In the 1968 film Coogan's Bluff, Clint Eastwood played a young deputy sheriff sent to New York from the wilds of Arizona. There's a scene where he's in a New York taxi cab. As he goes to pay the driver, he asks: "How many stores named Bloomingdales are there in this town?"
"One," says the driver.
"We passed it twice."
I was reminded of this exchange earlier today when Katie and I were shopping in The Largest Tesco in the Western Hemisphere, given that we'd passed the olive oil section for a second time and appeared to be going nowhere.
I'm here to tell you - as if you needed to be told - that doing a food shop two days before Christmas is right up there with 'putting your head in a lion's mouth' on the list of stupid things to do.
There is a list. I've checked it. Twice.
We knew that this was going to be a bad idea, but had no choice. So this morning found us in a car park the size of Hampshire, fixing the shopping trolleys with a thousand-yard-stare. And so it began.
Due to the unique way our Sunday trading laws are framed, we weren't allowed to buy anything until 11.00am. However, the good people of Tesco were more than happy to let us, and several thousand others, into their store an hour early for browsing purposes. As long as no money changed hands for that first 60 minutes, no-one would be breaking the law and God would be happy.
So far, so good. But the rising panic was palpable. People were contemplating the festive season. People were thinking about what drink to get in for Auntie Doris. People were fretting at the thought of the shops being closed for two days. There was a wall of humanity, armed with debit cards. It wasn't pretty.
I was on trolley duty. Katie had made a list. Unfortunately, this was a list written with a completely different supermarket layout in mind, so her carefully-planned order was knocked for six. At one point we were randomly throwing things into the trolley, completely swept away in the moment.
"Take the trolley into the next aisle," she said, "and wait for me. It'll be quieter there."
The next aisle happened to be the one with the fresh turkeys. Let me remind you, dear reader. It was two days to Christmas. I was an innocent man in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was like a tank battle, but less pleasant.
Katie came around the corner, packets of random carbohydrate in hand, and surveyed the scene. "Oh for God's sake. Move into the next aisle then."
I meekly wheeled into World Foods and regarded the fenugreek leaves. It seemed to be the only thing to do.
She caught up with me and deposited the ingredients of a tiramisu. "Right then," she fixed her jaw grimly. "Booze."
The beer and wine section at Yardley Tesco is renowned. It is spoken about in hushed terms by drinking men and women the world over. It would put George Orwell off his breakfast. If he were still alive. And, for that matter, sitting down for breakfast. Visiting it on Christmas Eve Eve is akin to juggling with live dynamite. We fought our way through the masses of wine-seekers and beer-hunters. The chap with the trolley in front of us had two bottles of Baileys, one Jagermeister and one Midori. That's what they make cocktails from in Hades, I reckon.
This wasn't a shopping expedition, it was survival.We eventually emerged, blinking into the daylight like Chilean miners. "Never again," we mouthed in unison as we joined the end of a queue. A queue to leave.
Next year I'm doing this online, even if I have to book a delivery slot in October. It's the only way.
Sunday, 23 December 2012
Sunday, 16 December 2012
Christopher and me
We're zipping through the 21st century at a rapid rate of knots, aren't we? And although I'm very disappointed that the hover boots I assumed would be in shops by now haven't yet materialised, the human race reaches new heights of development with every passing year.
They've got bacon-flavoured mayonnaise in America, you know. Truly we're reaching a pinnacle as a species.
But at the same time as we've become very clever at lots of stuff, we've shed some of the old ways. We're not imbued by a sense of tradition. Sentimentality appears to be a thing of the past. And with that thought, I'd like you to study this picture.
This is one of the oldest things I own. It's a St Christopher medallion, designed to be stuck to the dashboard of a car. It has a magnet on the back, long since augmented by a blob of Blu-Tack, added when car manufacturers stopped making cars with metal dashboards.
My dad gave it to me in 1989 when I started driving. It had previously graced the dashboard of his cars, from the Morris Minor he got in the sixties when he passed his test, the bizarre Soviet-built Moskvitch he had in the following decade and the Datsuns he drove when helming something with the dynamic characteristics of a WW2 tank around the streets of Birmingham lost its charm.
I suppose the idea of having the patron saint of travellers hitching a ride with you was that you could be protected a little. For all I know, my grandfather may have passed it to Dad, which means it's been around for a while.
Dad was still driving when 19-year-old me came home with my first car, a 1974 Mini 1000. He took one look at this car, bought for £250 from the local auction. He regarded the bodywork, gently blistering away under the black paintwork. He noticed the lack of bumpers, the wheels on spacers, the odd noise it made going over bumps. He gave the St Christopher medallion to me, probably realising that my need was greater than his.
Of course, St Chris wasn't going to provide me with an impenetrable safety bubble. There was the time I lost a wheel from that Mini, becoming an impromptu tricyclist on the M6 motorway during an Easter bank holiday. Then there was the day I parked the newly-repaired Mini in the side of someone else's Ford Cortina. A retro road traffic accident, if you will.
But St Christopher came with me, from car to car. There was the Escort that was essentially a moving collection of Ford parts held together by rust. The Renault that financially ruined me. The MG BGT with exhaust pipes the width of howitzers, so I could be heard across several time zones. (When I sold that car, I could hear the clinking of champagne glasses coming from our neighbours' houses.)
