I need to rant and scream, I need to get it out of my system, 'amazing' and journey' are two perfectly good words, the former, in my opinion should be reserved to describe an experience truly remarkable and special. But of course as I write these words I realise that to the people who use this word several times in one sentence are of course, in their opinion, describing something very special to them.
For me, and probably only me, the word 'amazing' has to preceed 'grace'. I've sung the hymn since a little girl and it is one of the most popular requested. John Newton, who wrote the hymn 400 years ago, had a tremendous spiritual experience and transformation through, what he considered, was the 'amazing grace' of God. How can that be compared to having the opportunity to sing on tele, bungee jumping or driving a sports car, to name but a few ...
It is now overused because people are unable to think of another word that can describe how they are feeling after experiencing all of the above, so perhaps I should retract my thoughts and say that if that is what they are truly feeling then it is their right to use the word, it's a free country. I just feel sad about it.
So what about 'journey'? We are all on one but it never used to be referred to in this way. It was life. Yet now on all the reality programmes, which incidentally I don't watch, but see enough excerpts of people describing their momentous television experience as an 'amazing journey'! Why copy each other? Why not, 'I've had a fabulous time. A memorable day. A fantastic experience.' ??
I think I shall give up, I'm just filling space and not making any sense; or am I? Does anyone else agree? I journey to work every day. In a couple of weeks I will be going on a journey - to the airport - to Cyprus - and even a return jouney home. Is this not more appropriate usage?
I shouldn't have started this, but I feel better for ranting a little at the laziness and abuse of certain words. When they are overused they lose their specialness; how's that for something different!
PP
Monday 30 August 2010
Friday 27 August 2010
Last account of the first Penzance Literary Festival: Saturday, Day 4 of 5.
'Authors in conversation - Emily Barr and Sarah Duncan: ‘Writing Women’s Commercial Fiction’ in the Marquee at Trereife Park, just outside Penzance.
My final treat and husband came too, interested and curious about the mad world of writing I was so determined to be a part of.
Emily, http://www.emilybarr.com/biography/ and Sarah, who is a prolific blogger, http://sarahduncansblog.blogspot.com/ , apart from a full writing careers, are both mothers too, and they live in Cornwall. Each explained how they came to be sitting before us, talking about the many books they had written, and how, while writing for a demanding commercial market, they fitted everything in around husbands, partners and children.
They made us laugh loudly at their tales, particularly Sarah, whose former acting career experience (she was an early girlfriend of Rodney in Only Fools and Horses), allowed her to entertain as she spoke with such funny phrases and voices. It was a very enjoyable time.
I was personally encouraged and inspired to get back to my laptop and start creating. So here I am, sharing with you my first Literary Festival experiences instead of getting down to writing my book!
I hope you've enjoyed my snippets this week; what shall we talk about next week? Mmm ...
Have a happy Bank Holiday weekend
PP
My final treat and husband came too, interested and curious about the mad world of writing I was so determined to be a part of.
Emily, http://www.emilybarr.com/biography/ and Sarah, who is a prolific blogger, http://sarahduncansblog.blogspot.com/ , apart from a full writing careers, are both mothers too, and they live in Cornwall. Each explained how they came to be sitting before us, talking about the many books they had written, and how, while writing for a demanding commercial market, they fitted everything in around husbands, partners and children.
They made us laugh loudly at their tales, particularly Sarah, whose former acting career experience (she was an early girlfriend of Rodney in Only Fools and Horses), allowed her to entertain as she spoke with such funny phrases and voices. It was a very enjoyable time.
I was personally encouraged and inspired to get back to my laptop and start creating. So here I am, sharing with you my first Literary Festival experiences instead of getting down to writing my book!
I hope you've enjoyed my snippets this week; what shall we talk about next week? Mmm ...
