My fabulous lockdown life

How is this eternal lockdown really going for you?  (And despite the recent confusing relaxation of the rules, we are still far from out of lockdown.) Looking through the lens of social media and watching the news – which is the only barometer for most of us, deprived as we are of normal human interaction – lockdowners fall into two camps.

Firstly, there’s the smug lockdowners.  As if show-parenting and social media boasting aren’t torturous enough in real life (and I mean back in the Real World, before Quentin Tarantino started directing 2020), I present to you …. drumroll ……. show lockdown! “We’re all having so much fun” wholesome parents trill via YouTube as their family showcase extravagant baking sessions or form a philharmonic orchestra.  (Where does that flour come from? F****d if I can find any!)  These are the parents who are teaching their kids Greek and hanging exquisite rainbows fashioned from paper origami birds in their windows.  Meanwhile, the rest of us worry about finances, work in cramped conditions at home, struggle to look after vulnerable parents and try to home-educate bored, hyperactive children.  A friend who is working long hours to keep the family business afloat while home-schooling her two kids described a dark moment when one of the bored non-working school mums delivered sunflower seeds to all the children in her son’s class and suggested a fun online flower growing competition.  “So now I have to keep bloody plants alive too!” wailed my friend.

Then there are the annoying couples who take competitive lockdown to the extreme: they run marathons round their front garden and boast of enjoying quality time together.  Fun new hobbies such as painting watercolour meadows and making smoothies in matching leisurewear are documented ad nauseum for all to see on social media.  Often while many of us are having dark, murderous thoughts about our partners.

The show-offs, in the midst of their wholesome Famous Five family fun, seem oblivious to the real reason for the lockdown – thousands are dying from an invisible, deadly killer.  This isn’t an extended summer holiday, ffs! We are all in survival mode and it’s terrifying.  But hey, you carry on telling me how much fun all this is!

Then there is the other side of the coin: the disasters.  They proudly boast of 9am drinking sessions, days spent binge-watching Netflix in pyjamas,  a diet of crisps and cake, houses not cleaned for months and seem to take delight in being total car crashes.  Pouring scorn on anyone who does anything remotely productive or is not eating their body weight in biscuits daily, these people love to tell tales of their complete failure to home-school their children –  or in fact doing anything that involves getting off the sofa.  Shambling around in a mess is a badge of honour for them, and the more they can broadcast this to the world via social media, the better.  The judgemental side of me finds it extremely irritating: did none of you get enough attention as children?  (Disclosure: I left a bag of surplus VE Day cakes on a friend’s doorstep.  If I’m coming out of lockdown fatter, my friends are too and I’m happy to be an enabler.)

The truth, as always, lies somewhere in between.  Most of us have good days and bad days and are doing what we have to in order to survive.  Maybe there is a little of both types in all of us.  I know very few people with the luxury of being paid in full to stay home doing nothing and with no children to look after: the majority of my friends are struggling to keep businesses going, educate kids, stay healthy and sane and conduct work through emails and awkward Zoom meeting calls. A few key workers soldier on bravely on the frontline.  Everyone has financial concerns.  We are all missing friends and family and the freedom we once took for granted. Some of us have lost loved ones and been through the agony of grief in isolation.

I’ve found lockdown a real mixed bag of good and bad.  I’m enjoying the luxury of more time.  Pressing the pause button on daily life means no commute and less pressure.  And I refuse to treat this as an excuse to let standards slip:  I shower daily, as I normally would, and wear clean clothes.  I touch up my roots, paint my nails and look after myself, because it helps my self-esteem. I clean my house thoroughly every week and chat to my friends regularly, I’ve decorated, sorted out drawers, read books and drawn and painted.  I have a daily to-do list in the Real World and I’ve continued with that.  I tried baking but then realised I’d have to eat all 24 scones myself, which is no problem for me but perhaps not the best idea on a regular basis.  I participated in an online tea party for charity and my street’s VE Day isolation party. (I have to confess, I was horribly competitive. I walked the dog round the block to see what the rest of the neighbourhood was doing and was thrilled to report that our few houses were the only ones using linen tablecloths and proper china.) One day a week I shop for elderly parents.   I’ve done a few days’ work from home which has made me feel like a connected part of society again.  A man sometimes sits on the sofa in the lounge and I’ve discovered we’re married. He in turn has discovered he likes gardening.

