Good news

The air has taken on a distinctly autumnal feel and I have taken to my bed.  I'm not ill enough to be off work, but certainly not firing on all cylinders.

But beneath the covers and this subdued exterior, I am turning cartwheels.  I've just heard that one of my stories has been shortlisted for the Ilkley prize.  I was quite willing to believe that they'd only had sixteen entries, until an eminent friend told me that the Ilkley Lit Fest is one of the UK's largest.  On hearing this, the internal cartwheels are threatening to turn into external acrobatics. But here I am, home alone, with no one to help me celebrate.  Where are my family when I need them?

Poem in my head

I woke up this morning with a poem in my head. This has pleased me mightily as I haven't had a poetic thought for three or four months now.  Although I'd been mulling over a idea for some blog posts, writing poetry had not crossed my mind so this is a pleasant surprise.

I am not a patient poet.  In fact, I'm not a poet at all.  I cannot apply myself to considerations of rhyme and metre.  Words just come.  I have a good reading voice and to my mind's ear some words just seem right together.  It's lucky I have some honest friends to tell me whether I'm barking up the right poetic tree.

But less of this frivolity,  two work days down and five to go.  Poetry will have to wait.  For now.

On the move again

Imagine.  I spend all day in a stuffy office looking at a computer screen.  As soon as I get home, I turn on my notebook and I'm off again.  Facebook, email, blog, forums.  It has to stop.  I read an article the other day on how to use social networking to your advantage rather than being its slave.  I do struggle with the self-publicity part. Yes I have a blog, but I won't publicise it.  That would be far too big headed.   But I will set myself a target and tell you about it instead.  That's supposed to work.  Apparently.  I tried to join a friend in writing a 1000 words a day.  After a measly 4,500 words of utter drivel I gave up.  But then it worked for her.

So here's my target: run 10k a week and then do a 10k run by the end of October.  I ran today for the first time in six weeks.  It wasn't easy, but it felt good.

 I have a hard week ahead.  It's university clearing so I'll be working seven long days in a row.  I'll be needing some fresh air and exercise.

I'll let you know how I do.

Howards End is on the Landing

I know I shouldn't have done it, but I just couldn't help myself.   My butterfly mind has already engaged me in more than a year's worth of reading projects, but what's one more book amongst friends?  We don't have an independent bookshop in Lancaster, so the literary smorgasbord of  Fred Holdsworth's bookshop in Ambleside was irresistible.  Briefly distracted by a couple of biographies of the Lakeland poets, I ultimately settled on Howards End is on the Landing by Susan Hill.

I've only read a chapter and a half, but I think I'm going to like it.  Based on a year's reading of forgotten books, this is part memoir, part meditation on the books that she's enjoyed and those that she'd never read, but had sat on her bookshelves for many years.  I like Hill's style of writing.  Already I feel like I'm sitting in her Small Dark Den, opening that first book with a sense of sweet anticipation.

I'm home alone this evening (something that rarely happens).  I shall lock the doors, slip into my pyjamas and pour a glass of rosé.  There will be no Sky Sports or talk of Pokemon, just the pleasure of losing myself in another fine book.

Growing up and moving on

Parenting young children isn't easy.  It's physically tiring and feels like a twenty four hour job.  Even when they sleep, you never quite relax.  You always listen, just in case.

But then, as they grow older, the burden of responsibility shifts a little.  My teenage daughter is on holiday with a friend's family for the first time.  Gone are the cosy friendships of primary school,  where your can chat to the mums in the playground.  As they grow up you lose control and you have to just trust (and hope) so much more.  I'm not saying that your children need you less, but perhaps just in a different way.  They may need less of your time, but more ingenuity.  You learn to see them as friends too.

As parenting becomes less labour intensive we parents rediscover ourselves as people.  We start to find time for our mid-life crises, or just to wonder whether we want to do the same thing for the next twenty five years until we can finally retire.  Hence I'm now addicted to the OU and can map out the next five years at least in various courses.  All being well, I'll graduate (again) next year.  This time I'll take my daughter, rather than my parents, to my graduation.  I hope I'm setting a good example.