Have a happy Bank Holiday weekend
PP
Thursday 26 August 2010
Stranger than Fiction: Writing Historical & Exotic Novels
Day 3 concludes for me at the first ever Penzance Literary Festival:
As Patrick Gale sat down, everyone started to leave. I made a frantic dash to hear the next speaker at the Exchange Gallery. When I arrived, just in time, I was told that the talk was fully-booked, but my expression of disbelief melted the doorman and he offered to squeeze me in; he’d seen me earlier that day at the Morrab Library looking emotional as I gazed around the wonderful building of books. He obviously didn’t want to have to contend with a grown woman crying at the door.
Jane Johnson, aka Jude Fisher, aka Gabriel King, is Cornish but now divides her time between living in Mousehole, Cornwall and a village in the Anti-Atlas Mountains, Morocco, since meeting and marrying her own ‘Berber pirate’. In addition to her writing career, Jane still works, remotely, as the Fiction Publishing Director for Harper Collins. http://www.janejohnsonbooks.com/about-2-2/
She gave a captivating account of how her life and priorities had changed after being involved in a near-fatal climbing incident. I shall certainly be buying her books, having heard her speak I am curious now to hear her 'narrative voice’. Her novels are packed with exciting historical details, most of which come from her own research while living in Morocco, and through her husband and his family.
Jane had entitled her talk, ‘Stranger than Fiction: ...’ because she said that in her experiences alone, she was amazed at how the course of her life had indeed been ‘stranger than fiction’. The audience was made up mostly of women who all appeared to quietly swoon, me included, as she passed around photographs of her handsome husband, dressed in both normal clothes and desert dress, complete with camel; what more can I say ...
The book which particularly interests me, is The Tenth Gift because it is based on a true story from 1625 Cornwall, when Barbary pirates sailed into a quiet Cornish bay and stormed a church. They kidnapped sixty men, women and children and took them to northern Morocco where they were sold in the slave markets of the Souq el Ghezel – ‘stranger than fiction’.
Jane finished answering questions just after 5, exhausted but buzzing, me that is, I decided I’d had enough pampering for one day.
My final experience at the Festival was the day after, on Saturday at Trereife House, Newlyn (just outside Penzance), I enjoyed it very much and would love to tell you all about it tomorrow night.
I have to say that the Festival contained so much more than I'm sharing with you. I had to cherry-pick for me as I had limited time, but there were many workshops, poetry and prose, for adults and children. A 'Big Read': One-off reading group on Patricl Gale's Notes from an Exhibition. 'Writing in Cornish'. 'Write On' - short story competition for schools. Many different authors 'in conversation', and the list goes on; make a note in your diary, I'm sure it will be organised again for next year.
See you tomorrow, PP.
As Patrick Gale sat down, everyone started to leave. I made a frantic dash to hear the next speaker at the Exchange Gallery. When I arrived, just in time, I was told that the talk was fully-booked, but my expression of disbelief melted the doorman and he offered to squeeze me in; he’d seen me earlier that day at the Morrab Library looking emotional as I gazed around the wonderful building of books. He obviously didn’t want to have to contend with a grown woman crying at the door.
Jane Johnson, aka Jude Fisher, aka Gabriel King, is Cornish but now divides her time between living in Mousehole, Cornwall and a village in the Anti-Atlas Mountains, Morocco, since meeting and marrying her own ‘Berber pirate’. In addition to her writing career, Jane still works, remotely, as the Fiction Publishing Director for Harper Collins. http://www.janejohnsonbooks.com/about-2-2/
She gave a captivating account of how her life and priorities had changed after being involved in a near-fatal climbing incident. I shall certainly be buying her books, having heard her speak I am curious now to hear her 'narrative voice’. Her novels are packed with exciting historical details, most of which come from her own research while living in Morocco, and through her husband and his family.
Jane had entitled her talk, ‘Stranger than Fiction: ...’ because she said that in her experiences alone, she was amazed at how the course of her life had indeed been ‘stranger than fiction’. The audience was made up mostly of women who all appeared to quietly swoon, me included, as she passed around photographs of her handsome husband, dressed in both normal clothes and desert dress, complete with camel; what more can I say ...
The book which particularly interests me, is The Tenth Gift because it is based on a true story from 1625 Cornwall, when Barbary pirates sailed into a quiet Cornish bay and stormed a church. They kidnapped sixty men, women and children and took them to northern Morocco where they were sold in the slave markets of the Souq el Ghezel – ‘stranger than fiction’.
