The Hippy Hippy Shake

So, here we are into February already. A full 12 months of not having to the do the 9-to-5, and loving it. But what has 2012 brought already? Well, apart from the cold setting in now, quite a bit to the Domino household.

I’ve become a Great Auntie again. My niece, whose baby shower I attended at the beginning of the year, gave birth to a beautiful little girl – Evie Faith. I am so looking forward to my first cuddle.

Talking of the cold, New Year’s Day was greeted by the first of this year’s crocus in bloom on the front lawn. A few days later, several clumps of snowdrops appeared and now all along my drive is a sea of flowers which, with the sun on them, open out brightening the day and putting smiles on passers-by faces. The hellebores are about to open too, only today after last night’s heavy frost, they are hanging limp and forlorn. But they will pick up again. I hope.

I’ve managed to complete a few paintings over the weekends  For one, I tried something different to landscapes this time. I think Pink Flowers it came out rather well. 

I’m close to completing the final edits of one of my novels, ready to be published soon. It is actually quite scary after all this time to be on the brink again. Like being on the edge of a precipice – will I fly or will I fall? But then, that’s me … always nervous, always shy.

There has been one other major event in my household in January. On the 12^th, my husband underwent a hip replacement operation. He’s doing okay now, but we did have a few “difficult” days whilst he was in hospital and shortly after he eventually came home. I won’t bore you with all the details as I don’t want this to be a moan, suffice to say one ward care assistant is no longer employed at our local hospital thanks to her lack of due diligence and neglect of care.

Today he managed to walk to our doctors and back on his own with the aid of only one walking stick instead of two, and yesterday was able to make us both a coffee and carry it through to me. He still needs a lot of help with washing and dressing and getting into bed, and still eating a lot of painkillers, but it is early days. Thankfully, he has been fitted with a ceramic hip joint, not a metal one like there’s been all the fuss about lately; you may have heard.  This because he is still relatively young, still working and very fit. (Time now to look away if you are squeamish!)

He did rather grin widely when he saw on the medical form he collected today what our GP had written beside Likely Date Fit For Work Again: June 2012. The smile soon fell away when I reminded him he doesn’t get sick leave pay from his company, only SSP. Apart from which, I know him only too well. Come March he will be itching to get out and do some gardening, and by then he will also be missing his job and friends at work. I’ll give it until April. You can’t keep a good man down for long!

Click here for my latest batch of household hints and tips.

Baby Cupcakes

This weekend saw me in Reading for what was my first baby shower party. No, not my baby (don’t be silly), one of my nieces, her second, due this month. Baby showers have crossed to the UK from the USA. I’d often wondered what goes on at these parties as we had no such thing years ago when I was expecting. I knew gifts for the baby were given; and that, I have to admit, was the hardest part. What to buy? The party, held at my sister’s home (the anxious grandmother) was to be a surprise. I was the excuse to get my niece there, on the pretext I was in Reading for a bookclub reading thingy and was stopping by to have lunch with my sisters and our mother and wanted Jenny to join us.

I arrived to a house of frenzied balloon blowing, hanging of banners and the making a “throne” for the pregnant mum, everyone trying to get everything ready on time. With the exception of my sisters, mum and me, everyone hid in the dining room when Jenny and her husband and daughter arrived, about twenty friends and family squeezed in including Jenny’s in-laws, who had driven up from Hayling Island, Jenny’s dad, and an excited 8-year old, ready to surprise Jenny at the given moment that never came. The 8-year-old couldn’t wait, bless him, and the sliding doors to the dining room burst open, too soon for my camera to be ready to snap the look on Jenny’s face. It was a picture sadly not captured for posterity in the family album.

Menfolk then making a quick exit (they didn’t take much shooing), a room full of noisy, laughing and chatting women opened more wine and attacked the nibbles, all eyes on the fabulous cupcakes so colourful, so cute, so very good to eat, made by a wonderful cake maker, Jane Swain. Then came the gifts.

My niece’s 7-year-old daughter took charge deciding the order of gifts to be opened and helping with all the unwrapping. The presents were lovely, from rattles and plastic bath ducks, to books, darling sleep suits that said “I ♥ My Mum” and “I ♥ My Dad” (I want one), a special scroll box for keeping the birth certificate safe, to pampering gifts for mum-to-be and a thoughtful one for Jenny’s daughter: a picture frame proclaiming “World’s Best Sister”. Asked what she would prefer, a little brother or a little sister, the expectant sister replied, “I don’t care. Whatever it is, I shall torment it!” And no doubt she will. Often.

Then came a version of Mr & Mrs. Jenny’s husband had been secretly asked ten questions about their relationship and forthcoming event, and mum-to-be had to see how many she could answer correctly. She got most right. One most of us got wrong. Do you know what sense a baby develops first? Apparently it’s hearing. We all thought it would be smell.

More refills before we were cajoled into teams and given cotton bibs and colouring pens, the idea being to decorate the bibs, the best would be chosen by Jenny and receive a prize. Jenny’s mum-in-law grabbed my arm. “You’re with me!” I think this was because I am an artist. “Kit, pair with me,” pleaded my sister, Jenny’s mum. “Too late!” Now, I can paint but I cannot draw, least of all with felt tips on cotton, but one did one’s best with pens that by the time they came round to me didn’t work very well (that’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it). One team’s effort was a small pile of crushed nibbles splattered on the bib. “It represents sick,” being the explanation. If there had been a prize for artistic license, it would have won. The real prize? Oh, yes – sweets, which were given to the children.

After more refills, we were given cards on which to guess the details of the baby: date and time born, weight, sex, eyes, hair colour, etc; which Jenny will keep and let us know who came closest. Later, when her friends departed for the pub, poor Jenny looked forlorn, wishing she could join them. Asked what she was most looking forward to after the birth, she said, “Wine. Wine and cheese.”

So, that’s a baby shower. Now I know. A lot of fun and generosity, a lot of noise and laughter, and I think a jolly good idea. Then again, any excuse for a get together in my family is always a good idea. Now hurry up, Jenny, we are all waiting to see who guessed right. Boy or girl?

END OF A YEAR

So, here we are at the end of another year. It’s gone too quick. It doesn’t seem real that I have been home from work for almost 12 months following redundancy, and what have I achieved in that time? Nothing and yet lots. A big family wedding, a successful Walk for George and George making great progress, and following in artistic footsteps, two lovely trips abroad, read some great books, editing and proofing work coming in.

Yet, as an author, it’s scary to think I haven’t written one word of a novel although I have spent many hours editing and checking several works. Back last January I started writing a new novel with plans to do a lot of research and visiting the places I use in the book, but none of that has happened. Not because I didn’t want to, but last Christmas after my husband’s car let us down very badly on Christmas Eve, leaving us stuck in the perishing cold and snow on the M4, we decided to trade both his and mine in for another as we don’t need two cars now I am at home all day.

But my time home hasn’t been idle. I began blogging. If nothing else it has kept me writing and now I am ready to pick up the novels again and ensure that 2012 is the year hopefully I am published and in print.

I also met the lovely Linn B Halton, and helped her get loveahappyending.com up and running and editing Kit’s Corner and through the group, have made lots of new friends and colleagues who share the same passion for writing and books.

And for the first time in eight years I was able to host the writing group I belong to (the Ivy Writers) at my home. We meet one evening a month in one another’s home. Whilst I was working and with my husband working late shifts it was impossible for me to host this. Instead of meeting of an evening, we were able to meet of an afternoon.

I had planned to paint more pictures with so much free time, but that hasn’t materialised either. But I have been able to sell several, one before the paint even had time to dry! I had been offered a place at an exhibition but had to decline as I could not get to the venue on the required dates to deliver and collect.

So, what will 2012 bring? A hard, difficult few months ahead, that’s for sure. In a fortnight’s time my husband goes into hospital for a hip replacement, which isn’t as straightforward as it sounds as he has a spinal problem. The equipment needed at home to help in his rehabilitation and recuperation has been installed: the toilet seat has been raised and a frame around it so he can lower and raise himself properly.  I have to use this too and feel like a little schoolgirl again as my feet don’t touch the floor when sitting on this. His armchair has been raised on blocks, the walking sticks and knicker-puller-on tool, his gadget for pulling on his socks and a very long shoe horn delivered.  He won’t be able to drive for at least 8 weeks and it will be probably 3 months before he will be able to return to work.  So all in all, a good thing I am at home all day to help him. We will have lots of laughs and no doubt a few frayed tempers and tears, his and mine. But we will manage. And hopefully, once he is back in his workboots, out of pain and fit again, we will see our garden blossom even if it is me having to do all the backbreaking planting.

In 2012 I have the opportunity to exhibit art at two venues and, with many fingers crossed, will see my novel Every Step of the Way finally published. There’s a new birth imminent in the family which will bring much joy to all of us, a summer holiday already booked and no doubt a trip to Spain to visit my brother and his wife. And one or two other irons in the fire that need a bit of prodding to mould into what I know will be a great, happy and successful year. One I am looking forward to as I raise a glass to the midnight chimes and fireworks and say:

“HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS                                                AND WISH YOU ALL A SUCCESSFUL YEAR TOO!”

Wish I Were Here!