There was The Incident We're Still Not Talking About. No-one said St Christopher was going to prevent accidents. But as before, I was still in one piece, able to get out of the car afterwards. Taking my lucky medallion with me, of course.
The other week I took delivery of a brand new car. It's so far removed from the crates I used to tool around in that someone visiting from another planet would be hard-pushed to recognise them as being broadly the same type of object. It's a lovely car, shiny, comfortable and (hover boots aside) crammed with an almost obscene amount of gadgets and doohickeys. The instruction manual makes War and Peace look like a pamphlet.
But there was one thing I added - the St Christopher medallion from Dad. After all, we might be all grown up and developed. But a little bit of tradition does no-one any harm, does it?
They've got bacon-flavoured mayonnaise in America, you know. Truly we're reaching a pinnacle as a species.
But at the same time as we've become very clever at lots of stuff, we've shed some of the old ways. We're not imbued by a sense of tradition. Sentimentality appears to be a thing of the past. And with that thought, I'd like you to study this picture.
This is one of the oldest things I own. It's a St Christopher medallion, designed to be stuck to the dashboard of a car. It has a magnet on the back, long since augmented by a blob of Blu-Tack, added when car manufacturers stopped making cars with metal dashboards.
My dad gave it to me in 1989 when I started driving. It had previously graced the dashboard of his cars, from the Morris Minor he got in the sixties when he passed his test, the bizarre Soviet-built Moskvitch he had in the following decade and the Datsuns he drove when helming something with the dynamic characteristics of a WW2 tank around the streets of Birmingham lost its charm.
I suppose the idea of having the patron saint of travellers hitching a ride with you was that you could be protected a little. For all I know, my grandfather may have passed it to Dad, which means it's been around for a while.
Dad was still driving when 19-year-old me came home with my first car, a 1974 Mini 1000. He took one look at this car, bought for £250 from the local auction. He regarded the bodywork, gently blistering away under the black paintwork. He noticed the lack of bumpers, the wheels on spacers, the odd noise it made going over bumps. He gave the St Christopher medallion to me, probably realising that my need was greater than his.
Of course, St Chris wasn't going to provide me with an impenetrable safety bubble. There was the time I lost a wheel from that Mini, becoming an impromptu tricyclist on the M6 motorway during an Easter bank holiday. Then there was the day I parked the newly-repaired Mini in the side of someone else's Ford Cortina. A retro road traffic accident, if you will.
But St Christopher came with me, from car to car. There was the Escort that was essentially a moving collection of Ford parts held together by rust. The Renault that financially ruined me. The MG BGT with exhaust pipes the width of howitzers, so I could be heard across several time zones. (When I sold that car, I could hear the clinking of champagne glasses coming from our neighbours' houses.)
There was The Incident We're Still Not Talking About. No-one said St Christopher was going to prevent accidents. But as before, I was still in one piece, able to get out of the car afterwards. Taking my lucky medallion with me, of course.
The other week I took delivery of a brand new car. It's so far removed from the crates I used to tool around in that someone visiting from another planet would be hard-pushed to recognise them as being broadly the same type of object. It's a lovely car, shiny, comfortable and (hover boots aside) crammed with an almost obscene amount of gadgets and doohickeys. The instruction manual makes War and Peace look like a pamphlet.
But there was one thing I added - the St Christopher medallion from Dad. After all, we might be all grown up and developed. But a little bit of tradition does no-one any harm, does it?
Sunday, 2 December 2012
Pah Rum Pum Pum Pum
Now this takes the biscuit, thought Mary, as she lay back down on the hay and stared at the ceiling.
It was bad enough that she’d found herself in this situation in the first place. It had raised more than a few eyebrows,and it was fair to say not everyone fully believed her story. All things considered, Joseph had been very understanding. Having said that, there was still a little flicker of suspicion in his eyes from time to time.
But that was no excuse for the travel arrangements. She’d told him time and time again that a donkey ride was not exactly ideal for a heavily-pregnant woman, but he hadn’t listened.
“The census is taking place this winter,” he’d said. “We have to go. These Romans don’t muck about.”
But then to find out, after the most uncomfortable three hundred miles she’d ever endured, that he’d failed to book any accommodation at the other end? That was too much. He might have been a carpenter from the sticks, but surely even he could have realised that all the hotels would have been full? It was the holiday season, after all.
So far, so bad. But when he’d suggested bedding down in a stable she seriously began to wonder if he’d lost his mind.
“Joseph – are you quite mad?” she’d asked. “I don’t know if perhaps it’s escaped your attention, but I am with child. Quite heavily with child. So heavily, in fact, that I think a light sneeze on my part and we’ll need a two-seater donkey for the trip home.”
“I’m sorry Mary, but this is all there is. It’s got to be better than sleeping on the streets.”
Her mouth tightened into a grimace. She said, “My cousin Valerie had a home birth. It was lovely, by all accounts. And do you know why?”
He shook his head.
“The distinct lack of domestic animals. That’s why.”