Jane finished answering questions just after 5, exhausted but buzzing, me that is, I decided I’d had enough pampering for one day.
My final experience at the Festival was the day after, on Saturday at Trereife House, Newlyn (just outside Penzance), I enjoyed it very much and would love to tell you all about it tomorrow night.
I have to say that the Festival contained so much more than I'm sharing with you. I had to cherry-pick for me as I had limited time, but there were many workshops, poetry and prose, for adults and children. A 'Big Read': One-off reading group on Patricl Gale's Notes from an Exhibition. 'Writing in Cornish'. 'Write On' - short story competition for schools. Many different authors 'in conversation', and the list goes on; make a note in your diary, I'm sure it will be organised again for next year.
See you tomorrow, PP.
Wednesday 25 August 2010
... and there's more - Penzance Lit.Fest. continued.
A gong announced lunch was ready. We made our way down to the basement to a room with equally mismatched furniture but still attained a certain chic like some of the outfits. I took a seat at the end of a long table where five friends were having a lively discussion and enjoying the wine. They made me very welcome, we exchanged first names and of course the inevitable questions of, ‘are you on your own?’, ‘why have you come?’ and so on.
The food was delicious despite the chillies in the soup and the bones in the fish. My wine glass was replenished by the generous people around me. We chatted and waited, and waited and chatted, checked our watches and sent pleading looks across the room to Mr Gale. We were all going on to hear the next speaker at the Exchange Gallery at 4pm and it was already 3pm, with speeches and questions, answers and apple crumble still to go.
Eventually we ate our desserts while PG talked about how ‘Notes from an Exhibition’ was born. How the Richard & Judy book machine selected him and how he is sure, and he keeps telling his publisher, that it was just one of those times when someone sprinkled fairy dust and everything turned out right. He told us how Stephen Fry had bought the rights to make a film of the book and how Emma Thompson wanted to play the part of Rachel. He promised that if it did ever make the big screen he would try his best to have filming centred in and around Penzance; he is very passionate about the Penzance area.
If you can stand it, Day 3 concludes tomorrow night.
Best wishes,
PP
PS: Don't worry, I was unable to make days 2 and 5!
The food was delicious despite the chillies in the soup and the bones in the fish. My wine glass was replenished by the generous people around me. We chatted and waited, and waited and chatted, checked our watches and sent pleading looks across the room to Mr Gale. We were all going on to hear the next speaker at the Exchange Gallery at 4pm and it was already 3pm, with speeches and questions, answers and apple crumble still to go.
Eventually we ate our desserts while PG talked about how ‘Notes from an Exhibition’ was born. How the Richard & Judy book machine selected him and how he is sure, and he keeps telling his publisher, that it was just one of those times when someone sprinkled fairy dust and everything turned out right. He told us how Stephen Fry had bought the rights to make a film of the book and how Emma Thompson wanted to play the part of Rachel. He promised that if it did ever make the big screen he would try his best to have filming centred in and around Penzance; he is very passionate about the Penzance area.
If you can stand it, Day 3 concludes tomorrow night.
Best wishes,
PP
PS: Don't worry, I was unable to make days 2 and 5!
Tuesday 24 August 2010
It is still Day 3 of the very first Penzance Literary Festival
Carrying on my take on events at the above festival. If you remember, I was hanging around in the bar of the Penzance Arts Club waiting for the lunch I had just ordered, along with another 50 people and of course, the one and only Patrick Gale.
Looking around the room, which had now been opened up to incorporate the bar area, the noise coming from the fifty or so people was incredible. Everyone appeared very happy and relaxed. I spotted Patrick (apologies for informality but as I have seven of his books I think I’m entitled!) surrounded by several women each trying to entertain him with her wit.
I was relaxing too and amused myself by critiquing the outfits being worn by both the men and women. Many were quite flamboyant, colourful flouncy pieces nudged the elbows of the simple chic, and current fashion stood alongside the resurrected vintage. From blue jeans to blue toe nails to silk jackets, everything went together. Chunky jewellery draped many a neck and wrist, wild hairstyles and scarves wrapped various parts of the body, and a few sets of red braces held up crumpled linen trousers; the latter being men.