The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow … and wind and rain and hail and thunder and lightening. Yesterday, here where I live we’ve had the lot thrown at us. And that was just for starters! This morning, a light dusting of icing snow covers the rooftops and ground. The forecast this week is for more lousy winter weather to come. I hate the winter and the cold and wish I could escape it, just for the season, or better still, for good. Oh, what I’d give to be able to run away and hide away from it all. Given the opportunity (and the money) I would leave cold windy England and head to the sun.

So here’s where I would much rather be:

It’s a beautiful villa nestled right at the edge of the sea in Corfu, Greece.  I love the Greek islands and all things Greek. Sadly, I have to wait eight months before I will be there again. Meanwhile, there’s not a lot I can do but curl up by the fire, open a bottle of champagne, and read a book.

But not just any book! Today sees the launch of one I know is a cracker, and I’m not talking Christmas cracker here. I’m talking about REACHING FOR THE STARS, the new novel by writer Janice Horton. A fun read concerning a celebrity chef determined to throw it all away for the love of a woman. I’ve been lucky in being able to read this book prelaunch, in its raw state, before the ingredients were well mixed, left to rise, stirred with many emotions and seasoned with the lovely humour Ms Horton writes so well into her novels. And now, the book having been baked to perfection, I can read it in its mature, lovingly crafted state. And there’s no need to wait for it to cool before opening that first page.

So good luck, Janice Horton. This book deserves to take off with a bang and reach the zenith, if not in the stars, certainly in the book charts.

Buy Reaching for the Stars

To Italic or Not to Italic?

“Italics: a style of printing type chiefly used to indicate emphasis or a foreign word.”                                           (definition from Collins English Dictionary, 2010)

Many authors are confused when it comes to using Italic in their writing, but within publishing the conventions are fairly simple, and the above definition sums it up very neatly. Follow this and you won’t go far wrong.

So, what should be put into Italic? Basically, relatively little. There is no rule at all that says you have to use Italics for anything. When we speak, the intonation and body language we use illustrates the emphasis we put on any one word or phrase, often by that annoying habit of people wagging their index fingers as if being a quotation mark. In writing, we have to use other means. In handwriting unless you were a calligrapher, the method used was either a different coloured ink or underlining. This has developed into the internationally accepted standard of Italic font as used by the printing industry. In typesetting, a word underscored means “put into Italic”.

Text that is interspersed constantly with normal and Italic fonts is hard on the eye. The best guide is to only put into Italic a word that you want put emphasis on, to enable the reader to fully understand and engage in the meaning. For example: “You will do it” and “You will do it” each have a different meaning. The first, a soft, supportive statement; the second, an imperative order.

A word on underlining. Do not use this in novels or reference books, especially when self-publishing. With the narrow spacing between lines, underscoring makes reading tiresome and difficult, and in ebooks it highlights a word for other means. Do not use underline and bold together, and definitely a big no no is Italic, underline and bold. NO NO This is out and out overkill!

Apart from highlighting a word for emphasis, we also put into Italic any foreign word or phrase borrowed from another language and has not yet become part of everyday English language usage, particularly French and Latin. For example, terminus a quo would be in Italic; status quo, not Italic – the former an uncommon phrase, the latter now part of everyday English. But the writer doesn’t necessarily know what is still a foreign word or what has now become an accepted word in English. This is where having a comprehensive, up-to-date dictionary is worth the cost. Ones such as the Collins English Dictionary or the OED will list words with their correct italic/capitalisation format. 

What does cause confusion is where foreign food and drink are concerned. You wouldn’t expect to see quiche or spaghetti bolognaise or linguine in Italic, however coq au vin and Coquilles St Jacques would be. Likewise, you would have a glass of burgundy or perhaps you’d prefer the Cote du Rhone. None of these words would look or be wrong if they were in normal font. It’s a matter of choice or editorial preference or house style. What is important is to be consistent. If you put a word in Italic, ensure every time you use that word in your book it is in Italic.

Most publishing houses have their own rules and guidelines on this matter, and if writing for one of them, obtain a copy of the in‑house style sheet. Newspapers also have their own convention.

What about when citing songs, books, film or play titles, newspapers and magazines, painting titles? The modern convention is for these to be in normal font but there is nothing wrong in putting into Italic if you must or if the house style dictates. What they shouldn’t be in is quotation marks. Quotation marks are for dialogue and quotes; that’s what they’re there for, that’s their job. If you decide to put titles into Italic, that’s fine too. Nothing wrong in doing so. An accepted convention, even in the press industry, is to Italicise the names of newspapers, journals and books, but even that convention is slowly eroding and everything kept in normal font. The main factor in all is consistency throughout the document, the only rule here being, if you use Italic for a newspaper title, use it for any book or magazine title, too, within that book. Note: the word “the” does not go in Italic nor should it be capitalised: the Guardian, the War of the Worlds, the Sunday Observer. (More on capitalisation in a later blog.)

Punctuation with Italic: any punctuation that follows an Italicised word/s or should be in normal font. With quotation marks, if the whole sentence or quote is in Italic, it is acceptable for the opening and closing quote marks to be Italic although it is now common for normal font quotation marks to be used and only the actual quoted words in Italic. Again, this is a matter of preference.

Location and place names, names of shops and venues, pop groups etc, brand names, pub names, car models, ships, trains, chapter titles from the Bible and Koran, TV show names, should be in normal font.

But the use of Italic doesn’t end here. You can put whole paragraphs or sections into Italic if you want to show something by way of illustration or to make it stand out from the rest, ie a letter or a quotation, or different sections, if perhaps writing from, say, two different viewpoints or timeframes, such as in a timeslip novel. Any sections in Italic should begin on a new line, and any word/s that would normally be emphasised in Italic within that paragraph or section, put to normal font. You could even write the whole book in Italic if that is your want, reversing the font switch.

So really there are only two things to consider: 1) use for emphasis only and for foreign words, 2) be consistent in whichever choice you make within a document.

Jump to Proofing and Editing Tips

Hints and Tips on Proofing and Editing

There has been much discussion between various authors and writing groups concerning the whys, wherefores and benefits of having work proofread and/or edited by a professional. This has been particularly prevalent between Indie writers who, for one reason or another, feel wronged and slighted if someone comments that their book is let down by typos and errors, as if this is the worst thing in the world to happen and makes them less of a professional author. It doesn’t. There is no shame in making a mistake. Even in mainstream publishing one or two typos do slip through. And let’s face it, even with the best will in the world, a good proofreader and copy editor is not infallible and can, and does, miss the odd thing. But what many independent authors fail to appreciate is that it isn’t just the annoying little typo that’s the problem.

Over the past couple of years I have read lots of books published independently; what is the problem in many of these is not spelling errors per se – it’s all the other bits and pieces that make up the whole reading experience that is often sadly lacking. By this, I mean the typesetting and formatting skills of bookmaking and the lack of the necessary writing skills needed to tell, and thus sell, a good story.

Many authors do not know how to format prose and dialogue, do not understand how dialogue should be set down and punctuated, they fail to use consistency in spellings, and many authors fall down completely in the use of capitalisation and paragraphs, apostrophe use, misplaced colons, when words should be italicised or not, when to use ellipses or not … the list goes on. And it is these things that annoy a reader far more than the odd little spelling mistake and typo. These are the things a good editor will highlight, things a good proofreader will correct. They are not the things your granny or best friend would even consider when checking your manuscript for you.

Yes, I know many will say that the odd typo or error doesn’t detract from a story for them, but there are a great deal more that say it does. Hence, the plethora of discussions and comments on Amazon or wherever about them.

Unless dialogue is set out correctly and tags used to good effect, it can be sometimes impossible to follow who is saying what to whom. Often a writer will think using he said/she said is adequate every time. But, used all the time, not only is this boring to read, it is taking so much away from the story when the words, the actual dialogue itself, should be making it clear who is speaking. The odd grammar mistake isn’t a problem for most readers, and I’m certainly no slave to perfect English grammar, after all, most of us don’t worry about correct grammar when speaking in everyday life.

Whilst it is appreciated that what is acceptable in one country is not in another, that there are various differences in acceptable grammar and spellings, I can only speak from a UK standpoint, and from my many years involved in typesetting, writing, proofing and copy editing and reading. I have thus set out at  Proofing Tips a few hints, tips and guidance on how a book should be set out. I’m not talking chapters, fonts and page numbers here, but the physical layout of words and punctuation that should be used, in order for your readers to have a much better experience of your work and lose themselves in your story, instead of being confused and thrown out by poor crafting.

The list will expand over time, in the hope that the standard of independent books is raised and the profile and credibility of Indie authors grows. And well it should, for there are a great many stories out there, huge numbers of excellent writers. Although independent publishing is slowly receiving the accolade it deserves, there is still a great deal of work to be done in. These are exciting times we live in through this changing world of publishing. Together, let’s make it the best it can be for future generations.

Click here to go to Proofing Tips page.

Fruit Cake and A Good Book – A Wonderful Combination!

As promised, I have included my recipe for fruitcake. Or Easy Peasy Fruitcake, as I call it. As it is just that: so easy peasy to make, keeps wonderfully, and is my husband’s favourite. The reason I like this recipe is that it is easily adaptable to what’s in the storecupboard, weights don’t have to be too precise, the ingredients can and be chopped and changed to suit, it makes a fabulous Christmas cake and doesn’t call for any fancy equipment or culinary skills to make. So … aprons and wooden spoons at the ready, here we go! Click this link to take you to the recipe!