She reluctantly agreed to have a look at the stable. It was every bit as awful as she’d imagined. Small, cramped and distinctly lacking in what you could call home comforts. And then there were the other inhabitants. She didn’t mind the lambs so much, but the oxen were really trying her patience. But the night was drawing in and there was really very little more she could do.
It must have been all the stress that had caused the baby to make its appearance. It was not an experience that Mary would have liked to repeat again in the near future, but at least he appeared healthy. Exhausted, she lay down while Joseph fussed around her.
Then there were the shepherds.
“Begging your pardon, but we’ve been told to come,” they had said, wide-eyed and trembling in the cold night air. It was unexpected, to say the least.
“Who does that?” Mary asked after Joseph had eventually shown them out again. “I mean, is this normal for this part of the country? Do you often get agricultural workers making unannounced appearances at occasions such as this? What next, olive-pickers showing up at funerals?”
“They just wanted to pay their respects, Mary. And, look on the bright side, you got a lovely sheepskin rug off that last one.” Mary rolled her eyes.
“Oh yes, it’s positively luxurious in here now, isn’t it?”
There was another knock at the door.
“Oh, now what?”
The knock was followed by a booming, heavily accented voice. “We come from afar, to see the newborn.” Mary looked accusingly at Joseph. “It’s like an open day here, isn’t it? See what they want, will you, and get rid of them.”
But the three kings were not quite so easily put off. There was something in their manner that made it clear they weren’t going to wait for the morning. Their robes and headgear bore the marks of a long, sand-blasted journey. And it was clear that they’d spent a lot of time recently in the company of camels.
“We followed a star,” one of them said. “It brought us here tonight.”
Mary said, “Gentlemen, that’s a lovely story. Perhaps someone should write it down sometime. But if you don’t—“
“We have gifts for the young one.”
“Well, why didn’t you say? Please, come in, sit down. Pull up a sheep. So then, this star....?”
Actually, Mary had to admit that the three kings were quite nice. Gold's always good to have, and the frankincense would help to mitigate the general ox-based atmosphere that appeared to be prevailing. She wasn’t certain about myrrh, though. Was it some type of antelope? Never mind, she told herself.
Eventually the kings, with much bowing and scraping, left the stable. Mary and Joseph allowed themselves to relax. But then, just when they were getting ready to settle down for the night, a young boy came in.
“I have no gift to bring,” he said quietly. “Can I play you a tune instead?”
By this point, Mary was completely exhausted. She wasn’t thinking straight and just nodded wearily.
The boy pulled out a snare drum and a pair of sticks.
This cannot end well, thought Mary.
It was bad enough that she’d found herself in this situation in the first place. It had raised more than a few eyebrows,and it was fair to say not everyone fully believed her story. All things considered, Joseph had been very understanding. Having said that, there was still a little flicker of suspicion in his eyes from time to time.
But that was no excuse for the travel arrangements. She’d told him time and time again that a donkey ride was not exactly ideal for a heavily-pregnant woman, but he hadn’t listened.
“The census is taking place this winter,” he’d said. “We have to go. These Romans don’t muck about.”
But then to find out, after the most uncomfortable three hundred miles she’d ever endured, that he’d failed to book any accommodation at the other end? That was too much. He might have been a carpenter from the sticks, but surely even he could have realised that all the hotels would have been full? It was the holiday season, after all.
So far, so bad. But when he’d suggested bedding down in a stable she seriously began to wonder if he’d lost his mind.
“Joseph – are you quite mad?” she’d asked. “I don’t know if perhaps it’s escaped your attention, but I am with child. Quite heavily with child. So heavily, in fact, that I think a light sneeze on my part and we’ll need a two-seater donkey for the trip home.”
“I’m sorry Mary, but this is all there is. It’s got to be better than sleeping on the streets.”
Her mouth tightened into a grimace. She said, “My cousin Valerie had a home birth. It was lovely, by all accounts. And do you know why?”
He shook his head.
“The distinct lack of domestic animals. That’s why.”
She reluctantly agreed to have a look at the stable. It was every bit as awful as she’d imagined. Small, cramped and distinctly lacking in what you could call home comforts. And then there were the other inhabitants. She didn’t mind the lambs so much, but the oxen were really trying her patience. But the night was drawing in and there was really very little more she could do.
It must have been all the stress that had caused the baby to make its appearance. It was not an experience that Mary would have liked to repeat again in the near future, but at least he appeared healthy. Exhausted, she lay down while Joseph fussed around her.
Then there were the shepherds.
“Begging your pardon, but we’ve been told to come,” they had said, wide-eyed and trembling in the cold night air. It was unexpected, to say the least.
“Who does that?” Mary asked after Joseph had eventually shown them out again. “I mean, is this normal for this part of the country? Do you often get agricultural workers making unannounced appearances at occasions such as this? What next, olive-pickers showing up at funerals?”
“They just wanted to pay their respects, Mary. And, look on the bright side, you got a lovely sheepskin rug off that last one.” Mary rolled her eyes.
“Oh yes, it’s positively luxurious in here now, isn’t it?”
There was another knock at the door.
“Oh, now what?”
The knock was followed by a booming, heavily accented voice. “We come from afar, to see the newborn.” Mary looked accusingly at Joseph. “It’s like an open day here, isn’t it? See what they want, will you, and get rid of them.”