I felt quite dowdy in my plain navy top and trousers with navy/white scarf completing the naval effect. I wanted to shout, ‘look at my shoes, they’re cherry pink! How many people are wearing cherry pink leather shoes today??’ I had bought them in a defiant mood on a certain birthday to ward off signs of ‘getting on’. But I didn’t shout and no one noticed.
Follow me tomorrow as lunch is served and Patrick speaks as we eat our crumble.
PP
Looking around the room, which had now been opened up to incorporate the bar area, the noise coming from the fifty or so people was incredible. Everyone appeared very happy and relaxed. I spotted Patrick (apologies for informality but as I have seven of his books I think I’m entitled!) surrounded by several women each trying to entertain him with her wit.
I was relaxing too and amused myself by critiquing the outfits being worn by both the men and women. Many were quite flamboyant, colourful flouncy pieces nudged the elbows of the simple chic, and current fashion stood alongside the resurrected vintage. From blue jeans to blue toe nails to silk jackets, everything went together. Chunky jewellery draped many a neck and wrist, wild hairstyles and scarves wrapped various parts of the body, and a few sets of red braces held up crumpled linen trousers; the latter being men.
I felt quite dowdy in my plain navy top and trousers with navy/white scarf completing the naval effect. I wanted to shout, ‘look at my shoes, they’re cherry pink! How many people are wearing cherry pink leather shoes today??’ I had bought them in a defiant mood on a certain birthday to ward off signs of ‘getting on’. But I didn’t shout and no one noticed.
Follow me tomorrow as lunch is served and Patrick speaks as we eat our crumble.
PP
Monday 23 August 2010
Day 3 of the very first Penzance Literary Festival.
Hello again,
After the nerves and experience of the poetry evening I opted for a less stressful day on Friday with the emphasis on spoiling myself. I was going to be pampered, not with hot towels, mudpacks or soggy seaweed, but with all things bookish. Heaven.
I took the day off work, dressed up and went into Penzance for a 10am tour of Morrab Library. Founded in 1818, it is one of only 19 independent libraries in the UK and is in a large Victorian mansion standing within Morrab Gardens.
Not having lived in the area long, I wasn’t aware of this particular library, I had been using the local council-run one so I took the opportunity to have a guided tour by a member and volunteer who knew the history well. Myself and six others went from room to room where books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. I relaxed in the peace and quiet, sunshine poured into each room through the huge windows and I had to resist the need to sit at one of the antique tables and empty my soul onto paper.
The ambience transported me back to the library at school and to Mr Ewing the Librarian. I thought he had the best job in all the world and wanted to be a Librarian too, but such roles were considered too lofty for a young girl from a small country village where priority was for planting, tending and harvesting the crops; and if you was female, making the snap – copious amounts of tea, sandwiches and cake.
Now, all these years later I desire not to look after the books but strive to write one. Marvelling at the thousands of books in that special place has inspired me to aim to have my book on the Victorian shelves of Morrab; I’m sure they could find space for just one more.
Reluctantly I left Morrab Library and the friendly members, particularly Annabelle Read, the only employed Librarian, all other jobs and duties are performed by member volunteers; I think it’s time I took out a subscription.
I walked quickly across town in the summer rain to the Arts Club where there was to be a talk by author Lilian Harry: ‘Doing your Homework: Research for Writing.’ The talk was being held in the same room as the poetry evening, being in the small space again, packed with an assortment of chairs and sofas, brought back the goose-bumps. Lilian’s books are mostly about the years before and after the second world war so she is certainly experienced in researching.
The amount of research and the lengths she went to was very interesting and demonstrated how one thing can lead to another. How a book plan can change and evolve as more details comes to light. The ladies in the audience and myself hung on her every word and many questions were asked at the end. I liked her ordinariness and down to earth attitude, and while it has taken many years for her to become a successful writer, she encouraged us with wise words and many interesting anecdotes. Her talk was occasionally punctuated by the Arts Club cat who decided to try everyone’s laps for comfort.
