Money

Sometimes, I think I take for granted, many facts that I read about government expenditure in the papers. Like the few million paid out as bonuses to staff within the immigration control offices. Like the millions of our money being poured into Northern Rock to repair the damage done by cavalier managers who once thought they were pretty clever. Now it is the billions to be overspent on the dubious privilege of holding the Olympics in this country. Let's not even drag up the millions spent on a pointless bomb dropping exercise in Iraq and Afghanistan.

Just figures after a while. Lots of zeros after a pound sign. And then I think about ordinary things that really affect our lives. Like our local cottage hospital that was recently closed as being unviable and uneconomic to maintain. It cost something like £750,000 a year to run. The Scottish parliament building ran way over budget and ended up costing £460,000,000. Perfectly good existing buildings were discarded in favour of this modern monstrocity, that now houses puffed up political amateurs in a huge fleet of chauffeur driven cars, who are spending money at an alarming rate.

Look at it like this. That figure would have run our cottage hospital for 533 years. Or give us another four of these wee hospitals and run them all for 106 years. Or provide 440 MRI scanner suites throughout the UK. Or pay the salaries of 20 new cancer consultants for 50 odd years.

All wrong to me. Makes me want to bang my head against a brick wall but that's not a good idea if I hurt it and needed the treatment room. It ain't there anymore.

The New Garage

This is in the way of a progress report. The base for my new retreat is now complete and awaiting a timber framed kit to arrive. It is going to be a wonderful place to be! I have ordered PVC floor tiles in a beautiful blue (70% recycled from surgical instrument and supplies packaging) and an intruder alarm is waiting to be fixed. Steel shelving and a bench should arrive any day. I am way ahead of myself - but engrossed in a winter project that cheers me up during this rather dreary time of year.

Videos

I'm just learning this blog business and am trying to set up to post videos straight from YouTube. If it works it is a short clip I took on my Honda some time ago. Time I did the same on the big Yamaha!

Days Gone By

I don't generally look back in life very often. I've always been interested in what might be around the next corner. I still do. Having said that, it's important to reflect - to see where we are now and to compare with where we were. I recently read M's reflections on what we had as boys and it made me stop and think.
A lot is so different now.

He wrote of the long, hot Summers and the freedom we had as kids. I also recall the long, cold Winters (1947 in particular) when we forgot what the road looked like under the snow. Things were so much slower back then. And brighter. And more fragrant. Everything had a smell - Brett's the grocer shop, all spices and butter and cheese. Dandelions, daffodils, lilac trees, slow flowing rivers, magnifying glass burnt holes in bike pumps all produced wonderful aromas of their own. Lasseter's hardware shop, all wood and metal and polish, Wheale's cycle shop with it's murky interior and smell of rubber and oil. Rabbit hutches, smelly because they needed fresh hay but guarded by big, fierce occupants who dared you to reach in and do the job!

And didn't things taste better then, as well? Carrots and radish pulled up, wiped on your sleeve before eating. Chestnuts. Victoria plums, crab apples scrumped off someone else's tree, locust bean, lemonade powder in a paper bag which left you with a yellow finger! Wall's ice cream. Peas straight out of the pod. A potato, black and hot, straight out of the bonfire!

We were easily pleased. Climbing trees, digging caves and elephant traps, buying bags of nails from Woolie's so we could hammer them into trees or posts to form our initials. Bike rides. Races. There was always a pecking order amongst us. We had fights. Lost some......won most! but we never hurt anyone. Never kicked them. Never drew a knife. We smoked butt ends in home made acorn pipes but didn't even know about pot or drugs. We made ourselves sick - but didn't cause ourselves to turn into anti-social, paranoid thugs.

We couldn't wait to leave school and start work. We held a grudging respect for the police and people older than us. I'm sure life wasn't perfect - or even easy for our parents and families - but we had values. We were guided by them. I wish these values were still held today because I think we might have a safer place in which to live, if they were. We might be prouder of ourselves as a nation. Our families might be closer.