And what goes well with a slice of cake especially on a chilly, wet afternoon? Yes, tea or coffee, that’s obvious. But what about a good book? Last week saw the release of one I know is a brilliant read:  Tricia Jones’s seventh novel Bull At The Gate, a contemporary romance with a hint of the paranormal.

Alexander “Bull” McKinley’s reputation as a hard-nosed businessman is tested when an old Fairy Gate and local superstition stand in the way of a lucrative development contract. But then, he hadn’t had to deal with a woman like Dee Ashman before. A woman who detests those who put profit before people, and she’s damned if an arrogant, insensitive and, okay, wildly attractive capitalist is going to destroy the symbolic heart of the village and break her beloved grandmother’s heart.

Available from Wild Rose Press and Amazon

 

Novel competitions are rare compared with the plethora for short stories and poetry so last week’s announcement calling for submissions to the 2012 Harry Bowling Prize for unpublished novelists is most welcome. It also prompted my first blog proper. I want to tell you a little story. Sitting comfortably? Coffee at hand?  Good, I’ll begin.

 

Every Step of the Way
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, a wannabe writer worked for 10 years alone in her ivory bedroom writing and dreaming of being a published author. A fairy godmother appeared in the guise of the Artists’ & Writer’s Yearbook telling her of the Harry Bowling Prize. But there were strict rules to follow: 10,000 words plus synopsis. Unpublished. Any genre. Must be set in London. Our heroine had written two and a bit books. None fitted the last criteria. Undaunted, knowing London well, she set about writing another, centring on something unique to that city. The task complete, she sent off her entry. And waited. And waited. Waited until the day a buff-coloured envelope arrived. Excited, she ripped it open. The dreaded word “Unfortunately” leapt out at her. Disappointed but not disheartened, she began to write another book, a ghost story. Woooo oooo. Spooky.

Two years passed. 2004 arrived. The next HB competition opened. The same rules applied. This time her book was set in London. Well, partly. And it still needed a synopsis. Arrrgh the dreaded synopsis, she thought, almost giving up then and there. Harry Bowling, she learnt, wrote London sagas. Ah ha, was that the magic formula needed? If she turned hers into a saga would it stand more of a chance? After all, that’s what he wrote. So, waving a magic pen, she switched genres, the Goldington Ghost changing into Every Step of the Way. She kissed her entry goodbye, sending it far, far away to the land of the MBA Agency.

Each day she anticipated the coming again of the buff envelope. It never arrived. August almost ended, two days to go before she was to fly away on holiday, the telephone rang. Oh how her heart somersaulted hearing those wonderful words, “I’m delighted to tell you, you have been shortlisted.” She screamed. She cried. She laughed all the way to cloud nine with no aeroplane wings to get there, her feet never touching the ground for months after.

An invitation arrived requesting her presence at the presentation party where the winner would be announced. In an upstairs room of a little French restaurant in London, accompanied by her two ugly (sorry) beautiful twin sisters, she ate delicious canapés, drank copious wine, and met friends she knew from the RNA and many more besides. Such fun, such laughter. Such tension.

Every Step of the Way didn’t win but our heroine was far from sad. For her, being shortlisted was happiness enough. The runner-up prize money enough to buy a flat screen for her computer, the box of chocolates greedily scoffed on the train ride home, the HB book indeed a great read, these things were insignificant to the real treasures received that day. These were the gifts of acknowledgement and recognition she could write good, proof she had something valuable to say. People finally sitting up, taking notice, saying, “Here is a serious writer”. A giant kick to boost her ego, a foot through agents’ doors and a springboard over the slush piles. And finally, joy of joys, she found a top London agent.

(Pssst: This is the part where you grab a tissue) Unfortunately (why is there always an unfortunately?) the agent didn’t find a publisher. “The market’s flooded with sagas at the moment.” “Sagas aren’t popular any more.” “We can’t take a gamble on an unknown in today’s financial market.” Horrible words our heroine didn’twant to hear. But despite all, she never gave up trying to change from a wannabe into a real published author.

A happy ending to my story hasn’t been written. There isn’t one. Not yet.

However, it is certainly not a tale of misery or woe. On the contrary. It’s one of determination and encouragement, of not giving up, of wanting to live the dream and trying one’s damnedest to make wishes come true. For our heroine, entering the fabulous Harry Bowling competition was one of the best things she ever did, from the valuable lessons learned, the tantalizing glimpse of what can be achieved, to all the marvellous, supportive and close friends made along the way.

And friends, this isn’t a fairy story.  It’s true. I know. I am that heroine.

So go on, give the Harry Bowling a go. It’s worth it. And Good luck.  I might even try again. Who knows?

Every Step of the Way, a 1950s London saga, is scheduled to be released on Kindle during 2011.

Kitchen Tip of the Day:
Fed up with cleaning the oven floor? All those horrible burnt on bits? The smoke? The spray cleaner fumes? A pain in the proverbial to kneel on floor to clean, even worse trying to get back up? Do what I do. Place a large, cheap or past-its-best baking tray on the oven floor and leave there. Take out and wash occasionally or chuck in dishwasher every now and again. When it gets really bad, place in dustbin and buy another tray. Sorted.

TIPS OF THE DAY

Gardening:

Beware the dreaded lily beetle is already on the prowl in South West England.

These pesky things are an absolute menance and ruin not just lilies, they like any of the lilium family and frequently attack crocosmia, day lilies and hyacinths. The little blighters contrary to belief can fly. Their young look like black blobs of sticky excrement, which is exactly what it is. They cover themselves in their own poo to hide from predators. I don’t like using any chemicals or sprays in the garden, particularly as we have a large koi pond but I’m afraid I rage war on these creatures. I use a systemic insectide, one especially made for lily beetles. Their method of escape is to drop to the ground and burrow into the soil if they see so much as a hand spray near them. I’m just not quick enough to catch them any other way.

Kitchen:

Never run out of fresh milk again. Milk freezes very well so always keep several pint bottles of fresh milk of the sort that comes in plastic bottles. Milk freezes well. It does look yucky when frozen but returns to normal and thaws swiftly. Other than that, you may have to buy a cow.

Arty Things:

Do you ever find the plastic caps on your tubes of paint break, becoming useless long before the paint’s run out. If by strange chance an empty tube still has it’s cap in tact, thoroughly clean, scraping out any conglomeration of paint on the insides, and keep as spares.

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Everyone Cries at a Wedding

Everyone loves a wedding but why do we cry at them? Me, I’m usually blubbering the moment the bride walks in and my niece’s recent wedding proved no exception. At least not for me. In fact, her wedding ceremony, all very relaxed in a Berkshire country hotel a few weeks ago, had everyone reaching for hankies and tissues before the register was signed.

As a bride, Jenny looked stunning, but then again, she looks lovely no matter what she wears. The groom’s face as she came in was a picture by itself, as was seeing my other niece in a dress for the first time in goodness knows how many years, as one of the bridesmaid. The second bridesmaid was Jenny’s 7-year-old daughter, Keira. Mothers-in-law, both dressed in turquoise, grinned happily, fathers beamed proudly and orange tulips in posies and buttonholes sparkled in the late March sun.

The registrar announced the groom’s father wished to give a reading. I think everyone was surprised when told it was to be the poem Us Two from A.A. Milne’s Now We Are Six. We were even more surprised when he called Keira up help him. It transpired in the months leading up to the wedding Keira and her new grandfather had been secretly rehearsing the piece. How she managed to keep it secret all that time amazed everyone. With actions and expressions, inflections and with feeling, it was word perfect and a pure joy to watch.

Now even my husband, a rufty-tufty ex rugby player, is not moved to tears easily but even he was reaching into his top pocket for a handkerchief. As was the groom, all the ladies and all the other men in the room. The registrar also had a tear or two in her eyes.

Bangers and mash and onion gravy, no starter, followed with profiteroles went down a treat as the wedding feast with copious wine. Cupcakes formed the wedding cake. Speeches were before dining. Kept short. Brilliant move.  All in all, a lovely, memorable weekend. The hotel staff were courteous and helpful, the deluxe bedroom we had couldn’t be faulted, the breakfast the next morning the best ever. There was just one little dampener the spoil the day. Those who know me know I am not a mean person, far from it, but I positively blanched at the bar prices being charged. “You’re having a laugh?” my husband said, reaching for his wallet.  Sadly the barman wasn’t. “That’ll be £8 per glass, sir!”

Enough to make me cry all over again.

Tip of the Day

Love cut tulips but find they always droop after a day or so. Add a copper coin to the glass. For some reason I know not what, it keeps them upright. Simples.

Applecake for Breakfast?

Come to my house for Easter and you will most probably be served Applecake at breakfast, as German a tradition as sauerkraut and bratwurst, Christmas trees and Schnapps.

Brought up in England by my English father and German mother, I consider myself fortunate to have enjoyed the best of both cultures, both so similar and yet in many ways worlds apart. Easter (Ostern) was a particularly enjoyable festival, heralding the end of winter. The house would be full of vases of daffodils picked from the garden and nearby orchard where they grew in profusion.