By now it was 12.30 and time to switch to lunch mode. Tea and coffee cups were taken away and glasses of chilled white wine replaced them. I had never been to a literary lunch before, it sounded rather grand and the only reason I was braving it on my own was because the guest of honour and speaker was the author Patrick Gale. I have read several of his books, including the most popular of the moment, the best seller, ‘Notes from an Exhibition’, about which he was going to take questions after lunch.
I tried to look nonchalant reading through Lilian’s handout notes while sipping the chilled wine and wishing I’d had lemonade as it had been quite some time since I’d had my porridge and I was feeling slightly squiffy (not a word of mine usually but it seemed appropriate for the company I was currently in.) A stressed waitress came to take my order, to be safe I chose the soup and the lemon sole though later I would regret my choices as the soup was laced with chillis and the sole with bones.
to be continued ... see you tomorrow.
PP
After the nerves and experience of the poetry evening I opted for a less stressful day on Friday with the emphasis on spoiling myself. I was going to be pampered, not with hot towels, mudpacks or soggy seaweed, but with all things bookish. Heaven.
I took the day off work, dressed up and went into Penzance for a 10am tour of Morrab Library. Founded in 1818, it is one of only 19 independent libraries in the UK and is in a large Victorian mansion standing within Morrab Gardens.
Not having lived in the area long, I wasn’t aware of this particular library, I had been using the local council-run one so I took the opportunity to have a guided tour by a member and volunteer who knew the history well. Myself and six others went from room to room where books lined the walls from floor to ceiling. I relaxed in the peace and quiet, sunshine poured into each room through the huge windows and I had to resist the need to sit at one of the antique tables and empty my soul onto paper.
The ambience transported me back to the library at school and to Mr Ewing the Librarian. I thought he had the best job in all the world and wanted to be a Librarian too, but such roles were considered too lofty for a young girl from a small country village where priority was for planting, tending and harvesting the crops; and if you was female, making the snap – copious amounts of tea, sandwiches and cake.
Now, all these years later I desire not to look after the books but strive to write one. Marvelling at the thousands of books in that special place has inspired me to aim to have my book on the Victorian shelves of Morrab; I’m sure they could find space for just one more.
Reluctantly I left Morrab Library and the friendly members, particularly Annabelle Read, the only employed Librarian, all other jobs and duties are performed by member volunteers; I think it’s time I took out a subscription.
I walked quickly across town in the summer rain to the Arts Club where there was to be a talk by author Lilian Harry: ‘Doing your Homework: Research for Writing.’ The talk was being held in the same room as the poetry evening, being in the small space again, packed with an assortment of chairs and sofas, brought back the goose-bumps. Lilian’s books are mostly about the years before and after the second world war so she is certainly experienced in researching.
The amount of research and the lengths she went to was very interesting and demonstrated how one thing can lead to another. How a book plan can change and evolve as more details comes to light. The ladies in the audience and myself hung on her every word and many questions were asked at the end. I liked her ordinariness and down to earth attitude, and while it has taken many years for her to become a successful writer, she encouraged us with wise words and many interesting anecdotes. Her talk was occasionally punctuated by the Arts Club cat who decided to try everyone’s laps for comfort.
By now it was 12.30 and time to switch to lunch mode. Tea and coffee cups were taken away and glasses of chilled white wine replaced them. I had never been to a literary lunch before, it sounded rather grand and the only reason I was braving it on my own was because the guest of honour and speaker was the author Patrick Gale. I have read several of his books, including the most popular of the moment, the best seller, ‘Notes from an Exhibition’, about which he was going to take questions after lunch.
I tried to look nonchalant reading through Lilian’s handout notes while sipping the chilled wine and wishing I’d had lemonade as it had been quite some time since I’d had my porridge and I was feeling slightly squiffy (not a word of mine usually but it seemed appropriate for the company I was currently in.) A stressed waitress came to take my order, to be safe I chose the soup and the lemon sole though later I would regret my choices as the soup was laced with chillis and the sole with bones.
to be continued ... see you tomorrow.