I bought my little Godson an Eagle Annual for Christmas this year. It is old looking and beautifully presented - full of all the safe and adventurous stuff it had in the Fifties. It would be nice if just some of the values it represents, rub off on him.

Art

This picture is by Kate Philp, a local artist, who paints some stunning landscapes and small details such as this one. I have one of her 'Sunset' paintings on my wall and hope to have others as and when I can afford them.

A Long Time........

It is ages since I wrote here. So much has happened. It can be quite staggering...mind numbing, the way life can carry us happily along - and then suddenly turn a corner and deal us a swiping blow. Almost a test, to see how resilient we are. How strong is our belief in whatever faith or deity we aspire to.
Anyway, we do carry on.
E is very strong. We can talk about the future. We can enjoy the present. Can't ask for more.

This wee bit of verse I wrote on 17th March, 2006, whilst in Fuerteventura

MY ANAM CARA

What part,
What tiny piece of her is it?
That I hold so dear
So close?
A tiny part that I possess
And call my own.
So small – and yet
Awesome
In its capacity
For such all embracing love.

And yet
A love that seeks not to deprive those who do…
Those who will always…
Nor those that may yet –
love her.
Not to take away from them.

Much, much more.
To add and strengthen.
To be part of those that love her.
But to love her in my way.
Our way.
A reflective need
Each for the other
Encircling
Just a tiny part of her soul
To hold for always.
My Anam Cara.

Time for another writing exercise - and this one ocurred to me, at the time, as being a nice and natural follow up to 'Greywalls', my last posting.


The Leaving

I should have been mentally prepared for it. I should have seen it coming but when Hannah announced that she was going to finish her studies in Edinburgh and move into a flat with a friend, it shook me. Sort of jolted me out of my complacency, if that’s the word. The news made me stop - take stock of my life - and wonder where everything goes from here.
We moved in to Greywalls some twenty years ago and after a year of hard renovation work and another year settling in, Hannah was born. Life was perfect. Perfect, that is, until that appalling night three years ago, when my wife – Hannah’s mum – was taken away from us. We don’t talk about it much now but I know Hannah had these thoughts in her mind as I saw her onto the train. She leaned out of the window and asked me if I was going to be OK. Me! Here was the love of my life making a break for independence and she was asking me if I’d be all right! Yes, of course I’d be fine!
I kissed her and watched the train pull out of sight. I felt oddly empty and stood there on the platform for a while, long after the train had gone, until I guessed I must have looked pretty stupid and made my way to the car.
Back at Greywalls I sat in the car for a while and leaned my head back on the seat. I felt flat and unmotivated. This was like an ending – or a beginning – I wasn’t sure which but it seemed to have no real
direction. It? Life? The rest of my life?
I walked around the house and my thoughts went back to the first time I ever came to look at Greywalls. I had gone into the garden to sense what my feelings were for the house. Twenty years ago I had sat on this same step. I leaned back and closed my eyes.
Nothing had changed. The sun was still warm on my face. The sounds were the same – the smells now somewhat more infused and cultivated. Twenty years! Happiness had been born here, grown here – and part of it lost here. I felt tears running down my cheeks and let them flow – perhaps it was time they were shed. I had lost part of me here but had also gained so much and some of those tears were happy ones as I thought of Hannah heading off to her new life.
Perhaps this is how new lives start. With inevitability. I was sad for what had passed but happy for what had been built and remained. Hannah had moved on to another stage in her life. I had to do the same.
The tears weren’t ready to stop so I sat there for a while longer, closed my eyes and listened to the song thrush that had established its nest in our hedge.

END

This is another 500 word exercise from my writing course. This is also one of the very few pieces based on something that has actually happened to me. The house is fictitiously called Greywalls but, in fact, was the lovely house I first went to see in 1975 and eventually resurrected and lived in for 10 years. And yes......that 'ghost' did brush by me!



