Of Sausages and Swoonery August 18, 2010
Posted by Jen in : General Shame, Journal , 22 commentsSon 1 is, this morning, sporting a black eye. He also keeps lurching about more than usual, talking manically about sausages. I am envious. I wish I was a little bit delirious. Perhaps I should take up rugby and get my block knocked off ? Sounds a bit drastic though. Besides, I am already tough. I have a new status: Bad Ass ASBO Mum. Oh yeah, check me out.
‘Oh good Lord, you’re nothing but a common criminal,’ announced No. 1, brandishing A Letter from the Rozzers.
He’s sadly quite correct. I was caught, fair and square, speeding through life. I know. In my defense, your honour, I was not being very boy racery at all. I did not have my gangsta rap booming; none of my teeth were gold; my trousers were pulled up firmly over my pants. I was, in fact, pootling along at 39mph. On my way to the Northiam Conservation Society garden party, where I was to play a selection of English chamber music with The Orchestra of the Undead. How middle class a criminal am I? And – and! – not only do I have to go on a speed awareness course, I have to take the course in Maidstone where they’re all proper ‘ard. I am a little bit scared.
Apart from all this, I have been very quiet. I’ve been giving myself a break. I’ve walked instead of run; read instead of beating myself up about not writing; cooked instead of considering carb content. I’ve – ahem – been flown to the Isle of Wight for a lobster lunch high on a sun-soaked clifftop; been whisked away to a romantic hideaway deep in the New Forest where real life ceased to exist for days. I have, I confess, fallen in love. I know. This was even more unlikely than my becoming a hardened villain. But despite my best resistance tactics, I have been hopelessly swoonified. Oddly, though the princessy treats were dreamy, it was a field of lavender wot dunnit. Who knew plants could be so persuasive?
I’ve loved being removed from reality these past few months but now I’m ready to get back in the groove. I feel less manic but more determined. I want to make The Man proud of me. How sappy is that? Sappy, swirly and feeling sick. Ooh ‘eck. It’s good when a man makes you feel sick, yes? Oh dear. Whatever next? Oh yes… a sausage sarnie. Since I’m now so easily swayed. *Sigh* Have I made you feel nauseous too? Soz. (I’m not really. Double soz.)
Of Being Hedge-Hunted June 15, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Journal , 16 commentsWell well well. Fancy seeing you here. Do you come here often? No? Me neither.
I can’t believe we’re halfway through the year. It’s fair to say that my world has succumbed to an attack of the rampant randoms which do tend to drag me utterly off course and leave me in a hedge somewhere. Hedges can be tricky buggers. They know how to look all unassuming but man! When they finally set you free, looking twiggy and deranged (not you, Twiggy, you do not look deranged in your splendid M ‘n’ S clothing) everything has changed. I’ve been rubbing at my eyes, looking around at my life, with an intelligent air of ‘eh?’.
I finally hit the ‘fuck it’ button on one thing in my life that wasn’t working and you know that thing where one door closes and another one opens? Well. I seem to have clicked one of those revolving doors that goes round in little glass segments, each one popping out something wonderfully unexpected. I’ve met some astoundingly fab people in the last few weeks. People who have made me smile muchly. Bigly. Swooningly. I’ve marched about parts of Tunbridge Wells I’ve never seen before, taking photos on ancient, non-digital cameras with a bunch of random Twitter people. I’ve been given, out of the blue, a pay rise and Wednesday afternoons off to write. I’m having dinner cooked for me tonight – I will smile a little bit more and stare out at the stillness of Eastbourne Marina and perhaps play with the crazy fisheye camera which arrived too late for the TWells Twitter thingummyjig.
As the bloke with the cigar in The A Team said, ‘I love it when a plan comes together’. I just wish I was allowed to see the plan now and again. But perhaps it’s best when life takes us by surprise?
In other news, Son No. 1 is in the process of buying a motorbike scootery thing. He will be combining this with massive surges of testosterone. I will, almost certainly, never sleep again. But, in the spirit of positivity, I will take this as a sign that extra wakefulness will enable more writing to be done. It’ll give me the time currently lacking to work through the OU French course I did 12 years ago before embarking on the last two modules of my degree. Yes, I know. Having started 12 years ago with the intention of teaching French to tiddlies and then stop-start, stop-starting (I know! I’ll renovate the house! Write a novel! Engage in some general spazzery!) I’m back to the original plan. Oh dear. I bet you can’t wait until this blog is full of verb conjugations. I know a good hedge if you need to hide. I won’t be there. I’ll be busy getting thin for the impromptu holiday in Portugal I’ve agreed to go on in August.