The custom of boiling and painting eggs, the symbol of new life, began in Germany during the 16th Century, the bright colours representing sunlight and growth. When we were little, my mother would wait until we four children were tucked up in bed before boiling eggs then painting and decorating each one before hiding them in the garden, either amongst the flowerbeds or often as not hanging from the branches of trees and shrubs for us to find on Easter morning. These, she told us, had been put there by the Easter Hare (der Osterhase). An article this weekend in one of the newspapers decried the arrival of Easter trees in the shops as a commercial extension of the Christmas tree but Egg Trees have long been part of traditional Easter celebrations in Germany.

As we grew older, we would help decorate eggs to be served for breakfast along with cold meats, cheese and bread followed by applecake. My father would also give each of us a small chocolate egg into the package of which he would place money for us to buy as much chocolate as we wanted. The first edible Easter Bunnies were also made in Germany, in about 1800. These were frequently made of marzipan covered in chocolate.

On Good Friday, toasted Hot Cross Buns would be served for breakfast, the day spent in quiet contemplation although we were not a religious family. On the Saturday evening a bonfire would often be lit, as a way of driving out the Winter spirits and welcoming in the warmth of Spring, although this was a good way for my mother to get rid of the trimmings from the shrubs she had cut back in March.

My German grandfather (Opa) was the baker in the village where my mother grew up and his cakes and pastries were legendary.

He would also bake a special Easter cake in the shape of a lamb. Many of his recipes have been handed on but, sadly, many were not written down and the recipes consequently lost. Thankfully, my mother inherited his talent and baked delicious cakes and confection but as the years have taken their toll, she has forgotten many of the recipes, so it was with relief and pleasure we came across Coppenrath & Weise Apple Crumb Cake in shops such as Makro. This is the nearest to the real thing you can buy and you don’t have to wait until next Easter to enjoy it.

Traditional Lamb Cake (Delicious with fresh-brewed coffee)

Ingredients:

• 1 cup butter
• 2 cups sugar
• 1 cup water
• 3 1/2 cups flour
• 2 1/2 teaspoons baking powder
• 1 teaspoon vanilla
• 4 egg whites
• 1/2 teaspoon salt

Instructions: With an electric mixer, beat together the butter and sugar, then add in the water. In another bowl, mix the flour, baking powder and salt. Add into butter mixture and mix well. Add in the vanilla. In another bowl, beat egg whites until stiff peaks form, then add into batter.Grease and flour one lamb cake mould, and pour in batter. Bake in a preheated oven at 350 F (175 C) for about forty five minutes, or until a toothpick comes out clean. When cold, dust with icing sugar.

 Tip for the Day: Does your butter go rancid in the heat yet if you keep it in the fridge it is rock hard. Instead of putting a whole block of butter out, keep only small amounts in the butter dish, say a quarter or half block. That way, it gets used quickly and the butter is always fresh. Unless, that is, you honestly prefer the oil-based concocted whips that spread straight from the fridge or you like playing games with the microwave guessing how long the butter will take to soften before melting, and melt it usually does. 

Book Review

Touched by the Light by Linn B Halton

When I purchased my Kindle I promised myself I would not buy any more paper books but the release of Touched by the Light  made me break that vow such was my enthusiasm to read this book. And I wasn’t disappointed. It is a brilliant read.

This Psychic Romance delivers on all counts even if you don’t believe in the supernatural and paranormal, life after death, spirits or anything remotely psychic. Touched by the Light draws you into the story immediately when Mya, knowing she has died, is thrust unwittingly and unwillingly into a quest to bring together two love-torn people, Laurel and Dan.

There are no ghosts to spook you, just one or two things that do go bump in the day; a door slamming, items being thrown across a room but these are just ways Mya makes herself known to Dan. Laurel can talk to spirits, and Mya finds herself able to communicate with her, trying to make sense of her own predicament as well as solving Laurel’s difficulties even when summoned by a Ouija board and a medium who tries to make sense of what is going on in their two worlds.

Although at times we do lose sight of Mya a little along the way, the ending is surprising, raising more questions than can possibly be answered on this journey into the spirit world, but a satisfactory conclusion nonetheless.

New writers are frequently told not to write in the first person because of how limiting this is in enabling the necessary reactions and actions between characters but Linn has achieved what many writers never do. She has created strong, believable characters in an intriguing plot that moves forward a pace. Each chapter is told from one character’s viewpoint delivered in the first person. And it works! No small feat for a new writer.

So, well done Linn on a superb read. I look forward to reading more of your books in the not too distant future.

Visit Linn’s website to read more about her and some snippets from her book at:  http://linnbhalton.co.uk/

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Visit my Kitchen Tips and Hints page for my Tip of the Day on sugar.

Cake Recipe: Apple Crumb Cake

In response to numerous requests following my blog on German Easter Traditions, I’m happy to include a delicious Rachel Allen‘s recipe for Apple Crumble Cake on my Recipes page. Often eaten as part of breakfast in Germany any day of the year, this cake is equally delicious made with plums. I do hope you’ll give it a try.

Play Me: Book Review

Play Me by Tricia Jones

Tricia Jones is a superb romance writer who justly deserves to be more widely read in the UK than is currently the case. Play Me, published 2009, is her fifth book and like all her previous novels, doesn’t disappoint, gripping you to the very end in a battle of wills. One that will leave you breathless, satisfied and wanting more. This is a superb summer read, perfect for sultry afternoons in the garden, a long cool drink to hand, or reclining on a hot sunny beach with a chilled bottle of prosecco or champagne close by.

Either way, you will need something to keep you cool for the sexual tension positively oozes from every page, enough to make you hot under the collar as the plot weaves its way through a tug of love in a will she/won’t she tale of love and revenge. Enter Raul, a rich, powerful and determined Sicilian who will stop at nothing to have his pound of flesh. He’s met his match with Nina, equally wealthy, who is prepared to play for the highest stakes to stop her family business falling into Raul’s ruthless hands, a man you, and Nina, really ought to hate but cannot.

Tricia’s skilful writing brings these two beautiful characters to life on the page as she takes us on an exciting journey from the casinos of Monte Carlo to the beautiful Italian lakes in reaching the story’s climax.

Play Me is available direct from American publisher Samhain or through Amazon, as are all her books, in paperback and Kindle format.

Visit Tricia Jones for further details and reviews of her novels. I certainly look forward to her next one.

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Tip of the Day: How to easily open those maddeningly tight lids on jars.

WALK FOR GEORGE

I’d like to introduce you to George and tell about Walk For George 2011. 

George is a very special member of my family, the 4-year-0ld son of a nephew. When he was 3 days old a MRI Scan revealed George had suffered a major brain haemorrhage before birth. Doctors said he would never walk, never talk and have severe disabilities including but not limited to cerebral palsy, epilepsy and possible vision problems.  We were also told that he would never know his parents or understand the world or have a normal life. As you can imagine, that was the day life stopped for his parents. What makes this all the poignant for my family is the heartbreaking family history in the years before his birth, something not discussed here. But George has proved those doctors wrong. 

With courage and determination, the constant therapy and hospital visits have eased the stiffness in his limbs caused by cerebral palsy, his left arm and right leg being most affected. To everyone’s delight he can see, he recognises his parents and the rest of his family, he can speak words, learning more and more all the time, and do new things, things we never believed would be possible. What is all the more remarkable is that his is always smiling. His laugh is infectious, his smile so captivating you want to hug him to bits. And, although painful for him, he wants to walk, he tries constantly, pulling himself upright wherever he can. He’s come a long way since those first dark days following his entry into the world. We are so proud of all he has achieved.

No small part in this achievement has been the wonderful help and therapy provided by The Footsteps Foundation, a marvellous centre in Warborough, Oxfordshire that helps people such as George using a harness contraption known as a Spider. George thinks it’s wildly funny and laughs all the time he’s strapped into it. But the sessions at Footsteps don’t come cheap. There is no government funding for this. All his therapy there has to be paid for by his parents. 

Although something never openly discussed and agreed, my family and many family friends decided we would help George and his young parents as much as possible by raising funds to finance the much-needed therapy sessions.

Walk For George began in May 2009 with a sponsored walk around Savill Gardens, Windsor Great Park. Unfortunately I was not able to take part so instead auctioned on of my paintings and donated the the three-figure sum raised.                                       

Last year I did the walk. It was a beautiful hot Sunday in May, the bluebells and rhododendrons out in full glory. (A few photographs are included below. I hope you enjoy them.) My 84 year old mother and I might have been the last ones to complete the 4 mile route but complete it we did, flopping down exhausted but happy to join in the picnic and watch the youngsters enjoy a game of football. A fabulous day out enjoyed by young and old. Where do children get all that energy?

Walk For George 2011 takes place this year on 26 June, at Virginia Water Lake. I shall be taking part again, although mother has declined she’s happy to watch over bags and the food and the little ones. 

If you would like to sponsor me or perhaps make a donation to the cause, George and his parents, and myself, would be exceedingly grateful.

I make no apology for writing about this event. There are times when I truly wish I had a magic wand and could make it all better, not just for George, but for all children who live with this debilitating condition.