Greywalls

I knew I had to go there alone. Not that I was about to make any unilateral decisions but I’m funny about old houses. Its hard to explain but if they don’t feel right – if I don’t get the right vibes about them – then it’s a thumbs down!
When Greywalls came onto the market we both got excited. Well, it was two hundred and sixty years old, three stories, stood all on its own and had real and genuine character. It also hadn’t been lived in for two years and this made me a little wary. So I made an appointment to have an initial look and drove out there one afternoon.
I have to say that it was an impressive building - a typical seventeenth century Scottish farmhouse – solid, plain and functional. I drove up between huge Yew trees and parked in front of the house, got out and stood for a while. Nine windows looked down on me – probably wondering who I was and what I wanted! Three pigeons fluttered in panic out of a glassless second floor window. Not a good sign!
Before going inside, I walked around the back and was confronted by an overgrown wilderness, a pillared porch and a breathtaking view over farmland that stretched to the distant Cheviot Hills. I sat on the porch step, leaned back in the warm sunshine and closed my eyes. There were country sounds, muted and peaceful, complemented by subtle country smells – dry grassy scents and a warm, woody fragrance. I felt comfortable here. Somehow, I felt the garden seemed to belong to the house and they were both happy for me to be sitting here. Well, I told you it was hard to explain!
Into the house and through to the terra cotta tiled hallway. These were big rooms – comfortable and needing to be lived in – but at that moment, cold and somehow reserved. I had the strangest sensation that they – this whole house – was watching and waiting to approve of me.
Or not!
This rather weird sensation persisted as I made my way up the wide and curving staircase. It was darker and cooler here. Reaching the first landing I began to ascend the next flight when something happened that made my neck hairs tingle. Something came past. Don’t ask me what. It came from above and brushed by like a cold draught. Nothing to be seen – just a scary awareness - and then it was gone.
Do you know, after that the whole house felt warmer and more inviting? Really strange.
As I made my way out, I stood and looked back. I felt good about the house. Greywalls. Those nine windows were virtually smiling down at me now, so I smiled back – and just before getting into the car, I stuck both thumbs in the air.
I’m sure one of the windows winked!

END

More jottings

Hello again! I have dragged myself away from the new bike for a while to post another wee 300 word exercise that I had to do within my course. Why do I often write about old folks? Well... apart from being one myself, that is - I enjoy old people. They have so much to tell if you let them. I hope folk will listen to me one day. When I'm really old!

Home From Home

Robert turned from the window. He loved that view. Already, he had plans for the garden. He looked back at his mother.
“ I went to see the people at Sunnyside again yesterday, Mother,” he said casually.
Constance pulled the woollen shawl closer round her shoulders and sighed inwardly. He was going to raise the subject of that wretched nursing home again!
“Sunnyside, dear? Who’s at Sunnyside?”
Robert sighed and sat in the armchair opposite her.
“Sunnyside Court, Mother. The retirement home I took you to see.”
“The nursing home!” Constance glared at Robert, folded her arms firmly, then looked away again.
“Mother it’s a retirement home. You can’t stop here forever. Not on your own.”
“I don’t need a nursing home – not as much as you want this house!”
Robert leaned forward and pressed his fingers to his forehead.
“Mother – we’ve been over all this before. It makes so much sense to sell the house and use the money to give you all the care and comfort Sunnyside can provide.”
Constance knew, from last time they had talked, that arguing had got her nowhere. She cast a glance at Robert who was still holding his head and staring unhappily at the floor.
“I really try – not to be any trouble to anyone,” she said sadly, “yet you all seem to want to shut me away and sell my home. I just don’t understand. I get so confused and upset.”
Quickly, Robert came and sat on the arm of her chair and put an arm around her.
“Of course we don’t want to shut you away. Look, we’ll talk about it another time. Alright?”
Constance allowed herself a little smile.
“Yes, dear. Another time.”