I can recommend a bit of hedge-induced derangement. Makes your hair a bit funny though. Can you promise me one thing? Say ‘yes’ to the next thing that presents itself. You never know what might happen. *Smiles cryptically and not at all menacingly*
Of Being a Bit Busted May 13, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal , 23 commentsNo. Despite its title, this is not a blog post about boobs. I do, however, seem to have been awarded a booby prize in the form of my brain. My Brian. Call it what you will. In fact, please, call it loudly. Whistle for it. Yoo hoo, Brian, where are you? Yes. Brian has, I’m sad to say, either broken down entirely or buggered orf without so much as a word. Scrambled brains are not conducive to, well, anything at all really. Perhaps I have The Stress. About what, though, I have no idea. I am not sleeping. I wake up at 3am and think about nonsense. I wander round the house in the dark, stuffing washing in the machine, being pounced upon by the ginger ninja. I check Facebook. I go back to bed, steeled for sleep. I think more thoughts. I think I would like pine nuts and mushrooms and feta cheese. I get up to look at things in the fridge. Get pounced upon once more.
Daytime is worse. Ooh, wow, gorgeous day I think, looking out of my office window. I might take the dog down to St Ouen’s Bay for a run later. And I smile to myself, joyfully, thinking how nice it is that I can do that after work. But I can’t. I don’t live in Jersey anymore. I haven’t done for 8 years or so. It’s as if someone is carving jigsaw-shaped holes in my thoughts. They are all jumbled up. More than usual, I mean. I am, quite honestly, beginning to fear for my sanity.
We won’t mention the headaches. Nurofen-ed up and snuggled down beneath my famous orange blanky on Saturday, I engaged in The Thing That Should Never Be Done. Yep, I googled my symptoms. And then I had a go at NHS Direct. Good Lord. Why does such a thing exist? Far better one just orders a Dictionary of Death from Amazon, pick a fate then lie down waiting to die.
Brains are like boomerangs. Aren’t they? Or bananas. Or perhaps I’m simply going bananas. Apples. Pears. Cor blimey, Mary Poppins. Now I’ll be talking like Dick van Dyke all day. Help. HELP!
Of Clocks and Clouds April 1, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Journal , 18 commentsI’ve been a bad blogger, haven’t I? Not a peep for yonks. This has largely been due to a technical crisis – the very trickiest sort of computering calamity that rendered my blog-writing thingummy useless until, after 2 days of wizardry and genius ideas, I plugged the wotsit that makes the thing go back in on the back of the Mac. Yeah. Impressive. I know.
On the bright side, this means you’ve been spared the sorrows of my world – the terrible tale of the rat risotto being one such stomach churning highlight of the last few weeks. The other highlights? Well, that would be telling. But there hasn’t been much writing going on – I have succumbed to a fit of RSI and, despite my best urges, clicking, clunking and shooting pains in the wrists, along with numbness of fingers (and brain – possibly unrelated) are not conducive to writing. I have, however, been plotting the novel. The rather super DJ Kirby put me onto the The Snowflake Method of expanding on one’s initial idea and it has been rather exciting to sit down with pens and pads, scribbling away as the later mornings wander in.
I have, dear reader, been trying not to be such an early bird – getting to work at 9 with a smug sense of satisfaction that I’ve spent 2 hours writing, packed the lunchboxes and been for a run is waning after 3 years. I’m trying to train myself to stay awake past 9pm and be *just* like a normal person. I like the idea of dancing ‘til dawn as Sinatra croons in a corner. I like the idea of the snooze button. I have an inbuilt one, apparently.
April began today. The frost is glistening under a more enthusiastic sun and summer’s on the way. I have Easter to myself, eased into with style with a trip to The Foragers in Hove this evening. It will be fun. No, even funner than that. I’m going to stay up late and everything. My head is ever so slightly cloudy at the mo and the lack of actual writing does have the awful side effect of making all the random pop out of my mouth in a rather alarming way, according to innocent bystanders. But my smiling department is fully functional. It doesn’t matter about the mentalism. Does it?
Easter weekend means chocolate is calorie free, right? That’s good. I’ll have my free calories in wine if that’s ok. Thankyouverymuch.
Of Whizz-Bang Fizzle March 5, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Journal, Novel , 19 commentsOk, ok, I confess. The novel-writing has sort of ground to something of a halt. I’ve been, ahem, a little distracted with what I laughingly call ‘real life’. There has been rather a lot of it lately. Work is ridiculously busy. Tweed Clad Colleague mysteriously gets louder in direct proportion to workload. I am wearing ear plugs and wondering whether people have forgotten there’s supposed to be a recession on? Working 72 hours a day is not conducive to fabulous novelling you know.