PP
The very first Penzance Literary Festival - Poetry Evening
In a small room at Penzance Arts Club on Wednesday last, the first evening of the five-day festival, about 40 people gathered to listen to the invited local poets - Moira Andrew, Jenny Hamlett, Bob Devereux - their poems were diverse: sad, funny, thought provoking; I drank in every one.
After a short break there followed an open mic. session, organised and compered by Diana Dixon. Eighteen people had booked a 5 minute slot, I was one of them. I have never read my poetry to an audience before so I was curious as to how it would go, and at what point my stomach would land in my throat. I was number 14 on the list which gave me time to see how it should be done, or not as the case may be. I refused a glass of wine for a sensible option in the hope that being a good girl would help my brief performance go more smoothly; I was having enough problems coping with the new prescription in my new swish glasses.
Finally my number was called. A lady sat in the front row with a stopwatch as instructed by Diana, I found this inhibiting but proceeded in the knowledge that my trusty husband had timed me the night before. The room fell silent as I started with an introduction to set the scene. I squinted here and there as I tried to focus through the new specs. at the same time trying to take a confident stance while holding my book at an angle so that I could spread my words and voice across the room, using the book only as a prompt; I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I had had the sense to type the words in 14pt bold; next time I may try braille.
I received an enthusiastic applause and encouraging comments afterwards, along with an invitation 'do come again'. Diana said, looking at my posh black leather-look A5 hard-backed book, that she hadn't realised I'd been published. I turned a shade of red and said, 'oh only a couple', which is true.
If you would like to read my first publicly-read poems then please take a look on my website which I'm constructing as I go along.
Tomorrow I'll let you know what happened on Day 3 of the festival.
Thanks for visiting,
PP
After a short break there followed an open mic. session, organised and compered by Diana Dixon. Eighteen people had booked a 5 minute slot, I was one of them. I have never read my poetry to an audience before so I was curious as to how it would go, and at what point my stomach would land in my throat. I was number 14 on the list which gave me time to see how it should be done, or not as the case may be. I refused a glass of wine for a sensible option in the hope that being a good girl would help my brief performance go more smoothly; I was having enough problems coping with the new prescription in my new swish glasses.
Finally my number was called. A lady sat in the front row with a stopwatch as instructed by Diana, I found this inhibiting but proceeded in the knowledge that my trusty husband had timed me the night before. The room fell silent as I started with an introduction to set the scene. I squinted here and there as I tried to focus through the new specs. at the same time trying to take a confident stance while holding my book at an angle so that I could spread my words and voice across the room, using the book only as a prompt; I secretly thanked my lucky stars that I had had the sense to type the words in 14pt bold; next time I may try braille.
I received an enthusiastic applause and encouraging comments afterwards, along with an invitation 'do come again'. Diana said, looking at my posh black leather-look A5 hard-backed book, that she hadn't realised I'd been published. I turned a shade of red and said, 'oh only a couple', which is true.
If you would like to read my first publicly-read poems then please take a look on my website which I'm constructing as I go along.
Tomorrow I'll let you know what happened on Day 3 of the festival.
Thanks for visiting,
PP
Sunday 15 August 2010
Pendeen Lighthouse
Standing beside the lighthouse at Pendeen Cliffs this morning, watching the sea swells and the various crops of rocks around, reminded me of the importance of the lighthouses around the coast and of course the RNLI.I was also reminded of the Penlee Lifeboat disaster on 19 December, 1981 when eight RNLI volunteer men lost their lives aboard the Solomon Browne while trying to save others. Tonight, as I write, there is the annual service of thanksgiving taking place by the harbour in the beautiful village of Mousehole where all eight men came from. Each one had been carefully selected for their skills, but crucially only one man from each family was chosen.
It was brilliant sunshine this morning, visitors by the score making their way along the coast path and across the fields down to a nearby cove to enjoy themselves, I pondered how the weather must have been on that night 29 years ago, and on all those terrible nights before and since when men have lost their lives; it was difficult to imagine on such a glorious day.