Here’s the flipside.  I overeat. I worry like crazy about work, finances, the death toll, loved ones. I don’t wear my usual full face of make-up and my split ends are legendary.  My eyebrows, once beautifully shaped every fortnight by my beauty therapist, are a mess.  I can’t sleep, so I knock myself out with sleeping pills and then worry about becoming addicted.  I can’t settle to anything and I procrastinate and often don’t leave the house for days.  I watch the news to the point of obsession with a mounting sense of doom and become furious with those who avoid any media, believing them to be irresponsible, but then wish I felt less like a road traffic accident spectator.  My attempts at voluntary work have failed because I have panic attacks in shops about others’ cavalier attitude and bark “TWO METRES!!!” at anyone who comes within five metres of me.  I get upset and angry and miss the people I can’t see and the places I can’t go.  Like everyone, I resent the cancelled holidays and weddings and events, but it seems petty to complain when others have lost so much more.  But it doesn’t mean I don’t feel sad.

But, as always, my friends are a lifeline and through this I have learned who my true friends are.  We speak or message regularly.  Some call me in tears when they are despairing about a bad day and I do the same back.  We ALL have bad days: surely even the twatty couples and annoying families who post shiny, motivational fun videos and photos on Instagram are getting on each other’s nerves by now, the novelty of “quality time” long gone.  I do hope so, we all need a dose of Schadenfreude.

Lockdown will soon feel like a dream, and good and bad will come from it.  But I am an optimist and I hope mainly good.  We are seeing the very best of human nature (as well as the worst, but light always prevails over darkness) and incredible acts of bravery.  Hopefully we all have a renewed sense of what is truly important and that is not money or status but the things that can’t be measured.

Stay safe – and if you know where I can source self-raising flour, let me know and I’ll pay cash, no questions asked.


Scared of Dying? Don’t Be ….

What terrifies you?  I don’t scare easily.  During my 45 years on this planet I have stared down the barrel of a loaded gun, made speeches to hundreds of people and had laser eye surgery (yes, you can smell your eyeball scorching!)  None of it was particularly frightening.  I don’t believe in ghosts, flying doesn’t bother me and I have a high pain threshold too: tattoos simply scratch a little (grown men being inked were passing out next to me!) and I can have a Hollywood wax and simultaneously hold a conversation   And that ultimate fear, death, doesn’t frighten me, having stared it down a couple of times.

I am inexplicably terrified of getting my head underwater.  Maybe I drowned in a past life.  This is a problem as a Baptist as I have yet to have my full adult immersion.  I did manage an underwater ocean walk in Mauritius many years ago after several refusals at the last minute — until the crew on the boat got fed up and just forcibly pushed me under which is one way to overcome your fears quickly.  My husband, a keen diver, really wanted me to experience the wonders of the ocean bed.  I say if we were meant to do that, God would have given us fins.  But I did it and it was great and, once I got there, not that scary.

So what about dying?  And when you think you’re going to die, does your life really flash in front of you?   Yes, it does, but not in the way I thought.  And there’s nothing like the click of a gun’s safety catch  to give a sharp sense of perspective.

With famous British reserve we don’t talk about death, although it is inevitable (Like taxes. Unless you are a mega rich tax exile but you are still going to die some day.)  I am always mystified as to why we are, as a nation, so reticent. Our Victorian ancestors with their gruesome death obsession loved the melodrama of it all but today as a nation it is still spoken about in hushed tones.  Even the vocabulary round it is cloaked in whispers: “passed away”, “left us”, “called to eternal glory”.  What is wrong with plain old “died”?

I was discussing fear of dying with friends a few weeks ago over dinner at London’s aptly named Bleeding Heart restaurant, the scene of a famous death in Bleeding Heart Yard outside (Google it and go there — it’s awesome!)  Unsuitable dinner conversation, maybe, but then the neighbouring table were cheerfully discussing paternity test results.  (It wasn’t his, in case you are wondering). Two of us aren’t afraid of death at all, and interestingly we have both had close calls, the third friend thought the conversation horribly morbid and wouldn’t talk about it.  “I’m not scared” said my second friend. “I just don’t want to know about it when it happens to me.”

It doesn’t scare me either, having come quite close on a couple of occasions during my adult life.   My faith helps, but mostly I believe that turning round and confronting death takes away its sting: like all bullies, it is a coward when called out. My will is written and my funeral planned right down to the playlist, so now I can forget all about it.  Women from both paternal and maternal sides of my family are very long lived therefore I’m not planning on checking out any time soon.  During my 21 year legal career I have worked on enough inquests and public inquiries to understand the factual, medical and practical side of dying .  But what does it feel like when you think your number is up?