But the three kings were not quite so easily put off. There was something in their manner that made it clear they weren’t going to wait for the morning. Their robes and headgear bore the marks of a long, sand-blasted journey. And it was clear that they’d spent a lot of time recently in the company of camels.
“We followed a star,” one of them said. “It brought us here tonight.”
Mary said, “Gentlemen, that’s a lovely story. Perhaps someone should write it down sometime. But if you don’t—“
“We have gifts for the young one.”
“Well, why didn’t you say? Please, come in, sit down. Pull up a sheep. So then, this star....?”
Actually, Mary had to admit that the three kings were quite nice. Gold's always good to have, and the frankincense would help to mitigate the general ox-based atmosphere that appeared to be prevailing. She wasn’t certain about myrrh, though. Was it some type of antelope? Never mind, she told herself.
Eventually the kings, with much bowing and scraping, left the stable. Mary and Joseph allowed themselves to relax. But then, just when they were getting ready to settle down for the night, a young boy came in.
“I have no gift to bring,” he said quietly. “Can I play you a tune instead?”
By this point, Mary was completely exhausted. She wasn’t thinking straight and just nodded wearily.
The boy pulled out a snare drum and a pair of sticks.
This cannot end well, thought Mary.
Thursday, 1 November 2012
Breaking the chain
I'm nothing if not consistent. If there's a pattern, I tend to follow it. I'm pretty much a creature of habit.
Although, it must be said, some of my habits are pretty much unspeakable. But that's a topic for another post, preferably one when I'm on the wrong side of Quite A Bit Of Wine.
But the fact remains that I always do what I've always done. If you see what I mean. And at no time is that more the case than November each year.
Last year I spent the month writing. For two (or was it three?) Novembers beforehand, I also spent the month writing. 2011 was Nanowrimo, when I wrote a 62,000 word novel. The prior three (or was it two?) years I spent doing Nablopomo, where you write a brand new blog post every day for a month.
So. It's 1 November. What am I going to do this year?
Well, I'm not writing another novel, that's for sure. I haven't got the last one to a state where other people could read it without me being extravagantly embarrassed. I think I may have mentioned this before. I really want to set some time aside to see what I can do with it.
But if I sit down every day this month to come up with something new in terms of blog entries, I won't have time for anything else. It's all I can do to put my trousers on the right way around every day. To be honest, folks, anything else you get from me is a bit of a bonus.
I look around me and have talented and hardworking friends who are doing the novel thing again. Others are going to add to the sum of human knowledge with witty and apposite blog posts every day. They'll be telling everyone about it. It will be exciting and creative.
Bloody show-offs.
So I'm starting a new challenge. NaNoWriLaYeEdReWriMo. Snappy, isn't it?
It's National Novel Written Last Year Editing & ReWriting Month. Let's see how we go, shall we?
And yes, I realise that by writing a blog post on 1 November I am technically still participating in Nablopomo at the moment. But seriously, who are we kidding? Tomorrow is Friday pasta-red-wine-and-crap-telly night. I'm so easily distracted these days.
See you at the other end.
Although, it must be said, some of my habits are pretty much unspeakable. But that's a topic for another post, preferably one when I'm on the wrong side of Quite A Bit Of Wine.
But the fact remains that I always do what I've always done. If you see what I mean. And at no time is that more the case than November each year.
Last year I spent the month writing. For two (or was it three?) Novembers beforehand, I also spent the month writing. 2011 was Nanowrimo, when I wrote a 62,000 word novel. The prior three (or was it two?) years I spent doing Nablopomo, where you write a brand new blog post every day for a month.
So. It's 1 November. What am I going to do this year?
Well, I'm not writing another novel, that's for sure. I haven't got the last one to a state where other people could read it without me being extravagantly embarrassed. I think I may have mentioned this before. I really want to set some time aside to see what I can do with it.
But if I sit down every day this month to come up with something new in terms of blog entries, I won't have time for anything else. It's all I can do to put my trousers on the right way around every day. To be honest, folks, anything else you get from me is a bit of a bonus.
I look around me and have talented and hardworking friends who are doing the novel thing again. Others are going to add to the sum of human knowledge with witty and apposite blog posts every day. They'll be telling everyone about it. It will be exciting and creative.
Bloody show-offs.
So I'm starting a new challenge. NaNoWriLaYeEdReWriMo. Snappy, isn't it?
It's National Novel Written Last Year Editing & ReWriting Month. Let's see how we go, shall we?
And yes, I realise that by writing a blog post on 1 November I am technically still participating in Nablopomo at the moment. But seriously, who are we kidding? Tomorrow is Friday pasta-red-wine-and-crap-telly night. I'm so easily distracted these days.
See you at the other end.
Sunday, 21 October 2012
A sharp intake of breath
*cough*
Sorry about that. I've been doing it a lot recently. But look on the bright side. I am now an expert on coughs and coughing.
No, really. Ask me about coughs. I'll happily wow you with my insane levels of expectorant-related knowledge. It's the sort of thing you pick up when you've been doing anything for five weeks, I suppose.
*cough*
I mean, it's not as if I wanted to be a coughing guru. Back in mid-September, which is when I must have signed a contract to become a full-time cougher, I never thought I'd still be making a noise like a bull sea lion all this time later.
