you know. It would, in my opinion, have been far more horrific to have had the charming but creepy old man turn out to be the Personification of All Destruction (or whatever), and then the heroes could have worked to overcome him - as at least he turned up earlier on in the episode, so we knew he was there. Unlike King Kong. Badly done, Team Torchwood. A real cop-out.

That said, I will probably watch the next series - if only because of Owen and Ianto acting everyone else's socks off. So Russell Davies is still laughing all the way to the bank.

Which brings me to:

Today's nice things (oh hell):

1. Counselling (strangely)
2. Thinking about career decisions (bizarrely)
3. Ripping apart Torchwood (satisfyingly).

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com

Paper planes and publishers

As one of Lord H’s Christmas presents, I excelled myself and bought him a block page-a-day calendar which when finished each day can be made into different types of paper plane. My, what fun he’s getting from it. Fun which is doubled when you realise that the office also bought him a similar paper plane calendar (what does this say about Lord H??), so he gets the chance to make and play with not one, but two planes a day. Different ones as well. Hurrah! It’s giving him hours of pleasure, and actually I quite like them too. So the long winter evenings in the Lord H & Brooke household are simply flying by, m’dear (pun intended) … But where the heck are we going to keep them all?

Today I’ve been staring at the screen at work, feeling glad beyond belief that there’s not much on so far – as I am laid low by women’s troubles again (of the more regular variety this time). Goodness me, life is indeed a veritable medley of song. Or it would be if I wasn’t feeling like a used-up sponge that’s been through several traumas without appropriate counselling or a convenient source of chocolate. Still, thank goodness for hot water bottles and Deep Heat cream. Two items made entirely for women, I’m sure.

Heck, I had to wake myself up by thinking about holidays. Lord H and I have – I think – decided against Sardinia after all, as it seems to have only one plane a week which goes from somewhere obscure like Luton at the dead of night. Does anyone actually know where Luton is? No, I thought not … Instead, we’re leaning towards Madeira at the moment, possibly via Jules Verne Voyages (http://www.vjv.co.uk). If it comes off, this will be one of the few times Lord H allows me to go on a holiday that doesn’t involve seeing eight museums and sixteen art galleries (at least) every day without the help of any lunch breaks – though he does sometimes allow me an ice cream at around 4pm if I’m lucky and if there’s time. In fact sometimes I think he has an evil and manically active twin who is switched at the last minute onto the plane so that the real Lord H actually stays at home doing what he likes best – playing Sim City on the computer and reading about theology. Hmm, that would also explain why he only ever drinks tea on holiday and at no other time. Either that or I am actually married to two husbands after all. The plot thickens …

And, talking of plots, I’m half-pondering on my closing scenes for “The Gifting” – maybe a nice battle, or at least a psychological one. That always ups the ante. How I love a big finish. After all, isn’t that what fantasy is all about? On the other hand, what do I know? As it’s my first fantasy novel, I’m writing blind here. Maybe I’ll give it a pink lizard and a time-travelling wife. That’ll slay 'em on the shelves. Might even start writing some of it (the end stuff, not the lizard – trust me …) tomorrow, depending on what mood I’m in and whether my sponge mentality has livened up a little. You never know. Not, I must add, that this means I have actually finished the darn book, nor indeed am I anywhere near – as I merrily dot around in whichever section I’m writing at any given time. Though I think that when I do finish, I might host an online non-launch party, on the assumption that I can look forward to the usual responses from the powers that be ...

In fact, maybe I’ll enclose my own set of reply slips with my submissions which publishers can use to save them the effort, comprising (a) We love it but it’s not marketable; (b) We love your character but hate your plot (c) We love your plot but hate your character (d) You are a straight woman, therefore you are not deemed suitable to write in this genre. (Tick whichever is applicable). And, yes, these are all replies I’ve received over the years, sometimes all in the same letter. And I’m not even mentioning the rejection I received for a novel I hadn’t written from an agent I hadn’t actually submitted to. Hey ho, I must be such a stalwart on everyone’s reject listings that they send me a “no” on an annual basis, just in case. Still, good to think that they know my name for something … Maybe, on second thoughts, I should produce a book of rejection replies (though no doubt it’s already been done …) – which would be a damn sight easier if I didn’t ritualistically spit at said replies, tear them up into unhealthily small pieces and mutter pre-Christian curses in their direction whenever they turn up. There’s a lot to be said for routine.