None of us actually know what dying is like, of course.  Film and literature has had a good go at guessing.  I’m thinking of the movie Flatliners or Alice Sebold’s wonderful book, The Lovely Bones, written from the afterlife.  The hardest piece I ever wrote for this blog was the last day on earth – and the passing to the other side — from the point of view of my beloved dog Dexter last year which was read hundreds of times and, so I am told, made everyone cry.  (What a fantastic privilege it is to move people to such emotions through your writing.)   I’ve read numerous accounts of the phenomenon of near death experience, of travelling down tunnels of light and looking down on your lifeless body in the operating theatre.  But is it, as scientists would have us believe, a trick of a dying brain?

My closest call came in the late 1990s when I found myself staring down the barrel of a loaded gun one night on a beach in West Africa. (Long story, I’ll skip to the end. When we are young we feel invincible and take stupid risks).  The corrupt police officer had removed his badge and after levelling the gun at me, made me undress.   My only thought at the time “This isn’t how it is meant to end.  I’m not ready!”  Total panic, then icy acceptance.  I wanted it done quick.  Did I plead for my life? (Of course I f*****g did, wouldn’t you? ) It was right before Christmas and I told him again and again I wanted to go back to my family (‘You can see your family again — in hell’)  It was at this point that my life flashed before me.   Random things that had happened years ago, fragments like a kaleidoscope.  My grandparents’ old dog.  An apartment I lived in when working in Bermuda, in minute detail, which I couldn’t have recalled if I tried.  Then the dead man’s click of the safety catch.  Waiting.   This is it now.  Don’t touch me and just do it quick.  I saw myself arguing with mum about the very tiny velvet hot pants I wore to my 21st party instead of a ‘nice dress’.   Bizarre shards of jumbled memories, a whole life.  The things I wouldn’t ever get to do.  The words I wouldn’t now say to people.  Again the anger of “I’m not ready!” The marriage proposal I hadn’t accepted. The only man who, at that time, I had ever loved — and the fact he wouldn’t miss me.

I survived the incident with surprisingly few emotional effects.  When I talk about past trauma that close call doesn’t feature.  I’ve always been able to reason my way out of situations and there’s very little a cash bribe won’t do in the third world.  It didn’t stop me travelling but I am a lot more careful.  Incidentally, I saw the man a couple of years later in passing when I was back out in West Africa and he just said hello as if nothing had happened.  Humans never cease to mystify me.

There have been a couple of other close calls since but my guardian angel looks after me. Like everyone I have phobias and I am still working on that total immersion.  I am quite scared of a particular very formidable female High Court judge but then so is the whole legal profession!

Face your fears and they no longer become scary.  Don’t let dying scare you because often living is more frightening.  As a writer and a human being, such experiences can only enrich you.  Most of all, remember to be scared by your dreams, and, as the saying goes, if your dreams don’t scare you, they aren’t big enough.








Hold on tight to your dreams …

Over Easter we visited friends in Cornwall who have recently realised their dream of moving to the beach after years of commuting into London and working two jobs each. We had a wonderful long weekend of food, laughing, drinks in the pub and long walks on the beach with all our dogs.  When husband and I returned home I felt restless for weeks afterwards and couldn’t pinpoint why.  We don’t hanker after living by the coast and, gorgeous as their beachside bungalow is, we love our house and are happy in our town.  Then it dawned on me suddenly: I have lost sight of my dreams, allowing myself to get so bogged down in the daily quagmire of work, health issues, never-ending house renovations and the minutiae of life that I have forgotten what I dreamed of.

Some dreams are huge.  My great-grandmother dreamed of visiting Paris, quite an ambition for a working class woman in the mid-20th century.  She never went but always clung to that hope.  And big dreams can come true.  In January 2009 a friend of mine brought her ten year old daughter to a lunch to celebrate my engagement. The little girl told us that when she grew up she wanted to be a famous YouTube star.  We all smiled indulgently but now in 2017 she is indeed that social media star with millions of followers and an agent in LA.  She had that flame of ambition burning inside of her and just wouldn’t give up on her dreams.  Another good friend has a son who always wanted to be a top music producer.  Now I hear his music everywhere, all the time; you will definitely have heard it too.  Again, he stuck with his dreams and dared to make them a reality.  And my friends in Cornwall too dreamed of a house by the sea with their dogs and worked and worked towards it – and now they have their wonderful life – and we have a fantastic holiday home!

What were my dreams?  Sometimes I struggle to recall them.  Well, like most people I want the basics of good health for myself and my loved ones, a roof over my head and a life free of financial worries where I can easily pay the bills.  But assuming those first world essentials are satisfied, what then?  Not a huge lottery win as I have seen at work what billions can do to a person: they end up in court suing each other.  But enough money to not have to constantly fret (oh, and to turn left on entering a plane too!) My 45 years have taught me that material things do not ultimately bring happiness.  (Although my Tiffany sunglasses are the exception)  I never had the popular dreams of marriage and children or a particular career or owning my own house but I had dreams of travel and adventure and becoming a bestselling author.