It's not just the technique side of things. I now have lots of cough theory floating around my head, too. After all, when it's 3.30am and you've taken yourself downstairs - on the not unreasonable basis that at least one person in the house should sleep - there's not much else to do than to read up on the subject. The Wikipedia entry on coughing is a good place to start. It'll be my specialist subject on Mastermind.
*cough*
I know what causes a cough itself, the various mechanisms involved, even a rather natty colour-code you can employ on the end product.
I'm sorry, were you enjoying your soup just now? I guess Coughology isn't for everyone.
Even Katie has become a bit of an expert. She can tell when there's another one on the way, and tenses up appropriately. There's the sharp intake of breath, the cross-eyed look, then a bark like an overweight German Shepherd that rattles the window frames, lifts the curtains and dislodges small ornaments.
She's a lucky girl, and no mistake.
*cough*
My poor work colleagues are beginning to suffer, I'm sure. In an open-plan working environment, there's nothing worse than The One With The Cough. It's the middle of the flu season anyway, so the office is already doing a passable impression of a Victorian home for consumptives. But my respiratory system provides the rumbling undertone. Why I haven't been quietly poisoned in a team meeting is anyone's guess.
*cough*
Frustratingly, and despite the combined efforts of several doctors, we haven't yet pinpointed a cause that can be combated. I am a latter-day enigma as far as modern medicine is concerned. We know what it definitely isn't (before you start putting two and two together), but other than that we're all a little stumped.
And here's a tip - never use the Internet to self-diagnose. So far, I've travelled the sputum highway from viral bronchitis to beri-beri, with a detour to Collapsed Lungsville along the way. It's a good job I wasn't sleeping anyway.
*cough*
Cough medicine, by the way, is worse than useless, which should be obvious to anyone with a passing knowledge of human biology. How can something that you swallow sort your breathing apparatus out? Taking cough mixture is pretty much the same as pouring bleach down your drains and expecting it to clear your chimney.
As a direct result of my consumption of gloopy, syrupy Covonia over the last month, I reckon I can look forward to diabetes in my near future. I also know the difference between a non-productive and a productive cough:
*cough*
I've tried steam. I've tried menthol vapours. I've tried swearing very loudly. Actually, Katie has helped with that last one. Maybe I'm just destined to be one of those blokes who has a cough? There always used to be one man in every room that fitted the description, back when everyone smoked. Perhaps that's going to be my lot in life?
Oh well. It's a living, I suppose.
*cough*
Sorry about that. I've been doing it a lot recently. But look on the bright side. I am now an expert on coughs and coughing.
No, really. Ask me about coughs. I'll happily wow you with my insane levels of expectorant-related knowledge. It's the sort of thing you pick up when you've been doing anything for five weeks, I suppose.
*cough*
I mean, it's not as if I wanted to be a coughing guru. Back in mid-September, which is when I must have signed a contract to become a full-time cougher, I never thought I'd still be making a noise like a bull sea lion all this time later.
It's not just the technique side of things. I now have lots of cough theory floating around my head, too. After all, when it's 3.30am and you've taken yourself downstairs - on the not unreasonable basis that at least one person in the house should sleep - there's not much else to do than to read up on the subject. The Wikipedia entry on coughing is a good place to start. It'll be my specialist subject on Mastermind.
*cough*
I know what causes a cough itself, the various mechanisms involved, even a rather natty colour-code you can employ on the end product.
I'm sorry, were you enjoying your soup just now? I guess Coughology isn't for everyone.
Even Katie has become a bit of an expert. She can tell when there's another one on the way, and tenses up appropriately. There's the sharp intake of breath, the cross-eyed look, then a bark like an overweight German Shepherd that rattles the window frames, lifts the curtains and dislodges small ornaments.
She's a lucky girl, and no mistake.
*cough*
My poor work colleagues are beginning to suffer, I'm sure. In an open-plan working environment, there's nothing worse than The One With The Cough. It's the middle of the flu season anyway, so the office is already doing a passable impression of a Victorian home for consumptives. But my respiratory system provides the rumbling undertone. Why I haven't been quietly poisoned in a team meeting is anyone's guess.
*cough*
Frustratingly, and despite the combined efforts of several doctors, we haven't yet pinpointed a cause that can be combated. I am a latter-day enigma as far as modern medicine is concerned. We know what it definitely isn't (before you start putting two and two together), but other than that we're all a little stumped.
And here's a tip - never use the Internet to self-diagnose. So far, I've travelled the sputum highway from viral bronchitis to beri-beri, with a detour to Collapsed Lungsville along the way. It's a good job I wasn't sleeping anyway.
*cough*
Cough medicine, by the way, is worse than useless, which should be obvious to anyone with a passing knowledge of human biology. How can something that you swallow sort your breathing apparatus out? Taking cough mixture is pretty much the same as pouring bleach down your drains and expecting it to clear your chimney.
As a direct result of my consumption of gloopy, syrupy Covonia over the last month, I reckon I can look forward to diabetes in my near future. I also know the difference between a non-productive and a productive cough:
- Non-productive cough - dry, tickly, wheezy. Red face, bulging eyes. Ladies, form a queue.