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The Writer Also Paints

“What made you decide to paint?” A question I am often asked. “Quite by chance”, I reply. I came to painting through being a writer. Curiouser and Curiouser.

Wearing my writer’s hat (the one with the feathery quill), I have over the years attended many seminars, workshops, conferences, talks and parties, a favourite being the marvellous Summer Writers’ Holiday at Caerleon College organised by energetic Anne and Gerry Hobbs. When they put on the first Winter Writers’ Holiday at the Fishguard Bay Hotel, Pembrokeshire, I couldn’t get there fast enough. Enjoying unseasonably warm weather for February, delightful company, great workshops, good food and a room commanding wonderful views across the bay, I booked then and there for the following year.

The Bay Hotel, Fishguard

A close friend, novelist Avis Randall, accompanied me the second time. (Avis and her books will be introduced in a later blog.) On arriving we found, to our disappointment, the tutor booked to run our chosen workshop had been forced to cancel, another established writer stepping in, someone whom Avis and I were not enamoured with. Perchance, Gerry had the foresight to introduce, from the outset of these winter gatherings, art sessions run by artist Andrew Arney from the University of Wales. Gerry kindly obliged when we requested switching to Andrew’s class. I had studied art at school but never produced anything worthy, dabbled a bit in watercolours in intervening years but everything had gone into the rubbish bin. I was, quite frankly, crap!

Andrew Arney was an inspiration. A calm, quiet man, he started with the basics: drawing, perspectives and colour wheels, providing everything necessary and every medium except oils, helping and instructing us novices create on paper the beautiful seascape we looked out upon. I tried watercolours, pastels, charcoal. To no avail. All were a messy splodge fit only for being sunk without trace beneath the cold, salty water below the hotel. On the final day, he suggested I try acrylics. The first stroke of the loaded brush was like a light turning on. An epiphany. Acrylics and I were made for each other. The resultant painting, although only postcard size, was good. I was pleased, Andrew highly appraising. Consequently, I came away elated. I had found my painter’s voice and a new hat to wear.

During the ensuing months I purchased paints and brushes, countless how-to-paint books, watched a never-ending stream of art lesson programmes on TV, and stocked up on scrap hardboard which my husband willingly cut into smaller pieces as practice canvas. But the primed board in front of me remained blank. It wasn’t a case of painter’s block, more a stark fear of making a right muck up of it. Eventually I plucked up courage and plunged into the cobalt blues and cadmium yellows congealing on my homemade stay-wet palette. A bluebell scene emerged. “You never painted that, did you?” hubby asked, more surprised than me at the finished result.

My First: "A Brush With Bluebells"

Leaving for the third Writers at Fishguard, Avis persuaded me to take some of my paintings along to seek Andrew’s professional opinion. He studied each one carefully, pointed out where I showed a particular skill, where and how I could improve but all, he told me, were very saleable. Later, I created a gallery of the paintings on my website, and was thrilled when contacted by a lady in Germany who had fallen in love with my first bluebell picture. Could she buy it? Reluctant to let it go, after all it was my first “proper” unaided piece, in the end I gave in. Sold! I am glad I did. She commissioned three further pieces: two more bluebells and a winter scene.

So now I wear two hats. (Excuse me a moment whilst I find my beret. Arrh, here it is.) The pictures keep coming: landscapes and floral fields, winter scenes and lots and lots of bluebells. Many have sold. One painting, a large winter scene, was purchased by a couple in Spain through an auction, raising funds to help pay for treatment for my nephew’s young son who has cerebral palsy, as in my previous blog. Earlier this year I was invited to show two paintings at Yarm Originals, an art gallery based in the north of England. A public exhibition of my work is planned for hopefully the not-to-distant future. Perhaps one day I will write a book about my paintings. Who knows where the paths in the landscapes will lead.

Meanwhile, my work can be seen on my website http://www.kit-domino.com

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The Good In This World And The Bad

The Good in this World

I have been overwhelmed by the generosity in sponsorship for Walk for George taking place at the end of this month (see earlier post). Many of you have already sent donations and I am truly grateful, as I know George and his parents will be. So on behalf of the family, a huge, big THANK YOU. There is still time to sponsor the walk if you wish. All money raised helps pay for George’s therapy and treatment. It is our hope that this time next year, this adorable 4-year-old will be able to take part in the walk too, even if it is just a few unaided steps.

And the Bad

I was horrified, as I am sure you were, to see and hear of the dreadful treatment metered out to residents at a care home near to where I live in South Gloucestershire, brought to the public’s attention by this week’s Panorama Report.  I am also appalled that despite complaints being made in the past about this home, nothing was ever done to stop their suffering at the hands of ill-trained, thoughtless bullies. What horrifies me even more is the thought that little George could have ended up in such an institution if were not for the love and devotion of his parents and the support of family and friends in providing the care he needs. Not all children are so fortunate.

Whilst I readily agree not all care homes and hospitals are the same, indeed many are run by dedicated trained staff who are committed to providing the best care and quality of life they can to their clients, it does beg the question: if it goes on here, where else is it happening? Because it does happen. It always has, from the days of Bedlam and beyond, but that doesn’t make it right.

So, please, dear friends, if you hear even a whisper of such goings on in a home or hospital near you, do report it. Blow the whistle as loud as you can. If we can prevent just one person being treated so appallingly, it will have been worth it.

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Tip of the Day: Always Leave on a Good Note – so here’s one!

I was delighted and thrilled at being asked to join the website community of  Loveahappyending.com, part of Writers Following Their DreamClub founded by the lovely Linn B Halton. This new website, launching on 29th June amidst strawberries and champagne, aims to interactively promote and support selected newly published authors in almost all genres, especially those published independently. We will also be following, helping, encouraging and sharing the journeys of “new faces”, unpublished authors on course to achieving their dream – that of being published. To learn more about the community of Loveahappyending.com do visit the website. And if you love reading, you may well be the kind of associate reader we are seeking to join our Associate Reader Club.

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Coming soon: my EasyPeasy Fruitcake recipe. No foodmixer or whisk required!

A Serious Case of Writer’s Block

Is there such a thing, or is this a term used by writers who know they want to write, know they must write, but are frightened to put pen to paper or put fingers to the keyboard? We all go through a phase when nothing seems to come into our heads, and the mind and page remain blank.

Writing is a habit, one is easily broken by distractions of life and home cutting in. You set yourself tasks, allot your precious “writing time” into your busy schedule yet nothing spills out. Or you reach a point in your current WIP, often in the middle when the plot and story sag, or in my case droop, and you don’t know how to move it forward. It’s happened on numerous occasions, particular when I haven’t been able to work on one of my books for a long time. Artists also experience this self-same thing so, obviously, it must be some electrical brain impulse thingy hard at work blocking the brain stems from creativity. So what can we do to get the right synapses working again?

In the many years I’ve been writing I’ve developed a few  ploys to jump-start the creative juices so thought I would share them with you. They may not work for you, but in all cases, it doesn’t matter what you write, it can all be totally incomprehensible and probably end up being deleted but at least you are writing, and writing is all about habit. Or you may find, as I have, that magic scene you were searching for comes alive. The missing part to get from B to C materialises. Or you find you really need a new dress to wear to next week’s party.

1)      Put on some music. Your favourite CD. Music is mood enhancing. Music retrieves memories. Both of these can inspire. Not working? Then write about the actual words you are listening to. Write down the lyrics. Write your own lyrics to the melody. They might not make sense, but somewhere there will be the prompt, that little spark that turns on the word gush.

2)     Turn everything off, open the window and just listen. Listen to the sounds in the street, those around you. Can you hear bird song? Traffic noise? People talking? Something else? Write a few sentences about what you can hear. Now, what can you see? Again, write it down. Next, smell the air. Is it sweet, damp, of mown grass, or full of  bbq fumes? Imagine what’s going on and write it down.

3)     Open the wardrobe door. Look at your clothes. Pick out your favourite outfit or dress or pair of shoes. Imagine the place where you would most like to wear it. What you would like to happen. Whom you would like to meet whilst in that sexy little red number? Imagine your heroine in the outfit. Would it suit her? Would it be her style? If not, what would she like to wear, and why.

4)      Too cold, wet or windy to have the window open? Then what can you hear indoors? In your writing room. A clock ticking? The hard drive on your computer whirring? What memories have you of clocks? Computers? The neighbours arguing? The kid across the road battling hell out of his new drum kit? Can you recall a funny instance concerning any or all of the things you can hear? Write it down. Create a scene. Unblock the mind.

5)      Turn on Google Images. Type in where you would most like to be in the world. Look at the photos that come up and then imagine yourself there. What would you be wearing? Why are you there? Are you meeting someone?

6)      Write the last scene of your novel and work backwards to where the lull in the middle is.

7)      Take a book from your library, preferably one you haven’t yet read, more preferable, one you are liable not to read. Write the second-to-last paragraph out. Then, using this as an opening gambit, write what happens next. Or, if you prefer, write a scene leading up to this final paragraph.

8)      Open any page in today’s newspaper. Pick one article or one leader. Write your own slant on it.

I bet you haven’t got writers’ block now. I bet your thought processes are flying quicker than you can type after just one of these exercises. I hope I’ve given you a few ideas that will work for you. Do tell me about it or of any tricks you have to fire up the imagination.