Dreams change with time to become a moving target.  Right the way through university I wanted to join the Army Intelligence Corps until I failed my interview and, once again, I had to reassess what I wanted.  Deflated, I never really had any career dreams after that.   I achieved a lifelong ambition in 2009 when I finally saw my work in print (and then went on to be published again and again) culminating in the publishing of my ebook in 2011.  I then wanted a bestselling novel but now that seems less important and I am not sure I could handle the bad reviews and rejection. Next, I wanted to build a craft emporium and turn my passion into a career but realised that in doing that, all the fun and joy of creating would be sucked from it.   I need to find new dreams because what is life without dreams?  It doesn’t have to be anything fancy: my husband pictured having a relaxing bath in a lovely new bathroom in our house, a dream that got him through weeks of noise, dust and disruption while it was being created.   I always wanted to have a dog and now I am a dog owner of a lovely whippety mash-up rescue.   I have a vague idea that I would like our house to be featured in an interiors magazine once it is finished and husband mentioned he wanted to go to the Isle of Man TT, so new dreams are forming but I need newer and bigger dreams too.

So dare to dream, let your dreams scare you and, as the song goes: hold on tight to your dreams.


Don’t feed the trolls!

I can’t be the only one who has noticed how judgmental people are these days. And what better forum than online where one can hide behind a screen?  In Britain we wouldn’t berate a complete stranger in the street for their views on Brexit, parenting skills or choice of clothes but on social media it is open season to sit as judge and jury on anyone and anything.

A few days ago I watched two enormous altercations unfold on Facebook, the first in a whippet forum where a dog owner’s  innocent question about raw food versus dry suddenly turned into a really nasty slanging match. It seemed every man (and his dog) was an expert veterinary nutritionist, and insults and personal remarks were being flung around freely.  At the same time on a local group for my town a lady posted a query about some roadworks and bang!  Three men got into a highly charged and vicious online fight where accusations of bad driving skills quickly escalated into penis size speculation.  It seems many of us have regressed to playground style name-calling.

I have been on the receiving end of similar attacks by trolls on the TripAdvisor travel forum where the downright spite aimed at me after I posted an innocent travel question reduced me to tears and I have never been back.  And a couple of weeks ago on Twitter I was piggy in the middle when two very large animal welfare organisations began trading accusations and barbs through my Twitter account after I tweeted both of them to ask the question why, as they both love dogs, they couldn’t work together at Crufts.  I watched astonished, feeling like a referee in a boxing match whilst feeling sad that two powerful organisations couldn’t put politics and differences aside.

So why is it OK to judge and criticise others so harshly online?  When did this become the norm and why does it so often happen without those doing the judging and trolling knowing the full facts?   Why do we think we are experts on everything and therefore entitled to sit in judgment on our fellow human beings? In real life, as opposed to our often highly edited cyber life, we are all just trying to do the best we can.  I don’t get it right all the time but on the whole I try to be a good wife, daughter, neighbour, friend, citizen and consumer with respect for those around me.  (Unless I have PMT in which case stand back everyone!)

On social media I try to just scroll on and accept that people have different views without judging or straying into the murky world of trolling.  But some of the frankly vile and hateful comments I see posted are astonishing, aimed at those who are just going about their lives peacefully and legally.   A friend of mine who is a fan of a particular clothing designer commented recently that she felt very sad about some of the vitriol and scorn posted on the designer’s Facebook page.  If you don’t like the clothes, unfollow the page.  Why be so downright nasty for the sake of it?  I have also noticed many of the women’s magazines have accounts on social media where they will post a picture of a celebrity or an outfit and ask for comments which to me only seems to open the floodgates of caustic remarks and spite. Why encourage us to judge each other so harshly?  As women we should be empowering each other which is a reason why I love celebrities such as Katie Piper and Lorraine Kelly who encourage positivity.

And this seems to be exclusively online.  Opinionated and inflammatory people in the public eye such as Katie Hopkins and Piers Morgan are not liked.  (Yes, I know they love to be notorious and it’s their USP and I maintain that if we ignore them they will simply cease to exist!) But I have seen remarks online from the public that make Katie Hopkins seem like a mild-mannered saint.  Would those who post such judgmental remarks actually say them to a stranger if they met them in the street or does hiding behind a screen give a sense of bravado?

Please let’s be kinder to each other.  Modern life is hard enough without us turning on our fellow humans. I think the advice from my mother’s generation is still relevant today:  if you can’t say [or post] something nice, it’s best not to say [or post] anything at all.