END

Motor Cycles

Well, after all that business with Triumphs and Harley Davidsons I suddenly fell under the spell of a Yamaha! But what a bike! An MT-01. Magnificent road prescence. Wonderful and legal sound. A 1650cc Vee twin engine that pulls like a train! I get it in a week. Happines is sometimes bike shaped! PS. I have it now! That's it sitting outside the cottage. Happiness is also Vee shaped!

More Writing

Back to Fuerteventura, when my life was topsy-turvy - with so much change, so many questions. All too much at one time. . . .

MY FALL

Today I fell.
Well – stumbled rather than fell.
A halt
To this headlong rush of a journey.
So new. So unfamiliar.
So exciting!
So tiring.

But it had to happen.
My watchful angel knew it would.
And she was right.
Again.
Too fast a pace, and
I shuddered to a halt.
“Time,” whispered my angel.
“Time to be still.”

And her fingers traced
my eyelids
Like soft words.
Like the Running Threads
And she smiled again.
“Allow it,”
“Listen to it.”

And so
Enfolded in the arms of my loved ones,
I slept.
And they waited with me
For me
And my angel cradled me
And hushed me
With words that made no real sense
But were soothing
And full of love.
And I slept.

Fuerteventura, March 2006

Two Years On - 29th June 2007

I am going to mark this day with two more poems - then move on to where M would wish me to be.

Wee Mags

I held your hand, you slipped away.
My heart had so much left to say.
Yet nothing new, nothing more,
Nothing we had not said before.

Yet why did we not talk of death,
In all those days before you left?
We daren’t accept, nor want to know,
It wasn’t in your plans, to go.

So still I hold your hand, my love,
There’s so much left to say.
Keep my hand and smile on me,
We’ll talk another day.

August 2005

My M.

Do you remember still?
Remember those days?
Remember those days when we walked by the river,
Where we talked and we planned, as we sat in the sun?
Watching our dreams
Float sweet on the water
Drifting, so silver, so bright on the river.
And oh….
How surely it flowed.
To its end.
Like our hopes and our fears,
Like our dreams – now my tears,
I live to survive,
No more hopes,
No more dreams.
Yet the river flows on, like a silver stream.
Let me stay.
Let me cry.
‘Till I find you again,
Let me dream.


July 2005

I wasn't going to wtrite about this - but, impulsively, have decided to. I had to get E into hospital on Saturday as she was experiencing severe tummy pains; and had been for a couple of days. From A&E she was admitted, for further checks. On a trolley, she was wheeled up to the medical wards and as we approached the wards (5,6,7 to the left, 8,9,10 to the right) she closed her eyes, went very pale and whispered "Please turn left. Please turn left." We were going right to the wards that Mags had been in - and where she had been to the day, 2 years ago.
We did go left. Thankfully.
How strange that we should be forced by fate to go into that hospital and into those wards, on the very day (23rd June) that I was told that Mags was not going to pull through this time. She stayed there for 6 more days.
Happily. E is out again, on a very strict no-fat diet, with scans and possible op. to come.
Maybe a good place to post a couple more bits of verse, written soon after that dark time.

FATE

I’ve thought about dying.
Since our Mags.
Thought about death
Not in a frightening way.
And love
About their pain and beauty
And about fate.
For fate defines our love
Just as it defines our death
And perhaps, our way of going.

Mags left, so peacefully
And I believe
Fate allowed her
To hold the hands
Of those she loved the most in this whole world.

She was content
Fulfilled within her departing world.
Fate was good to her.
In that sense.
I’ve thought a lot about dying - since then.

And I hope fate is good to me.
Because there is one
Who loves me enough
Loves me in that quiet, loyal and undemanding way
To quietly sit
And stay
And listen
And silently cry with me
For what we both will lose.
She’ll be there,
If fate is kind.

My Love.

Are you happy, my love?
In that place where you are?
Are you smiling in peace?
Are you touching your star?
Are you feeling at last, that life can be good,
The way that we hoped, that one day it would?