Excuses excuses. I know. I have, however, managed to produce yet another short story. I struggle and struggle with them though no one in my lovely writing group has laughed yet. Well, not in a mean fashion. All I need to do now is summon up the courage to start subbing them. Voices rumble in my head. All aboard the nine-eleven fast train to Rejection City. Mind the gap, you clumsy berk. Eek. Editors should be like the Chitty Chitty Bang Bang child-catcher. Not that my stories should be caged, or even tied up. I’m just not convinced they’re ready to be free? But I will. Oh yes, I will for it is written on the blog.
Anyway, my novel is fermenting. Festering. Whatever. This weekend will see a tumble of words. No really, it will! If not, you are permitted to chase me round Tescos with a pointy stick while I stuff weak platitudes into my trolley along with some Bicarb of Soda and a bunch of tulips. The tulips are to make me happy (they will be purple) and the Bicarb of Soda is to sparkle up the words wot I have writted already. I’m not sure they have the right flavour. They don’t taste of string though, which is a good thing. I’m just not sure what they should taste of? Strong black coffee? No… vanilla cheesecake? Nope, too sweet… oh, I’ve got it. Space Dust. Sweet but bitter with a lingering fizzle on the tongue. Yes, that will do nicely. Or Flying Saucers – the orange ones. Ah, those were the days.
What d’you mean I haven’t told you about meeting Man from the Past? What can I say? It was better than a Wham bar. Even better than Gold Nuggets bubble gum. ‘Go easy on me on the blog,’ he pleaded. This means he may read what I say. I’m saying nothing. First rule of theatre, darlings, always leave them wanting more. Leave you wanting more, I mean. Not him. But actually… oh dear. Perhaps it will another 22 years until we meet again. (Him, not you.) I do hope not. *Blushes*
Must dash, she said, changing the subject. My aubergines are griddled. This is not a euphemism. What flavour will your day be today?
Of Weak-Willed Wibbles February 26, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal , 16 commentsOk. I have a confession. After a midweek catflappery incident, I did what I’d promised I wouldn’t do. I opened a bottle of red. Even before it was poured, I felt disappointed in myself. But there it sat, glowing richly in its glass, catching the light with its beautiful temptingness. I eyed it up warily, as you would a lover after a fight, not wanting to give in but relishing the inevitable. Then I poured it back in the bottle. The wine was French. It still is. You’d guess this if you could see it pouting petulantly on the kitchen worktop.
It’s shrugging off its rejection with a Gallic shrug. ‘So ziss ees it? You believe you will do wizzout me now?’ it asks, like a character from ‘Allo ‘Allo.
My grandfather was French. I can shrug with the best of ‘em. ‘Sorry love. It’s been fun, yeah?’
I wanted to write about the pain, torment and wranglings of avoiding the wine department in the supermarket. The utter hopelessness that has previously been the case when I’ve tried to give up. Stuff like that. But I can’t. It hasn’t happened. I even went to a party last weekend and enjoyed a single glass of champagne without crumbling out of control.
What I have learned though is that I like being a control freak even more than I like a glass of wine.
So. The writing? I’ve been struggling with shorts (the stories, not the clothes). I find them harder than novelling, since each word needs to perform properly. With the novel, well, I sort of think that churning out 500 words before work is good, since they can be polished up at the distant end. So long as I’ve produced something, I’m achieving something positive. Control-freak me has gone off this approach now. It’s a bit like when you walk around the office wearing an earnest expression and holding a piece of paper. It looks good but doesn’t *actually* achieve anything. (Carrying a torch when halfheartedly looking for something is another top tip. Even if it’s not dark, the torch makes the whole process just that little bit searchier somehow?)
I’ll have to carry on with the fiction in my bid for fame, won’t I? Channel 4 will have to stick with their plans to serialise some out-of-work soap actor battling the booze. Having me wander about with a cuppa, shrugging, however Frenchly, that I’m not really that fussed isn’t going to get the ratings.
My inner drama queen’s having a huff. ‘It’s all so utterly dull,’ she wails. She has even stamped her foot.
Right then. Things to do. Like deciding what to wear to The London tomorrow. I’m meeting someone for, ahem, drinks. Someone I went on a date with, er, 22 years ago? Today, I shall be practising holding my tummy in. I expect he’s busy with his comb-over. It’s not a date but, still, it’s never good when people think we’ve gone to seed, is it? Even 2 weeks on the wagon haven’t made me look 18 again. Oh dear. Pass the blue sherry.