- Productive cough - completes that report you needed to do for work, while hanging out the washing and putting next week's shopping-list together.
*cough*
I've tried steam. I've tried menthol vapours. I've tried swearing very loudly. Actually, Katie has helped with that last one. Maybe I'm just destined to be one of those blokes who has a cough? There always used to be one man in every room that fitted the description, back when everyone smoked. Perhaps that's going to be my lot in life?
Oh well. It's a living, I suppose.
*cough*
Sunday, 7 October 2012
Onwards and upwards
I think I might have had a bit of an epiphany. Don't worry, It didn't hurt.
Last year, as those few followers who are still here might know, I wrote a novel in a month. Well, I say 'wrote a novel.' In truth, the word 'month' is probably the only accurate part of that sentence. What I actually did was to put some 62,000 words together that roughly followed a half-plot. I did manage to do it all in November, though.
Since then, people have asked me what I intend to do next. When can we read it, they ask? When's it coming out? What the hell do you think you're playing at, Sawyer?
Actually, I get asked that last one a lot. I used to be asked it long before the novel, if I'm being honest.
But despite all this interest, I didn't want to face the draft novel and look at what I'd written. I was uncertain about climbing back on that particular horse. First of all, I was pretty certain it would be ugly. After all, no-one can write a novel in a month that you would actually want to read. Trust me on this. And the second reason was one of scale. Although 62,000 is actually a relatively low word count for a modern novel, it's still a big chunk of writing to re-work. And you've done the fun, creative part already. Where do you start?
Well, my answer to that final question was simply not to start at all. I let the thing fester on my hard drive. (And on a USB stick, my other hard drive, my Dropbox folder - at least I back things up). I looked at it briefly in January this year, shuddered and put it away again.
There were always things to do. Unfortunately, none of those things looked like 'writing a second draft'. Instead, quite a few of those things bore a resemblance to 'pratting around on Twitter'. Trying to come up with witty and amusing 140-character messages - and getting instant feedback - was attractive. When I realised I couldn't do it, watching others succeed was almost as much fun.
But it wasn't writing. Not really. That was beginning to slow down. The short stories, articles, blog posts - they began to dry up. And with every passing week it became easier to carry on doing nothing. I decided not to bother continuing my writing class. And all the time, the 62,000-word elephant in the room loomed large. Which, by all accounts, elephants are wont to do. I couldn't really start anything new. After all, when people asked me what I was doing, I could say I was editing my novel, couldn't I? Even though I plainly wasn't.
A good friend of mine also wrote a novel last November. Since then she's re-written it, self-published the thing, sold some copies and got great feedback. She's now done a sequel and is about to start a separate trilogy. Every time I read an update from her I felt like a neglectful parent.
Then a few things happened. We lost my grandmother not long ago, and the funeral brought together brothers and cousins. These are people who are not easily misdirected, so when they asked me the same questions, they weren't convinced by the whole 'I'm still editing it' line. I think more than one person told me to stop sitting on my thumbs and just publish the bloody thing.
I should add that we weren't having this conversation during the service.
I sat down a few days later and wrote a new short story based on my grandparents - I posted it here last month and people said nice things about it.
I ended up renewing my writing classes for another year. Having the need to submit a new piece every week might help to get the writing muscles going once more.
Last week we went away to a remote Welsh village. There was no broadband - in fact, hardly even a phone signal. So I took a pen. A loose-leaf pad. And the printed draft of a novel I wrote at break-neck speed last November. Look - here's the proof:
Writers using illicit substances is such a cliche, isn't it? In my case, it was a cuppa and Sudafed nasal spray. I'm like a latter-day Hunter S. Thompson, aren't I?
So this is what I did. I read my novel and made notes as I went. I noted how long each 'scene' was, as if it was a screenplay. What worked well, what didn't. I saw what was overdone, what could be cut and what was missing. Which characters needed more work and where the plot holes were (and there were some doozies, let me tell you).
After that work, I actually had a plan and a to-do list. It might not seem wildly, romantically creative, but I'm no longer scared of my draft. I came home yesterday with my notes, several new character studies and a completely new beginning to the first chapter. I'm motivated to get cracking with this book.
The funny thing is, it's not even as if it's some great ground-breaking piece of literary greatness. It's just a silly story. It's not intended to change your life. So perhaps I can just stop stressing, yes? Anyway, hopefully you'll have something else to read soon.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Last year, as those few followers who are still here might know, I wrote a novel in a month. Well, I say 'wrote a novel.' In truth, the word 'month' is probably the only accurate part of that sentence. What I actually did was to put some 62,000 words together that roughly followed a half-plot. I did manage to do it all in November, though.
Since then, people have asked me what I intend to do next. When can we read it, they ask? When's it coming out? What the hell do you think you're playing at, Sawyer?
Actually, I get asked that last one a lot. I used to be asked it long before the novel, if I'm being honest.
But despite all this interest, I didn't want to face the draft novel and look at what I'd written. I was uncertain about climbing back on that particular horse. First of all, I was pretty certain it would be ugly. After all, no-one can write a novel in a month that you would actually want to read. Trust me on this. And the second reason was one of scale. Although 62,000 is actually a relatively low word count for a modern novel, it's still a big chunk of writing to re-work. And you've done the fun, creative part already. Where do you start?