No more worry or doubt
What’s this pain all about?
No more scans,
No more tests,
No more chemo
Or rests,
To recover your strength so you’re ready again,
For the checks.
For the drugs.
For the hair.
For the pain.

Are you happy, my love, where you are?


August 2005

Another picture of the Triumph mentioned below. That's cool!

Motorcycles today. I am cosidering changing my lovely Honda CBF1000 for something a little less demanding....something more befitting my age and ambitions! A bike that will swing bends happily and safely, burble pleasantly along sun dappled country lanes, be fast enough to get safely past and away from badly driven cars - and yet won't keep tempting me to emulate my idol Rossi and push my limits beyond where they can reasonably expect to be!

I've looked at Harley Davidsons. The Sportster 1200 is nice...but..........well, I haven't any tattoos and my hair isn't long enough for a ponytail!

No. I like the new 'Classic' Triumphs - and particularly the Bonneville T100. Maybe that is what I shall end up with?

Whilst we are on the subject of bikes, here's a picture of my ES2 Norton. 1953 and still beautiful! It has to go, however. I am running out of space and ability to look after them all. She needs more love and attention than I am able to give her. Anyone want her? I am open to negotiation! Have a look at the engine too!

The sun shone a bit today, which was lovely after so much dullness and dampness. E took this old blind chap into Berwick for a trip round the shops! Nice! But very tiring. This eye of mine makes me very dizzy because it doesn't behave like the other. It'll get better in time.
Bit more writing to post today. This was an exercise for my course and length was limited to 500 words. The idea came when I was sitting in a gereatric ward where M was temporarily placed once, due to a bed shortage! Heaven save me from a fate such as this!

George

It’s the same every morning. Every time I wake up and look around the ward, I feel depressed. There’s only six beds in here and it’s a nice enough room – bright and light - but a bit niffy if you know what I mean. Well, it’s the old chap across from me. Eighty-one he is. Every night he pees the bed and sometimes more than that – well it’s bound to niff a bit, isn’t it? And there’s him in the other corner. Jimmy. Breaks wind all night and keeps shouting out and moaning on about someone called Mary. Drives me potty!
It wouldn’t be so bad if they paid a bit more attention to us – like, if the nurses poked their head in a bit more often. Geriatrics, we’re called. I saw it on the door as I was brought in ten days ago. Geriatrics? Sounds like a disease. Even feels like a disease sometimes, the way we get ignored. I mean, I know they’re busy but if they’d just clean old what’s-his-name up a bit more often, he wouldn’t smell so much, would he?
“Morning George. How are you today?”
It’s that chirpy little nurse with the curly hair and bouncy chest. Always asking how I am and then not listening when I tell her. Smiles as bright as a sparrow but never looks at you.
Never looks you in the eye. And it’s the way they talk to you - like kids – George this and George that. I mean, years ago I’d have been Mr. Wilson to her, nurse or no nurse.
“Didn’t sleep last night.” I says. “Chest really hurt and couldn’t breathe at all well.”
“Oh dear George. We’ll have to see what we can do for that.”
Squeak, squeak - shoes across the lino, chest bouncing like always, as she goes across to old Jimmy.
It’s like playing a record. Wind it up. Needle on.
“How are you Jimmy? Oh dear, we’re all wet again. You’re a bad lad aren’t you? I’ll have to come back and sort you out. Soon as I can. OK?”
And she’s gone again.
The worst bit is, you can lie here and listen to all the coming and going up the corridor – people speaking and laughing and having fun – but it doesn’t touch us in here.
Here, it’s just lonely. There isn’t anyone left to come and visit me. Or anyone that wants to bother. Sometimes, in the night, it’s so damn lonely it’s like – it’s like a noise – a great deafening noise! I have to put my hands over my ears to try and shut it out. I get to thinking that there has to be some way over this - something better.
Like, beyond this?
I know I’m a man and all that - and it sounds stupid – but some nights, in the dark, I just lie there and cry my eyes out.
And still no one comes……

I came across this picture a long time ago and it evoked such wonderful memories of Summers gone by - Summers that were full of warmth and peace and fun.