Of Reckless Reinvention February 16, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 28 commentsI used to be terribly quiet you know. When I started work I felt perpetually sick, my stomach lurching every time the phone rang, so nervous was I of ever having to speak to anyone. I realised, somewhere along the line, that I was embarrassed about being so shy, so introverted. It wasn’t sweet, it was pathetic. So I pretended. I looked at how the other girls I worked with interacted with people and I copied them. I did it so much it became a habit. It became who I am.
Also, I used to smoke. A lot. I started when I was 15 – I thought it would make me cool. It didn’t. It made me cough. Trying to give up the fags after 40 a day for 5 years was a killer. Especially when combined with endless nights out. The new gregarious me took socialising to Olympic competitive levels. I did give up the ciggies though, not by ‘trying’ but getting up one day and telling anyone who’d listen that I didn’t smoke anymore. Instead of a cajoling ‘oh, go on’ they looked impressed and put their packets away. That was another new me. A me who was a non-smoker.
I don’t know why I’ve suddenly started thinking about all this stuff. It was, after all, twenty-odd years ago. I’ve been thinking about life too much lately. Making decisions. Mostly wrong ones, it seems, since I’m not that keen on them. Today is the first day of the rest of your life. Being a practiced procrastinator, of course, tomorrow always marks the start of the rest of my life. But it’s time now. I decided on Sunday that tomorrow would indeed be the start of the rest of my life. If I could become a braver me, a non-smoking me by pretending and adopting those facades, then I can become a writer by doing the same. 6 weeks. That’s long enough for new habits to become traits. That’s how long I’ve given myself. There are other departments of myself I want to change too. There will be no wine, for a start. Oi! Stop laughing! There won’t. I mean, there isn’t.
Reinventing yourself in 6 weeks? Can it be done? Who knows? I’m doing it though. It appeals to my obsessive nature. And, best of all, it’s vital research into Novel II. I can’t tell you more than that or I’d have to kill you. And that would be a shame, wouldn’t it? Murderous urges weren’t on the list of ingredients for the new flavour of ‘me’.
Of Splendid Serendipity (and Sprawled Out at Square One) January 9, 2010
Posted by Jen in : Bit of a Mid-Life Crisis, Journal, Novel , 23 commentsWell then. Did I mention that Novel 2 will be jigging about in the little-known genre of Philosophical Comedy? The only laugh so far is that, as you will see (eyes right, if you please) the word count is now back to zero. But that’s ok. Until this morning, I had the setting, some dizzy but delectable dialogue and a handful of charming characters. Sadly, the characters were all wandering about with torches strapped to their heads in search of the missing plot. If editing means killing your darlings, I’ve just beheaded all mine and stuck ‘em out in the snow to decompose slowly but gruesomely.
Bizarrely, as I read an early email today from An Unassuming Artist which mentioned Scott’s Antarctic adventures, I clicked on a song in iTunes that I’d never heard before. I’ve no idea where it even came from. The song is now adopted as the theme song for when the novel becomes a film. Here you go… a song about Columbus and following your dreams… it’s pretty much what the novel’s about. I think. Er… sort of. Fictional adventures will be better than the real ones I’m currently craving. Plus I won’t have to go outside ever again. Anyway, the song has inspired me. So there.
In other serendipitous news, one of my New Year resolutions, since you were probably wondering, is to spend less money on food. Ok, we do like to eat well and love our treats and I do have two teens but, between the three of us, we’re munching through one hundred and fifty Great British pounds a week. I mentioned the new economy drive to Son 1.
‘I’m assuming there’ll be less buying of wine,’ he replied, employing the use of sardonic eyebrow positioning. Bloody sod.
The weather, however, has meant that we’ve had to exist for a week now on what we already had in store. There has been no M&S indulgency. Instead, I’ve thanked my lucky stars that I bought a whole lamb from my lovely boss last year which went from farm to my freezer in less than a day. I felt like a proper hardcore country girl that day, I tell you. I won’t confess of course that I *had* to check with him that it would be ‘chopped up’. I had visions of it crammed into the chest freezer like a stuffed toy, its legs poking out and its gentle eyes staring up at me in surprise. Instead of giving the dog the remains of a leg of lamb, I’m positively yearning for Leftover Lamb Biryani. Balti paste has changed my life forever. Who knew?
The barmy weather has also hooked me out of routine. I read in one of my hippy books, several years ago, that it’s important not to do the same things in the same way every day. If you have to take the same dog-walking route, walk it from finish to start instead. It’s amazing how different the world looks the other way round. Seriously, you should try it.
Right then. Back to the novel writing. Buying a camper van for storyline research purposes and inadvertent adventures? No, I’m not even thinking about that. Honest. Not much, anyway. Ahem.