Well, my answer to that final question was simply not to start at all. I let the thing fester on my hard drive. (And on a USB stick, my other hard drive, my Dropbox folder - at least I back things up). I looked at it briefly in January this year, shuddered and put it away again.
There were always things to do. Unfortunately, none of those things looked like 'writing a second draft'. Instead, quite a few of those things bore a resemblance to 'pratting around on Twitter'. Trying to come up with witty and amusing 140-character messages - and getting instant feedback - was attractive. When I realised I couldn't do it, watching others succeed was almost as much fun.
But it wasn't writing. Not really. That was beginning to slow down. The short stories, articles, blog posts - they began to dry up. And with every passing week it became easier to carry on doing nothing. I decided not to bother continuing my writing class. And all the time, the 62,000-word elephant in the room loomed large. Which, by all accounts, elephants are wont to do. I couldn't really start anything new. After all, when people asked me what I was doing, I could say I was editing my novel, couldn't I? Even though I plainly wasn't.
A good friend of mine also wrote a novel last November. Since then she's re-written it, self-published the thing, sold some copies and got great feedback. She's now done a sequel and is about to start a separate trilogy. Every time I read an update from her I felt like a neglectful parent.
Then a few things happened. We lost my grandmother not long ago, and the funeral brought together brothers and cousins. These are people who are not easily misdirected, so when they asked me the same questions, they weren't convinced by the whole 'I'm still editing it' line. I think more than one person told me to stop sitting on my thumbs and just publish the bloody thing.
I should add that we weren't having this conversation during the service.
I sat down a few days later and wrote a new short story based on my grandparents - I posted it here last month and people said nice things about it.
I ended up renewing my writing classes for another year. Having the need to submit a new piece every week might help to get the writing muscles going once more.
Last week we went away to a remote Welsh village. There was no broadband - in fact, hardly even a phone signal. So I took a pen. A loose-leaf pad. And the printed draft of a novel I wrote at break-neck speed last November. Look - here's the proof:
Writers using illicit substances is such a cliche, isn't it? In my case, it was a cuppa and Sudafed nasal spray. I'm like a latter-day Hunter S. Thompson, aren't I?
So this is what I did. I read my novel and made notes as I went. I noted how long each 'scene' was, as if it was a screenplay. What worked well, what didn't. I saw what was overdone, what could be cut and what was missing. Which characters needed more work and where the plot holes were (and there were some doozies, let me tell you).
After that work, I actually had a plan and a to-do list. It might not seem wildly, romantically creative, but I'm no longer scared of my draft. I came home yesterday with my notes, several new character studies and a completely new beginning to the first chapter. I'm motivated to get cracking with this book.
The funny thing is, it's not even as if it's some great ground-breaking piece of literary greatness. It's just a silly story. It's not intended to change your life. So perhaps I can just stop stressing, yes? Anyway, hopefully you'll have something else to read soon.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
Sunday, 16 September 2012
The Gardener's Tale, part two
The Gardener leant on the handle of his fork and drew a hand across his brow. He liked the fact that he was busy these days. It was a good thing; the results of his labours were clear to see. But he couldn't help thinking that something was missing.
The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made him look up. The Gatekeeper was approaching.
"Good morning, Gatekeeper. I hope you like the garden. I'm just planning some bulbs for the spring. Should be a blaze of colour."
The Gatekeeper seemed pre-occupied."Gardener, I need to talk to you," he said, the beginnings of a stern expression forming on his face.
"Is there something wrong?"
"No. Well, not really. The garden is beautiful. It's much better than I could have hoped. How long have you been here?"
"It's difficult to tell, Gatekeeper. But this will be fifth time I've done a winter planting-out, if that helps."
"You've truly put your heart and soul into this. But I can tell that there is something you're missing."
The Gardener looked down at the neatly-mowed lawn. His words came slowly."You're right, Gatekeeper. I love this little patch, and you've been very generous. But sometimes I wish I could share all of this..."
"I think I know what you mean," said the Gatekeeper. He was thinking. Then he raised his head and looked the Gardener in the eyes. He spoke softly, almost a whisper. "I think it's time, you know."
Months later and the garden was a blaze of colour. Each bed was planned to perfection, every pot a riot of colour. The Gatekeeper was unsurprised; this was another triumph for the Gardener. But he could tell that there was something extra at play.
The Gardener's dwelling, now that was a different matter altogether. The Gatekeeper hadn't really noticed this place before, but he found himself drawn to it now. It had been somehow transformed. He couldn't really put his finger on it, but it was a home now, not just a place for living in.
The Gatekeeper was sitting on a long sofa. French windows opened out into the garden, a gentle breeze moving the apple tree branches to and fro. He could hear the trickling of a water-course, while the smell of baking wafted in from the kitchen. It was almost as if the garden and the house complemented each other. He looked around. There was an armchair next to the fireplace, knitting patterns and balls of wool strewn across it. Quite the largest aspidistra he had ever seen nestled in a blue and white pot in the corner, while a herd of small china hedgehogs marched steadily across the mantelpiece.