And please do look at JK Rowling’s Twitter account to read her wonderful and pithy put-downs to her trolls.  That woman is a national treasure.

Give January a Chance

When I first started writing this blog post it was Blue Monday – officially the most depressing day of the year, scientifically calculated by factoring in the weather, broken resolutions and post Christmas debt. January is also a peak month for death and divorce. (I’m specifically talking about those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, of course. If you’re in the height of your summer now then please stop reading immediately!)

Now we are very nearly into February, so how was January for you? Well, my husband and I had a great time, as we always do in January.  We have our annual holiday over the new year and usually start back at work around the second week of January. This is mainly due to our work schedules but also because there’s something wonderful about stepping off the plane into warm air or being poolside in a bikini when it is minus 5 at home. Who wants to leave the UK in the summer when the weather is hot here?  In January we go out a lot, eat and drink loads – and spend a lot too. We had our UK black tie and diamonds Bond-themed wedding reception in January six weeks after our December Caribbean wedding. Last year we had our housewarming in January. It’s always great to have something to look forward to after Christmas and I never find it a problem to entice people to events in the gloom-filled first few weeks of the year.

I’ve never seen the need for the harsh regimes and self-flagellation that almost seem mandatory for a UK January.  It helps that each brand new year is heralded by my New Year’s Day birthday and this year I enjoyed a double celebration with a good friend who shares the same birthday. I love the idea of new beginnings: the writer in me likens it to starting a gorgeous new notebook blank with possibilities. It’s definitely not the time to deny yourself or diet or detox like mad when comfort food is the order of the day.

And there’s so much to look forward to.  The nights are slowly getting lighter, spring is round the corner, the sales are on, great new series are starting on the telly and it’s time to start thinking about a new job or a house move or an exciting new project. Every year, I truly believe that this is the year I’m going to finally finish my ‘work in progress’ novel.  Ok, the weather sucks but there’s nothing like a dog walk on those beautiful crisp brilliant days. (The flip side, there’s nothing like a wet excitable dog on a freezing foggy day either!)

I guess that it is all a matter of perspective. I’m of the view that life is what you make it and that applies to January. Having said that, I haven’t stepped on the scales yet or received my January credit card bill!

Stop right there! It’s the punctuation police – and you’re nicked.

imagePunctuation is powerful stuff.  True, nobody ever died from a misplaced exclamation mark, but let’s not risk it.  I’m a constant corrector and it drives those non grammar, spelling and punctuation Zealots around me crazy – particularly my husband.  Luckily most of my friends and colleagues are of like mind and nothing lights our collective touchpaper like a greengrocers’ apostrophe or a fiery debate about the Oxford comma. In fact, several of my work colleagues and I once demanded to be moved from a restaurant table right next to a sign announcing the toilet’s.  It wasn’t the toilets themselves that were offensive, only the sign  – a sign that someone had gone to the trouble to paint on the wall, error and all.  Only last week I tweeted Good Morning Britain to point out a faux pas in a news banner that appeared on my TV screen as I prepared for another day of vigorous punctuating and grammar correcting in the day job.  (I didn’t get a reply but I felt slightly superior all day)  It’s a legal judgment in case you’re interested – see pic.  And one thing I do know about is a missing E.

But how much does such pedantry still matter in the modern world?  Who really cares if you can’t spell or your grammar is sloppy?  Is knowing that they’re going there in their car important?  (Carrie Bradshaw was gleeful in Sex and the City on discovering that her ex’s new wife didn’t know the difference between ‘there’ and ‘their’.)   Wearing my legal proofreader hat, perfect grammar and punctuation is vital.  As a writer, I maintain that it’s all about presentation and polish and attention to detail.   What about everyday life? I really would have to think twice about using a company whose promotional material offered Removal Quote’s or Decorating Service’s: if you’ve put that little thought into the detail of your advert, what is your end product going to be like?   I’m sure that Daves Removal Service’s (No Job To Small) do a sterling job and they are, after all, in the business of hefting about boxes and not proofreading.  But those errors would grate.

Similarly a journalist friend recently confessed that she disregards any reviews of hotels or restaurants containing dreadful spelling and no punctuation.  I’m just the same: if you, the reviewer don’t care about the quality of your writing then surely our views and tastes cannot possibly be similar?  And I’m not talking about dyslexia here or those for whom English is a second language,  just people who don’t care. How can you not care?

Much as I long to prowl the streets with a large permanent marker pen to correct all those signs and A frames I do try very hard to fight such snobbery.   I know lovely people who don’t think being able to use a semi-colon correctly is at all important and even schools don’t place as much emphasis as they used to on getting grammar and spelling right.  What hope is there for future generations?  Or will the need for perfect punctuation soon be as obsolete as the video player?