I just want to sit beneath that tree with a good book for an hour or two...........

Time for a bit more writing from last year.

DOVES

Not all doves crap.
Here I was,
Lying in the sun, and two doves fluttered in,
On whistling wings
Busily intent on procreation - by the look of it.
They jostled each other on the rim of a sunshade
But
She didn’t fancy it and they flew away.

And then it ocurred to me.
There are dozens of them.
Cooing in the morning -and the evening
Yet not a drop of crap.
Not anywhere.

Canarian doves.
Fuerteventurian doves.
Educated.
Considerate.
They must crap somewhere
But
Not around here, they don’t.


At the Poolside. Fuerteventura. 2006

Back Again.

I'm back to "normality" again, after an enforced few days absence caused by a detached retina that needed some pretty speedy attention! How vulnerable we are to all these faults and glitches that occur in our bodies. One thing that stays with me after this latest episode is how well our much maligned NHS copes with and comforts us, when these vulnerabilities are exposed. I was processed through the system with efficiency, care and understanding by people who were kind and concerned about my sight. That was very reassuring. I now have a gas bubble in my right eye that - when I hold my head in a certain position - floats up and preses the retina into place, where it should be! I have to do this often,each day. It will be eventually replaced, naturally, by fluid and become a normal eye again! At the moment it is like looking through a bowl full of water! Moral of all this? Don't take eyes for granted. Look after them.

....And one more today....

FRIENDS


The world is a vast place,
And within it
Are my true friends.
Those that love me
For all my faults and failings
Concentrated
In one, small place.
A thousand miles away.
And they will always be there.
So treasure them
Take care of them
Lest they slip away and I lose them
Forever.



Fuerteventura. 14th March 2006
On the cliffs above Playa de Esquinzo, overlooking the ocean.

Thoughts

When I lost M on 29th June, 2005, I struggled with many things to do with my life. It was a dark place and a long way down. after some time, a lovely woman doctor said to me that it would be good to go away and rediscover qualities in myself that might have been suppressed within such a deep relationship as marriage. She was right. I went to Fuerteventura in March 2006 a nervous and apprehensive man - unsure who I was, where I was going or whether I would want to return to what had been our home.
It worked out.
I wrote lots while I was away which helped. I am determined this site should not become a 'shrine' to M's memory in any way. But it would be nice to post some of the wee pieces I wrote in Fuerteventura - the serious and the silly - because they were all part of my healing.
So they may crop up every so often!
Like this one....

CONCERTO


I have just listened to a violin concerto.
It was played with such a glacial finesse
With passages
Of glittering beauty
Such vibrant passion
And such shimmering sadness
It cut holes in my heart.
It closed my eyes
And reminded me
Of all things beautiful and passionate
That have ever been in my life.
And, perhaps
Have yet to come.
Once more.


Fuerteventura March 2006

Back from Holidays

Well, we are just back from a beautiful place in Fuerteventura, where the sun shone all day and the temperature was 75 to 80deg but tempered with a breeze that came off the sea and filled us with vitality and nice feelings. It is a wonderful island. Strange how relaxing it can be when people are never in a hurry, never seem to get angry, are so tolerant of eachother and those around them, who smile for no obvious reason and who are so patiently forgiving for those not used to driving on their roads. Why can't we be more like that?

We celebrated our birthdays while we were away. E bought me a present of something I must have mentioned ages ago; and forgotten. A Zippo! When we were stumbling through our youthful years, a cigarette lighter was a real step up toward the manhood stakes. But a Zippo!! You had arrived! The feel! The action! The smell! Burnt flint and warm petrol. I don't smoke any more but this Zippo feels good in my pocket. There was a way you could flick it down onto your thigh to open it and up again to strike it. Cool! I'm working on it!