A Touch of Nostalgia: Part One

Demise of the Cigarette Vending Machine

It was with mixed feelings I read yesterday of the Government’s intended plan for removing all cigarette vending machines from pubs, restaurants and bars. Not because I smoke (I don’t), but for the fact the way cigarette machines have shaped and influenced my life. The article was even more poignant being Father’s Day, and I wondered what my father would have made of the whole smoking issue.

My father’s boss, Mr Weiss, a Swiss music box maker, developed the wooden mechanism inside these wall-hung machines of the 1950s and 60s and also made the outer wooden cabinets. It was Dad’s job to delivery and fit these across the whole of the UK, often away for days at a time. It was also his job sometimes to restock the machines in and around London with cigarettes and, in later years, machines dispensing stockings,  chocolate,  and a couple of other items as a child I didn’t understand.

To earn extra pocket money, my elder siblings and I would sit around the kitchen table with a pile of coins in the centre. It was our job to slit the cellophane wrappers with a razor blade and slide in the correct change, each of us having a different brand to fill. Weights. Senior Service. Capstan. Players No.6. Whatever money was left over at the end was divided between us. (If ever you were shortchanged in a packet years ago, please forgive us, it was never intentional!)

I believe Mr Weiss’s firm was the only one in the country at the time making these, if not he was certainly one of the biggest suppliers for his machines were in every pub, club, bar, restaurant and hotel in the country and regularly supplied television and film studios. As kids, we could often be heard to shout out: “There’s one of Dad’s machines” whilst watching Emergency Ward Ten, Z Cars, even Crossroads, and many, many British films.

Another customer was the The Golden Egg restaurant chain. One in particular regularly invited us as a family to have Sunday lunch there. It was, as I recall, either on, or very near to, Hammersmith Roundabout. We always had chicken and chips followed by little paper dishes of jelly with tinned cream. We were often the only ones there; having Sunday lunch out was not common practice then for most people.

Dad always bought his van home; a little grey Austin A40, Bedford dormabiles, a white Thames, later white or blue Transits. As a consequence throughout the 1950s and 60s, we were fortunate to have a means of transport always at our disposal. Not many families at that time owned a car. In the road where we lived, we were the first to have one, albeit a van, and the first to have television but we were by no means wealthy. Both my parents always had to work, my mother at one point holding down two daytime jobs and sewing at home as a third. But I do believe as children we were privileged in many respects, all thanks to the cigarette vending machine.

For special occasions, Mr Weiss would let Dad use his car for the weekend. I remember a green and cream Austin Cambridge, very plush, with green leather seats and a walnut dashboard, but most times we went off in the van. Back then, the engines of the larger vans were always housed between the driver and passenger seat. In each, Dad rigged  up a padded, wooden seat to go over this; where I sat. On long journeys it got very hot but I always had a good view. My brother and sisters sat in the back on old armchairs or settees or old car seats Dad put in. Seatbelts were unheard of! The Thames van had red rear seats running along the sides, and red and white gingham curtains at the windows which he pulled closed when on delivery.

During the school holidays we would often go with Dad on his delivery runs. He’d take us the “scenic” way, showing us pretty villages and unusual places, castles and churches, Stonehenge and many, many other places of historic interest and seaside towns up and down the country most children during that era never had the opportunity of visiting. We once came to Bristol, enjoying sandwiches beneath the Suspension Bridge, never, ever imagining I would end up living there. We visited a ferret farm near Lowestoft, to Newcastle where an aunt and cousin lived, then on to Gretna Green, across Shap Fell, travelling up the M1 the second day it opened, a private zoo with leopards and chimpanzees. We never went on summer holiday as such, but spent days away at beautiful Cornish or Dorset villages on the coast whilst Dad went on to make his delivery. We’d stay in a caravan or more often at a friendly B&B or farm.

Sunday afternoons during the summer we would often go to Devil’s Bunch Bowl in Surrey to gather bilberries for Mum to make into jam. In autumn, we would go to Box Hill to gather the sweet chestnuts for roasting back home on a shovel over the coal fire. Happy days climbing up Leith Hill or exploring places called Sunday Street or the Silent Pool, or visiting relatives in Hemel Hempstead, Watford or Ewell. We’d regularly go for days out to Margate, Southend, Brighton or West Wittering.

Dad never had to pay for petrol and when later, my mother got her first car, a red and white Triumph Herald, Mr Weiss insisted on paying for her petrol too. He was such a kindly man, to us kids more of an uncle than our Dad’s boss. When Dad went to collect his wages, he often took me with him to Mr Weiss’s home or to the factory across London in Leightonstone. Mr Weiss always gave me half-a-crown as pocket money. This was always appreciated and never, ever expected.

So for these things alone: the memories of family trips, places we visited, the fun, being able to see and enjoy the countryside, for the clothes we wore, food we ate, toys we played with, the humble cigarette machine paid. I mourn its passing.

Proofreading Is More Than Just Checking Spelling!

My working career has always revolved around the written word in one form or another; from typing to running a wordprocessing agency, from typesetting manuscripts to proofing and editing all manner of books, legal and statutory documents and much more besides. Wearing a writer’s hat, I have attended countless writing seminars, courses, conferences, and a member of small and large writing groups and communities. I’ve done the jumping through hoops and agonised over that wretched synopsis, learned what is accepted practice and what is not. Thus, whenever I read a book, be it conventionally published or otherwise, I cringe at the errors in the proofing and editing spotted in an increasing number of these books.

“But it’s the story that counts!” is a retort I’ve heard so often it’s almost become a cliché. “Readers can forgive the odd typo, the odd spelling mistake, the missed punctuation.” Sorry, author, that is not the case. Most don’t, certainly not if errors are there in herds that leap out of the page at you. Mistakes do, will and can throw a reader right out of the story; that is their job – to make a reader not want to finish, never mind buy another of your books again. Is that what you really want? It’s not the odd little typo that’s the troublemaker; it’s the glaring howlers that shouldn’t have got through that irritate. Those misspelled or wrong words, the bad punctuation and inconsistencies that all should have been corrected long before a book was thrust into the hands of your paying readership. The poor formatting, the switched tenses and lazy grammar that poke you in the eye and confuse the brain. Even if a book is offered free of charge, a writer owes it the reader to present it in the best manner possible. Proofreading is a whole lot more than just checking the spelling.

When I hear or read comments such as, “Well, my mother/granny/friend proofed it” or, even more worrying, “I checked it myself”, I know I shall not bother to read the book. If you don’t care enough about your work then why should I as a reader? You see, it takes a trained, experienced eye to see the mistakes, to know the things to look out for. The Society of Editors and Proofreaders advocates you cannot proof your own work, not because they are touting for your business but because it is true. A given. Your brain doesn’t read what your eye sees. Your brain already knows your story, it wrote it and knows what should be there without seeing what actually is. Scientific fact. You might have the word spelt correctly but is it the right word? Have you placed too much reliance on computer spellcheckers and the next-to-useless grammar checker? These mechanical devices cannot and do not know the difference between plain and plane or bear and bare, breath and breathe, principle and principal. They do not know that forget-me-nots do not grow in England during September, that there’s a difference between mum as a noun and Mum as pronoun, or between having lead in your pencil or being led up the garden path. That you toe the line, not tow the line. I have no doubt there are errors in this text, which goes to show you cannot proof your own work and that proofreading is a whole lot more than just checking the spelling.

Grammar is another minefield. What is acceptable to one school of thought or continent may not be to another. Most authors write as they speak. That is good, it forms part of the author’s voice, brings stories and characters to life. Books written in the Queen’s English, all grammatically proper and correct, or presumed correct, can appear stuffy and, frankly, dull, especially when it is clear the writer has striven so hard to do it in this way. It doesn’t work. And who says you can’t start a sentence with And or But or Because? Who wrote the rule that you cannot split an infinitive? There are no such rules. Prose that switches tenses, uses superfluous adjectives and a never-ending stream of he said, she said, is boring, and unnecessary if the narrative is crafted skilfully. Proofing is a whole lot more than just checking the spelling.

When we speak, we use intonation of voice, eye contact, hand gestures, to convey our meanings. We don’t have commas and fullstops and quotation marks. When writing we need punctuation to perform this function, but used in the wrong place it can change complete meanings, make reading difficult. And if reading your text is difficult, it isn’t doing its job. A bear eats shoots and leaves is a whole lot different to A bear eats, shoots, and leaves. There was a theory that a comma means this is where you take a breath, a semi-colon a longer breath and a colon an even greater pause. Not correct. Too often, writers suffer with that common complaint known as comma diarrhoea – too many, too often, and in the most inappropriate places. And as for those rogue apostrophes …

This isn’t unique to self-published books. I’ve seen glaring errors from conventional publishing houses too, often due to being a sad marker of lean, economic times in publishing when the proofreader is often the first to be let go, leaving it up to the author to get it right or, at most, the editor. Editors do an excellent job, a hard job, and they are not infallible. Neither am I. I get it wrong sometimes. Even I get confused with compliment and complement occasionally. I was taught that anything to do with time you used the word past, as in past, present and future, and anything to do with movement was from the verb to pass, as in he walked passed the breadshop. A lesson I understand now to be wrong. Am I?