So as an experiment I tried to relax my punctuation and grammar a little in texts and instant messages. It was tough but guess what? The world kept turning.  I carried on breathing in and out. Nothing major happened.  Nobody even mentioned it. I even bit my lip – hard – when someone said a friend of theirs ‘should of’ done something.  That took some effort.  But stop off at the stall near work selling ‘Tea’s and Coffee’s’? I’m still working on that.  Continue reading

Bullet Point Journals

I am a compulsive list-maker.  Everything in my life needs a list – not just times where a high level of organisation is required – such as Christmas, moving house or getting married – but everyday tasks like ordering the groceries and remembering to renew my travelcard.   For my wedding I had a to-do list of over 150  items which later morphed into a spider diagram covering two A1 sheets of paper.  I was in organisation heaven. (Okay, maybe my inner Bridezilla emerged but at least everyone involved knew what they were supposed to be doing).  In fact only this week, my plumber joked about my prolific list-making.  I bet he was wondering how on earth he would have managed to refurbish our bathroom without my daily lists.  Moving house last year involved what my husband dubbed the ‘nerve centre’: a file containing list upon list upon list which covered every aspect of the move from the paperwork to buying a bottle of champagne to leave in the fridge for our buyers.

Every Sunday night I draw up a list for the coming week. In fact, holidays are the only time I don’t make lists.  (That’s once I am on holiday: the lead-up and preparations involve many a list)  I’m not alone in loving a good list:  if you haven’t read Mike Gayle’s The To-Do List novel, then I suggest you add it your reading list right now.  People who get stuff done make lists. I’m pretty sure world leaders and self-made billionaires are all list-makers.

The internet’s latest obsession with the bullet journal (or #BuJo as the kids say) seemed like the answer to my Type A personality’s prayers. It promised to allow me to micromanage and therefore streamline every area of my life – not just the larger events like getting our new dog or holidays but the everyday minutiae too.   It’s so much more than just a book of lists, it is a whole lifestyle rehaul, apparently.  And it also involves stationery, another of my passions.  Ever since a childhood visit to the new phenomenon that was Paperchase  on Tottenham Court Road in the early 1980s I have been obsessed by beautiful stationery.  I still keep a paper diary and write letters.  In today’s electronic and instant society, going old school soothes the soul.

So for the past month I have been trying out the bullet journal, making lists of every single aspect of my life, from daily to-dos to five year plans and I have been in my element.   I had very high expectations and wanted to become a powerhouse of activity – more so than I already am.  The very act of writing and re-writing lists apparently helps to hone your thinking and focus the brain on what is important and we all know how satisfying it is to tick off items once they’re completed.  For me, the fact all the lists are indexed and contained in a beautiful hard-backed notebook only enhances the experience.

So how can a bullet journal help us writers? Well, list-making is a form of writing in itself.  I have made lists of all the outstanding bits of writing I need to get done as well as what is needed to finish my Work in Progress (first started 2009!).  Another list has been drawn up of possible markets for my writing.  A bullet journal can help with scheduling in writing time, jotting down ideas as they occur and setting goals. But again, you can write all the lists you want but putting bum to seat and fingers to keyboard is what’s it’s all about.

If you’re interested in starting your own bullet journal then there are many tutorials on the internet.  I’ve yet to branch out into colour coding my journal which is a whole new adventure, but right now I am well and truly hooked.  Try it for a few weeks and see if it changes your life.


Writing through the pain: a tribute to a special dog

Writing is cathartic.    Just the act of trying to put feelings into words, whether it’s a letter to an absent mother/the lover you did wrong/your sixteen year old self or simply scribbling down your experience of anger or pain, then just the act of putting pen to paper — or fingers to keyboard — is allegedly healing.

Grief, as perhaps the ultimate intense human emotion, brings with it a bewildering array of guilt, pain, anger and unbearable sadness. Writing can be a good outlet for these varied emotions as feelings flow from the heart, travel down the arm and flow through the fingers.

On 1 June we lost our beloved dog, Dexter. It was unexpected and took a whole month before the rawness of the grief started to dull a little. I tried many times but didn’t feel like writing: it was just too painful to let my feelings run amok.  It was challenging enough keeping my emotions in check in public.  (Thank God for the excuse of hayfever and for large sunglasses!)   But then I read a wonderful piece on a dog blog written a man who had recently said goodbye to his much loved pooch. It was told from the dog’s viewpoint of the last day of his life.  (I’ve looked everywhere but can’t find it again although I believe it went viral, so apologies for the lack of acknowledgement)

So I decided to tell Dexter’s tale of his final journey.  It has taken three weeks to finish as the tears flowed with every word — and sometimes seemed like they would never stop –but I wanted to write a fitting tribute to a very special family member.  I should issue a warning that if you are an animal lover,  you may find this sad.