Peter Kuhfeld, again.

When I was doing my writing course, we were often asked to do execises in using words effectively. Be concise and precise. Show - don't tell! This example had to be under 300 words, be an argument; and be written in dialogue only. I called it......

The Apple Tree.

Mrs Pennington has an apple tree growing close to her neighbour’s fence. One day she spots him picking the apples from the overhanging branches …

“Mr. Robb, what are you doing?” she said, approaching the fence at surprising speed for her age. Mr. Robb placed another choice apple in his basket and looked up.
“’Allo, Mrs. P.”
“What are you doing, picking my apples?”
“I’m not. These are my apples.”
“How can they possibly be yours? This is my tree and it very clearly stands in my garden.”
“Ah – but this bit of tree is in my garden. It over’angs, see?”
“What possible difference does that make?”
“It makes all the difference. It makes ‘em my apples.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
“That’s the law.” Mr. Robb plucked another apple and placed it in his basket. “See, the law says that this ‘ere tree might well be in your garden but if it comes over my side, then legally like, whatever over’angs this fence, is mine.”
“Give them to me this instant!”
“No.”
“I insist!
“You can insist all you like, my dear.”
“How dare you!” Mrs. Pennington turned pink with anger.
“How dare I what?”
“How dare you speak to me in those terms! I am not your ‘dear’ – and those are my apples!”
“No, these are my apples. In fact, even the branches are mine. I could saw ‘em off if was so inclined.”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“I certainly would! But that’d be a terrible waste of good apples!”
“I shall call the police.”
“Go on then. They’re probably partial to a nice Cox’s!”

End

My Book

Having started this Blog about the trials and hardships of writing, I am going to continue - but continue in a more positive and optimistic vein!

My book!

I started my little novel way back in the mid eighties and filled several A4 notebooks in no time at all. This was before I had a computer. I still think writing freehand gives energy and inspiration to writing that doesn't seem to flow as well on a keyboard.

Anyway. The next few years were taken up with other concerns - not least my Mags' health. It wasn't until we had got onto an even keel with what was happening to us that I felt happy about picking up my book again. Then it flowed. I finished it, typed it out, revised it again and again - and my interest waned again. I am hopeless at doing anything with the finished product. Love creating - but useless at being commercial.

I sent the MS to America - to a lovely, professional and inspiring lady, Shellie Hurrle, http://www.flairforwords.com or email shelliehurrle@comcast.net who proof read and made invaluable suggestions. She loved the book and made me want to do something with it. Lots of complimentary comments followed from conventional book publishing editors but unless your name is known, there's almost no chance of getting published. Shellie said, at one time, to try eBook publishing. I did - and found this relatively new concept almost as hard to infiltrate. However, I found one company willing to read what I had and they decided to put it on their site! Cut a long story short. That's where it is now! http://www.dpdotcom.com
It's called 'The Players' and I am very proud of it! Not only that, it can be ordered as a printed paperback (thanks to the modern technology of 'print on demand'. Yes, I've ordered 3 copies for myself too!
Maybe that's as far as my book goes? It might be spotted by an editor one day. And it might not. But I have finished an 80,000 word book - and you know what? That's very satisfying!

Writing!

Just loved this cartoon! It was cut out of a paper when I started writing seriously for the ....nth time! Do writers almost enjoy the pains and frustrations of their chosen trade or hobby? What a business it is. The creative bit is so stimulating and exciting - the rest is a hard slog!

So............Well, here we go. This is like the artist's nightmare of a pure white canvas - or the writers pristine blank page! Where do I start? This little painting is as good a place to kick off as any. It's by a wonderful modern impressionist I discovered quite by accident during a web browsing session - Peter Kuhfeld. No doubt a few more examples will crop up later on. Right now, the sun has gone down and the tall elms in the field outside are glowing greenish gold against an inky blue sky. Time to sit back, feet up...and plan what goes on here next..............