What really annoys is these so-called independent publishers who take your money, claiming to offer a full editing service, often charging extra for proofing, when in fact they don’t bother to do the job properly. Those that don’t seem to care about your work, they already have your money. A form of daylight robbery. The Kindle and ebooks and ipads etc are wonderful inventions allowing writers to reach a reading public they would never have touched through conventional methods, and it is time the big boys moved over, but if self-published authors want to be taken seriously, elevate themselves out of the “vanity” publishing mindset held by others, make reviewers and readers and people sit up and take notice, they owe it to readers to get it right.

Proofreading need not be expensive. It’s time consuming, yes, but oh so vital. Circumvent this important element of the writing process at your peril because proofreading is more than just checking the spelling.

Recommended reading: Eats Shoots and Leaves by Lynne Truss

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Walk for George 2011

If we had planned to walk on the warmest day of the year to date, we couldn’t have chosen a better Sunday morning than dawned on Sunday, 26th June. Those of us hardy (or is that foolhardy?) enough gathered at the Cumberland Obelisk by Savill Gardens, Windsor Great Park  at 11 am. Once the hugging and greeting of family and friends, some not seen for 12 months, was complete, catch up chatter and coffee consumed, we were off, maps in hand, taking a different course to that walked last year. Left behind were several family members, including my 85 year old mother, volunteering to watch the bags and paraphernalia too heavy or hot to carry. Last year, Mother had completed the walk with me; this year she thought the heat would be too much for her. A wise decision.

The path led us alongside the polo ground before dipping down towards the beautiful gardens and over a bridge and alongside the lake. Ducks and swans followed, seeking food, birds darted and sang overhead and squirrels flitted across the paths, shimming up tree trunks, tails swishing as they watched from branches overhead. The gardens and lakeside, a glorious riot of colour from rhododendrons and carpets of bluebells in springtime, were not so pretty this year to an artist’s eye but they were nonetheless magnificent in their green splendour, the trees provided much needed shade as the thermometer rose. In a quiet glade we came across a refreshment stand with seating where we readily stopped, treating ourselves to an ice-cream or lolly and a well-earned rest before continuing.

We took our time strolling along, a motley string of adults, children and dogs enjoying the sunshine and fresh air, taking turns to push George in his buggy (well, not the dogs, obviously). We stopped by the cascade, a cool respite, a good excuse for a photo shoot, before moving on to admire the ancient Roman ruins from Lepcis Magna in Tripoli. Onward and upward we trod our merry way. The chosen route had been on the flat but now the ground rose, the path steep in a long, hard slog uphill in the heat and I fell behind, stopping frequently to rest and catch my breath. Above the treeline I could see the monument. Almost there, I thought, and pushed myself on. Only to find it was the 100 ft totem pole; I still had another half mile to go. This was definitely further than last year. Ahh well, quick rest, deep breaths and move on.

At last, I reached the meeting point. The last one back, much to the relief of my worrying mother (she’s a fanatical worrier, my mother). The route had been approximately 6 miles; I don’t think at that point I could have walked another step and fell into a proffered chair in the shade in need of a large drink. My niece had the foresight the night before to make up a bottle of squash and put in the freezer. What a refreshing, welcome drink to this thirsty walker that was. Baskets at the ready, we enjoyed a smashing picnic, although in truth, it was far too hot to eat much. Afterwards, whilst us old ’uns rested and chatted, the children played football, cajoled adults to take them down to the water’s edge to catch tadpoles or, more importantly, join the queue for another ice-cream.

The day was a great success, enjoyed by everyone. Over £3,000 was raised on the day and that, along with other donations still coming in, we have enough money to cover all George’s Footsteps and Brainwave therapy up to the end of 2012, which is just fantastic. He would not be able to do this therapy without everyone’s committment and so for that his parents, family and George himself thank you so, so much!

A Touch of Nostalgia: Part Two

In conversation with friends recently, the subject of things we miss arose. Not so much the people we no longer have with us, but those little things that shaped our lives, taught us values and respect for others, and helped make us who we are. From things we don’t see any more to the sweet confections and food of our childhood and places visited, always remembered. It wasn’t so much the things themselves we missed, we realised as we chatted, it was those days of families being together, sharing, and making our own fun and amusement in the times before computers and mobile phones and ipods and televisions in every room. Good days. Days of innocence, of security and comfort. Days of our youth. Here are some of the items that came up:

• Roast chicken for Sunday lunch, a once-in-a-blue-moon, rare treat
• Listening to the radio together. Family Favourites, The Navy Lark, Billy Cotton Band Show whilst we ate Sunday lunch; Children’s Favourites with Uncle Mac of a Saturday morning; and those we listened to on our own, usually under the covers in bed at night: Radio Luxembourg and Radio Caroline
• Ice-cream soda in Rossi’s Ice Cream Parlour
• Saturday morning pictures
• Frost patterns on the inside of windows of a winter’s morning
• Bricks of ice cream wrapped up in newspaper: vanilla or raspberry ripple, Neapolitan or tutti-frutti
• Refunds on lemonade bottles
• The blue twist of salt in a packet of crisps
• Taking quart bottles to the off-licence in the pub to be filled with ale
• My mum’s beer soup
• Queues outside a phonebox
• Saturday afternoon wrestling and Sunday Night at the London Palladium on television
• Frozen orange Jubbly that needed two hands to hold
• Coffee Crisp bars, Picnic bars, Spangles, Jamboree Bags, Peanut Treets and Sherbet Dabs
• Rock cakes and Viota fairy cake mixes with red and green glacé cherries and butterfly cakes with buttercream icing
• Loose tea and the only instant coffee powdered Nescafé in a small tin or liquid Camp Coffee
• Sitting around the coal fire with the family playing cards or board games on a winter’s evening
• The Sunday drive, perhaps to Leith Hill or Virginia Waters or Epping Forest or visiting relatives for tea
• Games in the playground: British Bulldogs, Farmer’s in His Den, skipping games, rounders and French cricket or Two and Three Balls, in the air or against a wall
• The all the neighbourhood kids playing ball games together in the street, games such as Queenie Queenie or hide and seek in the front gardens, go-karts and races on roller skates, skipping games, sitting on the kerb playing five stones or jacks
• Autumnal walks in Burnham Beeches or gathering chestnuts at Box Hill
• Summer days out at the seaside, the whole family piling in to a charabanc to go Margate or Bognor, Southend or Brighton or bilberry picking at Devil’s Punch Bowl
• The Winkle Man on his bicycle calling out on a Sunday evening selling cockles and winkles and mussels and whelks
• The rag-and-bone-man
• Prawns sold by the pint
• Pop concerts held inside in auditoriums or theatres where everyone had a seat and at least six top names were on the bill
• When hot cross buns were a once a year treat and Christmas didn’t start until December.

Do you remember any of these things or have special memories of others? Have I rekindled a memory or two within you you’d like to share, perhaps? I do hope so.

A Sense of Place

Location plays an important part in novels. It sets the scene, helps brings the story to life with realism, especially when actual places are used, places readers may know and can envisage. In each of my novels location has proved invaluable to creating atmosphere: London and the River Thames in Every Step of the Way and Queenie Queenie, a Cotswold Georgian mansion where I once lived in Whitestones, and the Greek island of Thassos in Where Two Worlds Collide. This last location, although a very real island, is one I have not visited yet but, being a lover of all things Greek and having over the last 12 years had the fortune to visit many Greek islands, a vivid imagination knows how that island must look. That and images and descriptions found on the Internet, of course.

So it did come as a great shock when recently holidaying on Corfu when I found myself staying in a beautiful bay on the east coast that exactly mirrored the bay and location I had created in Two Worlds. In this novel, a time slip, I describe a large villa built against a cliffside, spread over three levels. There is a swimming pool on the second terrace and rough stone steps flanked by blue morning glory, oleander and hibiscus bushes leading down to a narrow sandy beach in a shallow bay guarded by high headlands. A short walk along the beach on a rickety boardwalk takes my heroine to the nearby village, otherwise reached by a dusty dirt road over the cliff before descending to a scattering of houses and tavernas. I have no doubt innumerable bays and resorts around Greece mirror this but there was something else about Agios Gordios that made this extra weird.

In my book, there is a cave leading up through the cliff to an old village set way back in the hills. The entrance is hidden from view by a rock stack in which there is a huge wasps’ nest at the summit. Just as at Agios Gordios!

Imagine then my surprise at finding just such things at the hotel I stayed at. Built over several terraces, a swimming pool on the second, stone steps down to the beach, the village reached by a short walk along the beach, the high cliffs flanking the bay and that eerie monolith of rock hiding caves. Caves, I did not venture into, I hasten to add. Weird things happen there in my book that I didn’t want to happen to me.

As I watched the sunrise over the bay that very first morning, it was like a homecoming. The sense of déjà vu overwhelming as the cicadas ceased their singing and slunk back into the dank undergrowth and the birds trilled in the growing light, for I knew the place well. It was scary and yet comfortable all at the same time. My travelling companions were taken aback when I led them to the village by the long route through dusty paths between semi-derelict and bougainvillea-clad houses and guided them to familiar tavernas spread along the beach, knew what time the fishing boats came into the narrow jetty. How? Because I had written about it all, described each element.