My Last Day On Earth

Today feels different. I awake with the same fog of pain that I’ve had lately but the human parents are acting strangely.  Human mum lets me out into the garden but I struggle to get down the steps. Everything hurts and my back leg collapses (I only have three legs, but apparently that’s what makes me special).  Mum has to carry me back into the house.  She looks like she’s been crying again but she does get something called hayfever which makes her cry, even when she’s not sad.  Normally the humans are so busy rushing about with their lives, but not today.  They seem sort of still and sad. They keep looking at me and whispering.

I lay on my favourite chair and mum and dad take it in turns to sit with me and stroke my head just where I like it behind my ears.  Then mum gives me a funny tasting treat.  I spit it out and she takes it away and comes back with a piece of cheese.  Swallowing is agony but cheese is the best thing in the world!   After that I feel a bit fuzzy and the pain gets better. I snooze and am woken up by the sound of my food bowl being put on the floor. It’s steak mince! I’ve had a lot of awesome food in the last few days and lots of treats. I can’t manage all of it but it is so tasty. I see my human dad cover the rest up and put it in the fridge and I worry about what’s  going to happen to it.  Normally I guard the fridge just in case but standing hurts me too much.

Mum has been on the phone a lot lately and she gets upset. She says things like ‘it’s so hard’ and keeps mentioning someone or something called ‘lymphoma’. I’ve also heard everyone talk about the ‘rainbow bridge’.  I’m not sure what it is but we always go under a bridge on the way to visit mum’s mum.  I love it there because there’s always a treat waiting for me and I help her with the gardening too.   Lifting my head is hard and I must have dozed off because when I wake up then mum’s mum is actually here, kissing me on the head and telling me she loves me. She has red eyes too.  I tell her I love her too by licking her face and hope she will give me a treat. She does.

Suddenly I’m being carried to the car by mum and dad. They have a debate about whether to put my harness on and my bed is loaded in too. So it can’t be a walk but maybe I am going to the dogsitter?   Perhaps this place called Lymphoma is where mum and dad are going on holiday, like when they went to somewhere called Sicily last year without me. I sit on dad’s lap while mum drives.  Dad strokes my fur and I spot a dog out of the car window.  I try to woof but a strange sound comes out instead of a bark and my throat is sore.

We are parking at the vets! My favourite receptionist fusses me and she looks sad too.  I lick her hand.  My bed is carried into the vet’s room and I’m allowed to sit in it!  My humans and the vet have a very  serious discussion and dad feeds me some liver treats from the vet’s treat jar.   Everyone keeps saying how sorry they are and then mum and dad are crying hard and mum signs something.  I feel something sharp going into my paw as dad strokes  me. I try to tell him not to cry but I’m feeling sleepy.  A voice is saying I’m a good boy and a cold feeling travels up my leg.

And then suddenly the pain has gone! I leap from my bed  with joy and notice I have all four legs again.  The vet has made me better!  A wonderful bright rainbow light is calling me and I want to run  towards it.  Is this the rainbow bridge?  Why is everyone so sad about it?  I turn to tell mum and dad I am healed now and not to worry but I seem to be floating high above the room.  Four humans are huddling round a small black dog lying in my bed.  The dog is still and mum and dad are weeping. The vet and the nurse are talking about something called a cremation.  Then mum raises her face to the ceiling and through  streaming tears says goodbye and tells me to run free. I try to explain to my humans I am there and I love them but they  ignore me and keep fussing over the black dog in my bed.   That bright light is so enticing  but I feel I need to stay with my humans.

I watch as my humans walk through to the reception area, leaving the little dog curled up sleeping in my bed.  There are more tears.  At least he’s not in pain, says someone. I sit by mum and dad and try to paw at them.  Look,  it doesn’t hurt, I want to say.  I’m free! But there’s still that steak in the fridge.  Who will take my humans on walks and to the vets?  I remember the day I rescued them  and came to live with them. What will they do now?

And then I understand that in order to set me free, they can no longer see me.

I promise my human mum and dad I will always love them and never forget them.   I will wait for them at the rainbow bridge.  And then with my ears flapping joyfully in the warm, sweet breeze I run and run towards the wonderful light.