Butterfly mind

The school holidays bring a different rhythm to our household.  I'm the only one still at work, the only one who knows what day of the week it is.  My OH and kids can drift from day to day, or make plans for sleepovers and trips to Test Matches.  I am a little jealous of their six weeks of liberty, but the break from school runs and football training gives me some head space too.

Right now I'm desperate for new ideas, dashing from one book to the next.  I've just finished Virginia Woolf's A room of one's own and have moved swiftly on to Hardy's Far from the Madding Crowd, a set book for my next OU course.  In between times, I'm reading The Reluctant Fundamentalist and have a book of short stories Everything Ravaged, Everything Burned by Wells Tower to finish for next month's book group.  I did say I'd have a go at the Booker longlist as well.

Too many books and too little time.  My butterfly mind flits from one to another, delighted with my garden full of flowers.

Are you a writer yet?

Results day yesterday.  When I look at the others who got distinctions, I'm in illustrious company.  There are those already working on novels, others who can whip up a story in twenty minutes or whose poetry and prose make you gasp.  Then there are those who've been disappointed with their results but seem to have poetry running through their veins or write engaging, fluent prose.  I can't help but feel a fraud.  True, I do feel a little proud of the stories I've written but these have not come easily.  There's been much head scratching as I've floundered for ideas and the writing hasn't been any easier.  More like coughing up fur balls.

I'm not a writer yet and not sure if I ever will be.  I do have, it seems, a knack for studying.  Give me a text book, an assignment and a deadline and I'm your woman.  It's a simple feedback loop, with clearly defined goals.  If only the rest of life were so straight forward.  Writing is a completely different kettle of fish.  What's good enough this morning, may seem utter drivel by teatime.  One woman's masterpiece is another one's chip wrapper.

I try and remind myself that writing's not supposed to be easy.  They say it takes 10,000 hours to become an expert at something.  I have a long way to go.

Cricket Bajan style

Reggae blasts from a nearby house.  Gangly local youths perch in a tree or on a corrugated iron roof for a better view.  A couple of skinny chickens peck around the pavilion.  My son practises in the nets with the broken back of a plastic chair for stumps.  Trinidadian coaches shout encouragement to their players, 'Bat for forty overs maaaaan!'  Sixes are hit onto neighbouring tin roofs or onto the road which edges the ground on two sides.  Passing cars slow down or stop altogether to watch a few overs before continuing their journey. The sky is pure blue, the heat relentless.  This is cricket bajan style.  This is the ground where Garfield Sobers played as a boy.

 And then, in the semi-final of the Garfield Sobers Competition, the rain falls. We scan the skies nervously for breaks in the cloud.  I scan the coaches' faces too.  We need to bat for 15 overs to achieve a result, but is the weather against us?

A fellow spectator tells us that hurricane Brett has hit the US and may be heading for the Bahamas.

Still the rain falls, forming a sheet of water in front of the pavilion.  The drains are flooded.  Puddles in the outfield creep closer to the wicket.At last the deluge ends, but the pitch has turned into a bog.  The umpires are sceptical, but we are desperate to play.  We work with mops, beach towels and even plastic cups to clear water from the pitch. A local official calls the tournament organiser, 'There's  half of England out there mopping up.'  The match is abandoned and we head back to the hotel, believing we're out of the competition.

Later the same evening we get word that the semi will continue the next day.  Game on and rum punch all round.


Semi-final day two and at lunch it looks like the game is over for our boys.  Then our final batsmen smashed 55 runs off the last five overs, winning the match with the final ball.  I'm not the only one with tears in my eyes.

This is only the third time an English team has made the final of the Garfield Sobers Tournament.  The venue, Kensington Oval, Barbados' test ground.
The boys play bravely, but cannot overcome local school Combermere who win the tournament for a fifth time.