Living in Cornwall makes you have a deep respect for the sea and the dangers. Lighthouses have always fascinated me and now even more as I live so close to so many. Like the brave men of the RNLI they save lives as they shine the lights from their strategic vantage points.
Those brave men of the RNLI don't need this small act of remembering from me because they will never, ever be forgotten as the gathering 29 years later on Mousehole quay tonight testifies. To read more, please go to: http://www.cornwalls.co.uk/Mousehole/penleelifeboat.htm
Tuesday 10 August 2010
Contemplation ...
I called in at the supermarket on my way to work this morning. It was just after 7am, I was still waking up and contemplating the day ahead and all I had to do.
I joined the short queue at the till with my pint of milk, in front of me was a young man, late teens, he put his packages onto the conveyor, a Mars bar and a pregnancy-test kit; he had far more than me to contemplate today.
PP
I joined the short queue at the till with my pint of milk, in front of me was a young man, late teens, he put his packages onto the conveyor, a Mars bar and a pregnancy-test kit; he had far more than me to contemplate today.
PP
Sunday 1 August 2010
It's raining. We are having a new lounge carpet fitted. We are to clear the room completely. Small cottage. Husband's Plan B is put into action. Testing of patience ensues.
Plan A was to move all items either into the small back garden or out of the front door into the lane, as you enter our lounge directly from outside.
Plan B is to dismantle bed to make room for dismantled dining table and anything else we can haul up the stairs. Television and accessories are squeezed into bathroom and dog basket into the bath. CD rack and contents are in the shed and the couch is under a tarpaulin outside the front door. Recently acquired heirloom, great-grandmother's oak dresser, now stands in the galley kitchen, leaving just enough room to put the kettle on for the carpet fitter. All done!
So where am I? Tucked in the corner of our spare room by my desk, surrounded by all manner of small items from the lounge, but I'm happy, I can operate my computer and Max (our Tibetan Terrier) is happy too, sitting under the desk at my feet. We are cosy, Classic FM drowns out the sounds of the fitting downstairs of our new striped green carpet, and I'm inspired to write, what more can a hungry writer ask for. Another new carpet?
PP
Plan A was to move all items either into the small back garden or out of the front door into the lane, as you enter our lounge directly from outside.
Plan B is to dismantle bed to make room for dismantled dining table and anything else we can haul up the stairs. Television and accessories are squeezed into bathroom and dog basket into the bath. CD rack and contents are in the shed and the couch is under a tarpaulin outside the front door. Recently acquired heirloom, great-grandmother's oak dresser, now stands in the galley kitchen, leaving just enough room to put the kettle on for the carpet fitter. All done!
So where am I? Tucked in the corner of our spare room by my desk, surrounded by all manner of small items from the lounge, but I'm happy, I can operate my computer and Max (our Tibetan Terrier) is happy too, sitting under the desk at my feet. We are cosy, Classic FM drowns out the sounds of the fitting downstairs of our new striped green carpet, and I'm inspired to write, what more can a hungry writer ask for. Another new carpet?
PP
Writing on the go.
Unbeknown to me until last week, my husband took this photo one day last winter. I was staggered to see I look eight months pregnant, which would be a miracle I assure you, and I immediately threatened him if he showed it to anyone!
But then I remembered what I was studying. As you can see, forever my notebook to hand, I had stumbled across something on the beach. The beach is Porthcurno in Cornwall, it is one of the loveliest beaches you can imagine, white sand nudging up to a turquoise sea. Above it, on top of the cliffs stands the famous Minack Theatre, built into the side of the cliffs. Stunning.
Back to our walk across the beach. Before we continued on the coastal path, I spotted a single fresh yellow rose lying in the sand (just to the right of my stick on the photo), immediately the curious writer in me started asking questions, eventually they formed a few lines of poetry.
Who laid you there on soft white sand,
Your fragile petals falling without the sender's hand.
Are you for a friendship remembered?
Joy experienced - or in memorial?
For whatever reason, I shall record your presence here,
For whoever, when laying you down, shed a tear.
PP
If you are interested in the meaning of roses by colour go to:
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