In memory of Dexter 13 October 2005 – 1 June 2016

Loved by his human pawrents Rebecca and Andy since March 2011


The Devil’s In The Detail …

There I was happily immersed in a Lynda La Plante thriller when DCI Jane Tennison drove down Chancery Lane and turned left onto Fleet Street.  I was so distracted I had to stop reading.  What was the problem?  Well, I have worked on Fleet Street for 20 years and Chancery Lane was, and still is, a one-way street, but going the other way.  This minor inaccuracy, which some would say doesn’t matter in the slightest and most of the population wouldn’t even have spotted, grated on me and diverted from the narrative.  It got me thinking about the importance of accuracy and research, even in fiction.

True, the wrong direction one-way street incident was irrelevant to the plot of the novel.  But as readers, the writer asks us to suspend disbelief and buy totally into their characters, plot and narrative.  It needs to be as ‘real’ as possible (unless, of course, it’s sci-fi, a genre which I know next to nothing about as a writer or a reader and which has its own rules).  As a proofreader accuracy and consistency are king and I am obsessive about both.

A recent chick lit novel had a character complaining that her new cottage didn’t have a dishwasher, while two chapters later she was banging crockery into the dishwasher angrily   The same woman left the house at 3am and then, after spending two hours chasing a lost dog, commented that the time was coming up to 3am.  (This was a top ten bestseller from a famous publishing house, by the way!)  Another novel by one of my favourite authors saw a judge in the High Court banging a gavel.  During my 20 years in the legal profession I have never seen a gavel used in the High Court. I think TV judge Robert Rinder might use one for the cameras.

So does carelessness, lazy editing or artistic licence matter in fiction?  Yes, I think so. Careful research adds depth and richness to a story and is never wasted.   Consistency in names and times will be spotted by an eagle-eyed reader.  If your heroine’s mum is called Kathy in chapter two and Karen in chapter ten it will sidetrack from your story as much as a Victorian protagonist named Chardonnay.   Characters should ideally have every detail of their lives and back story plotted in the planning stage, everything from birthday to phobias, to add credibility to them as real people.

TV and movie inaccuracies are often gleefully pounced on by viewers and have had whole programmes devoted to them.  Many production companies hire continuity people to pick up on every last little detail and check it ties in, ie no digital watches in a Regency drama.   Coronation Street gets a tremendous amount of correspondence pointing out that the Rovers Return loos are actually in the Barlow’s house. (Yes, I missed that one but now every time I watch it amuses me – and annoys me a little bit too!)

So what about the equivalent in writing? At worst, inaccuracies could get you sued, particularly in non-fiction.  At best, you might alienate your reader.  So edit, re-edit, check and then check some more.  Then get a second pair of eyes to cross-check.  The devil really is in the detail.  And if anyone does see a judge using a gavel in the High Court, please let me know.




Is giving up good for the soul?

We are nearing the end of Lent and this year I have given up biscuits.  (I fell off the wagon a couple of times at work but I think even Jesus himself, faced with the day I’d had, would have been tempted by an M&S All Butter Shortbread).   I believe self-discipline is good for the soul and so every Lent finds me attempting abstention of some kind.  Diet coke and chocolate were successful; swearing lasted only a morning. Foregoing biscuits has been tougher than I thought: everywhere I go, platefuls of the things are winking at me.    A couple of years ago for a New Year resolution I decided to give up on certain friendships where I just didn’t get back what I was putting in.  Harsh, but wonderfully cathartic.

But what about the things we give up without meaning to?  Last year I joked that I had seemingly given up on my appearance after an unfortunate incident during which a doorstep caller addressed me as ‘Mr Ridgway’.   Often I feel I have given up hope.  I have also unintentionally given up writing .  The excuse that I am in the middle of moving house is now redundant as we have been in our new abode four whole months, but has morphed into every spare moment being spent on house and garden renovation.  Like Carrie Bradshaw cheating on fashion with furniture when she moves into her New York flat with Mr Big, I have been cheating on writing with interior design magazines, colour swatches, mood boards and Pinterest.

This doesn’t sit easy with me because I am of the strong belief that one can always find time for things one really wants to do and it is back to the old problem of self-discipline. Writing is like exercise and the writer needs to keep the creative mind supple with regular use.  At a recent family funeral , my cousin, who read The Ironic Bride with great enthusiasm (and even forced my octogenarian uncle to download it from Amazon) asked what my latest writing project is and I realised that I hadn’t written anything for a long time.  (I could tell you what Dulux’s Colour of the Year is, though,  all about damp and the latest geometric trends in decor).   So whereas a bit of abstention can be good for the soul, drifting into apathy isn’t and I’m keen to get back on track. Now, if I could write about interior design that would be too perfect!

So I am getting back into the saddle and starting to write again.  Just as soon as Easter rolls around and I can eat biscuits again while I write.