"Another cup of tea, Gatekeeper?" asked the Gardener's wife from the small kitchen.
"No thank you madam." Secretly he was hoping that another jar of pickled onions was coming his way, but he didn't want to press matters. "Are you settling in well?"
She bustled in through the doorway, drying her hands on a small towel."Oh yes," she said, "I've never been so busy." She motioned to the garden. "He thinks he knows it all, but every now and then he needs a little supervision. Plus his cardigans were were getting a little worn at the elbows. There's always something that needs doing." She chuckled to herself.
"The garden does look lovely."
"Oh, I know. All the colours. Reds, blues, yellows. I never thought I'd be able to see them like this again. It's been wonderful, you know. Just how I rememebred it."
The Gatekeeper leant back and regarded the Gardener's wife. "You know, madam, in my line of work I get to meet lots of people. Scientists, mathematicians, people of logic. If you were to ask them what one plus one comes to, they'd say it was two. But seeing you and the Gardener together, I'm not so sure any more."
Her eyes shone brightly as she replied. "Yes. Sometimes, one and one are worth more than that."
"Just one question, though. Why have you got the number 198 on the front door?"
She grinned. "Ah. I can explain that. You might think you know everything there is to know about paradise, Gatekeeper. But me and Alf, we'd been perfecting this for quite a while."
"That makes sense," said the Gatekeeper. He noticed her looking intently at him. "What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm just trying to figure out if you're a 42-inch waist or a 44-inch. I've got this spare wool, you see, Gatekeeper. I think you'd look quite smashing in a nice cable-knit."
The sound of footsteps on the gravel path made him look up. The Gatekeeper was approaching.
"Good morning, Gatekeeper. I hope you like the garden. I'm just planning some bulbs for the spring. Should be a blaze of colour."
The Gatekeeper seemed pre-occupied."Gardener, I need to talk to you," he said, the beginnings of a stern expression forming on his face.
"Is there something wrong?"
"No. Well, not really. The garden is beautiful. It's much better than I could have hoped. How long have you been here?"
"It's difficult to tell, Gatekeeper. But this will be fifth time I've done a winter planting-out, if that helps."
"You've truly put your heart and soul into this. But I can tell that there is something you're missing."
The Gardener looked down at the neatly-mowed lawn. His words came slowly."You're right, Gatekeeper. I love this little patch, and you've been very generous. But sometimes I wish I could share all of this..."
"I think I know what you mean," said the Gatekeeper. He was thinking. Then he raised his head and looked the Gardener in the eyes. He spoke softly, almost a whisper. "I think it's time, you know."
Months later and the garden was a blaze of colour. Each bed was planned to perfection, every pot a riot of colour. The Gatekeeper was unsurprised; this was another triumph for the Gardener. But he could tell that there was something extra at play.
The Gardener's dwelling, now that was a different matter altogether. The Gatekeeper hadn't really noticed this place before, but he found himself drawn to it now. It had been somehow transformed. He couldn't really put his finger on it, but it was a home now, not just a place for living in.
The Gatekeeper was sitting on a long sofa. French windows opened out into the garden, a gentle breeze moving the apple tree branches to and fro. He could hear the trickling of a water-course, while the smell of baking wafted in from the kitchen. It was almost as if the garden and the house complemented each other. He looked around. There was an armchair next to the fireplace, knitting patterns and balls of wool strewn across it. Quite the largest aspidistra he had ever seen nestled in a blue and white pot in the corner, while a herd of small china hedgehogs marched steadily across the mantelpiece.
"Another cup of tea, Gatekeeper?" asked the Gardener's wife from the small kitchen.
"No thank you madam." Secretly he was hoping that another jar of pickled onions was coming his way, but he didn't want to press matters. "Are you settling in well?"
She bustled in through the doorway, drying her hands on a small towel."Oh yes," she said, "I've never been so busy." She motioned to the garden. "He thinks he knows it all, but every now and then he needs a little supervision. Plus his cardigans were were getting a little worn at the elbows. There's always something that needs doing." She chuckled to herself.
"The garden does look lovely."
"Oh, I know. All the colours. Reds, blues, yellows. I never thought I'd be able to see them like this again. It's been wonderful, you know. Just how I rememebred it."
The Gatekeeper leant back and regarded the Gardener's wife. "You know, madam, in my line of work I get to meet lots of people. Scientists, mathematicians, people of logic. If you were to ask them what one plus one comes to, they'd say it was two. But seeing you and the Gardener together, I'm not so sure any more."
Her eyes shone brightly as she replied. "Yes. Sometimes, one and one are worth more than that."
"Just one question, though. Why have you got the number 198 on the front door?"
She grinned. "Ah. I can explain that. You might think you know everything there is to know about paradise, Gatekeeper. But me and Alf, we'd been perfecting this for quite a while."
"That makes sense," said the Gatekeeper. He noticed her looking intently at him. "What's the matter?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm just trying to figure out if you're a 42-inch waist or a 44-inch. I've got this spare wool, you see, Gatekeeper. I think you'd look quite smashing in a nice cable-knit."
In loving memory of Edith Sawyer, 1917-2012. Enjoy the colours, Nan. Hoping you and Granddad are planning the spring bulbs together once again.
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