Which brings me to another problem. Why aren’t I writing any poetry except my weekly haiku at the moment? I had something of a surge just before Christmas, but now the patterning muse seems to have deserted me for warmer lands. Perhaps it’s true that poetry is only for the summer. In which case, there’s no ruddy hope for me at all, as I don’t think we’ve had a summer in the UK for about a decade or so. Ah well. Maybe I’ll write something about booking a holiday, or Lord H’s strange tea habits. We’ll see.

Today’s nice things:

1. Paper plane folding
2. Holiday thoughts
3. Novel plotting.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

First day back

Much better than expected. Not as many emails to sort out from the holiday period as I’d feared and no phone messages. Bliss! Did a lot of chatting with those in the office today (the boss doesn’t come back until next week …) and took down the Christmas tree and decorations. Have decided to book myself into the new UniSport back strengthening course which starts later in January – I’ll find my ruddy inner core if it kills me.

And there’s fame at last for my office fluffy pen selection – my picture of what my world looked like at 5pm one day last December has now finally been uploaded onto the Radio 4 Window on Your World site and can be found here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/news/pm/galleries/901/63/#gallery901

The other six zillion photos are fun to browse through too, but I think I win on the sad git factor.

I’ve also spent time filling in my work online calendar with the stuff already in my new paper 2007 diary. There are things in there up until September now so the year will happen after all, thank God. Control freaks of the world unite … And last of all, I’m thinking about our March holiday – I think Sardinia might be the one – I got very excited about http://www.justsardinia.co.uk as it seemed to be the one tour operator that actually allows people to have a March holiday. All the other mainstream names seem to think that the year starts in April or, if it doesn’t, then they want to send us to Dubai or Tenerife. Thanks, and one day I suspect I’d probably like to go to Dubai, but the idea of Sardinia is more attractive right now.

This afternoon, we had a team effort focusing on the regular Let’s Untangle the Window Blind Cords crisis. This involved three people, a window hook and a lot of tugging. Goodness know how the cords got like that in the first place – it must have been one hell of a Christmas party. But we are now free and ready for all eventualities over the coming month. At least in terms of seeing the outside world. Phew.

Tonight, I am intending to do more slumping – the emotional rollercoaster of having to go back to work is really more than enough for one day – but I will try to watch the News later on. As per my resolution.

Today’s nice things:

1. Seeing my office photo on the Web
2. Looking at Sardinia
3. Slumping.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk

Resolutions and revolts

A rather disturbed night last night. God knows why, but Lord H and I were both wide awake at 5am and then slumped again at 8. And not even a neighbourhood party to use as an excuse. Maybe it was the lack of night-time Horlicks? Hmm, I feel an advert coming on ... But at least I had time to think up some sensible resolutions while I was staring at the ceiling.

Which include (a) watching the News more so I at least know something of what's going on in the world, thus lessening the possibilities of looking like a complete dork too often (Iraq? We're at war? ... Still? - no, really, that's just an example. Honest ...); (b) not pushing myself to do stuff too much and relaxing more; (c) doing more of what I enjoy and less of what I feel I have to do. After all, Lord H is the expert at (b) and (c), so I should be able to follow his example fairly easily. So, there you have it. Let's hope that by the end of 2007, I'm a completely informed layabout. Hmm, will there be a test?...

Oh, and Lord H found a news item on the Internet today which said that the French were revolting (please, no jokes ...) because they didn't want to have 2007, as they all thought 2006 had been okay and wanted to hang onto it for longer. Apparently, they held a march to protest the onward movement of time last night, shouting "No to 2007!" (or Non a 2007, more realistically?). I gather the enthusiasm wasn't quenched when 2007 actually turned up, as they then all started shouting "No to 2008!" Marvellous stuff - there's something so quirkily British about it that (a) I wish we'd thought of it first; and (b) it's good to know that the French are finally learning something from us. Vive la similarite, eh? Though this does beg a deeper question of: if we don't like a year, can we bypass it and go onto the next without trawling through a whole twelve months? Sounds good to me, and no doubt our Nanny Government will pass a law about it at some stage. We live in hope.

So, today, I've watched meaningless jolly tv, which has cheered me up, had a nap, which has livened me up and tonight will be opening a bottle of good champagne to toast the New Year again - which will no doubt tank me up. It's good to have a plan.

Today's nice things:

1. Thinking of some low-key resolutions
2. Laughing at the French (sorry - but it is an unsung British activity, and they know we love them really - like a maiden aunt who doesn't fit in but who is family after all ... damn it)
3. Champagne.

Anne Brooke
http://www.annebrooke.com
http://www.goldenford.co.uk