Perhaps I had been there before, in a past life or in a dream. Whatever the reason, Agios Gordios will remain in my memory for a lifetime. It will have to as I have probably lost all my holiday photos thanks to a computer error. Hopefully the Greek Gods will look down kindly on me and restore them or else take my path back there some day so I can take some more whilst sampling one of the many cocktails served at Agios Gordios.

The Secret’s Out!

I’ve been tagged. Electronically. No, not around my ankle. I’ve been blog tagged. I’d never heard of it before. So, thank you Alison. Now I have to reveal ten random and unknown facts about myself, and then pass it on. Mmmm. Where to start? What exciting things would you like to know about me? Are there any? Any skeletons in my wardrobe lurking behind the clothes? Yes. One or two, but I’m not going tell you about them, I’m keeping those safely under lock and key for another day, another book.

Meanwhile back at the revealing, and in no particular order:

Fact No.1: My main ambition in life was to be a choreographer. I learned ballroom and Latin American dancing as a teenager back in the 1960s. Walter Laird, World Dance Champion way back then, was my instructor and my partner during my dancing exams but I gave it all up for a boy, well, a fella, actually. BIG mistake and my biggest regret. (Yes, that’s me in the photo aged 13, having just received my first medal and dipolma.)

Fact No.2: I learned to drive at the tender age of 15. Illegally, of course, on the main roads around my home town. This was way back in the 60s, the car an old Ford Classic. It all started as a bet that I couldn’t start the car and drive it to the end of the road without stalling. I said I could and I did, and so for the next couple of years learned to hone my driving skills in and around centralLondon.

Fact No.3: Clowns give me the creeps. Not sure if I hate them or spiders worse. Probably equally. Just don’t leave me in a dark room with either.

Fact No.4: I cannot sing. I wish I could. I do try, of course. In the shower, in the car, around the house, but only when no one’s listening (I hope!).

Fact No.5: I am not allowed to eat strawberries despite their being my favourite fruit. The drugs I’m on for a rare blood disorder prevent me from indulging in one of life’s sweetest pleasures.

Fact No.6: For a year back in the 70s I worked as a cook/housekeeper/mother’s help for a well-heeled titled family living in a Georgian mansion in Gloucestershire. Interesting, but not something I would consider doing again. The house became the backdrop for my novel Whitestones, not yet released.

Fact No.7: I appeared as an extra in one of the first episodes of The Rise and Fall of Reggie Perrin with Leonard Rossiter. A scene was being filmed at our local Carrefour supermarket; I had to stand at one of the tills paying for my shopping.

Fact No.8: I was a contestant on Channel 4′s TV quiz programme Fifteen-to-One with the lovely William G Stewart. I didn’t win but it was a lot of fun, especially the makeover beforehand. (Photo! I am in there. Honest! No prizes for spotting me, though.)

Fact No.9: One of my very best friends from childhood became a well respected poet, critic and playwright. We are still in touch and one of his books of poems he gave me containing a beautiful inscription to me is one of my prized possessions.

Fact No.10: I’m secretly in love with Ralph McTell, Kevin Costner and Christopher Reeve. One I have kissed (actually, it was he who kissed me), one I’ve no chance of ever kissing, and one, well… I can dream, can’t I? Damn! This means it’s not a secret any more. Ooops!

Phew! Enough said. Now time to pass the buck, or should that be button?

Ip dip, bird’s sh**, you’re It:
Tricia Jones: tricia-jones.blogspot.com
Janice Horton: janicehortonwriter.blogspot.com
Sharon Goodwin: shazjera.blogspot.com

All in good fun and may I be forgiven!

Garden Reflections

The Earth has turned another full circle and in a private corner of southern England I sit enjoying the warmth from the sun on the patio whilst I drink my mid morning coffee and reflect on a summer blown too early into autumn. A chill wind has forced the Bishop to lay spreadeagled across the lawn although his scarlet-red flowers are still vivid and bright, many more still to open. The hanging baskets are forlorn and limp, ripped by the wind, the last few flowers holding on in a blaze of orange and purple. The geraniums in pots around the koi pond and patio are still wonderful in fiery splashes of red and white and pink. Yellow, red and orange nasturtiums light up pansies and begonias against background foliage; whilst under the shrubs, wild cyclamen poke out their white heads, a sure herald of the shortening days.

I’ve seen far more creatures in the garden this year but perhaps that is because I have had the time to sit back and look more than in previous summers. Butterflies have visited in profusion. Red admirals, peacocks and commas, holly blues, and for the first time an orange tip danced and fluttered in the sunlight, enjoying the buddleia and erysimums, teasing the frogs that hop in the flowerbeds.

A little field mouse decided to take up residence under the stone sink in which carnivorous pitcher plants dwell. He’s become quite tame. What was once a quick dash to grab a few seeds put down for him is now a carefree amble as he comes close enough for me to stroke, but I refrain, content to just watch and admire him.

My family of sparrows patiently await their turn on the bird feeder. It’s such a pleasure to watch them communally splash in the birdbath; some prefer to sit below on the grass to wash in ensuing shower of water droplets instead. Despite reports that sparrows are in decline, they certainly are not in my garden. Their number has risen from six to twenty during the summer. They’re cheeky little birds and will come and tap on my patio door if the feeder is empty or to tell me the birdbath needs refilling. When the sparrows have finished playing in the water the robin jumps down from his favourite perch on the obelisk to take his bath before flitting to the bird table to breakfast on oats and mealworms.

There have been lots of birds in the garden this summer, blackcaps and dunnocks, blue and great tits, greenfinches, bullfinches and a garden warbler. Most days a sparrow hawk rests on the fence or up in the neighbour’s cherry tree to catch his breath. He’s used to me sitting here, as are the other birds. They don’t seem to mind my company.

Soon the sun will no longer rise above the roof and my garden will be in constant shade until next March. I shall miss not being able to sit in the garden but it will still delight during dark winter days with white and purple hellebores, sweet-scented yellow mahonia and the bright yellows, blues and reds of the primulas until the snowdrops and crocus emerge, heralding a new spring.

“A poor life this if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare.”
William Henry Davies

A Few of My Favourite Things

• Dawn, my favourite time of day. I live in the middle of a housing estate stuck between the junction of two motorways. Close by is an airfield, a large shopping mall and a railway, so you can understand why it’s not exactly quiet around here. Except for early mornings when all is calm, all is peaceful. I love to sit, preferably outside, and watch the sky lighten in all its ever-changing hues of blues and pinks, the play of light and shadows, and enjoy a feeling of anticipation of what the day will bring. Coupled with this, another of my favourite things — birds.
• The dawn chorus is part of my enjoyment of dawn, but I also like to hear the birds singing at any time of day. I even have a CD I play frequently to feed what is a passionate need to hear them around me. If it wasn’t for the pesky pigeons and magpies that we have an overpopulation of here, where I live would be perfect. The birds like my garden and many of our native garden species can be found flittering and feeding and bathing here almost every day. Whenever I am out, no matter where or what country, I always take time out to watch the birds but can categorically say I am not a twitcher despite my binoculars saying to the contrary.
• My garden, plants and other animals. My garden is my sanctuary, a small piece of tranquillity in an otherwise noisy, chaotic world. Here my husband and I grow and enjoy all manner of flowers and thrill at everything that mother nature decides to send to visit including the birds, butterflies, toads, frogs, slow-worms, lizards, field mice, hedgehogs.
• Holidays abroad to warm locations. For many years now I’ve been fortunate enough to spend my holidays with just my two sisters and our mum. I live some way from them so our annual migration to the sun gives us precious time together. We chill out, read, do as we please, eat and drink what we please, go where we please and enjoy each other’s company without the tantrums of men or children. I never got on with my sisters when we all lived at home, always fighting and arguing. They are twins and five years older than me. Not a big difference now but that’s a huge ravine when you’re young. Next year will see our last holiday together. Mum is 86 next March, travelling getting too much for her, and with my sisters retired and my being recently redundant we will not be able to afford to do it again.
• Greece and all things Greek. Of all the places abroad I have visited, from Barbados, Austria, Germany and Spain, through to holidays with my sisters, it is always to Greece we return. Each island is unique in its own way. I love the food and the people, the culture, the history and the climate. Especially the climate. I just love the sun although I am not a sun worshipper — you’ll never see me with tan. If I could choose one place in the world to retire to, it would be to a Greek island. And it’s back to Greece again next year for our last girls’ holiday.
• Music. All types but especially classical and especially Andre Bocelli. What I wouldn’t give to see him live. His voice sends a shiver down my spine. I grew up with music, especially German folk songs and bands, I taught myself to play piano, my first husband was a DJ, and music is always playing at home when driving, be it ELO or Eric Clapton, Ralph McTell to George Michel, Bocelli to Rachmaninov, music is my world.

Each one of the above has been included in one way or another in my books: classical music is a central theme of Whitestones, along with a garden where the heroine seeks solace. In Every Step of the Way, the music of the 1950s features prominently. Sisters in a villa on a Greek island and happenings at dawn are elements running through When Two Worlds Collide. When I’m writing novels I like to bring some of my favourite things into the narrative; the premise being “write about what you know”. Hopefully, the things that please me, will please my readers, too.