Mr T urged me to send out a copy of Matthieu Ricard’s Happiness: A guide to developing life’s most important skill to someone he had lunch with the other day. As I stuffed it into the envelope it occurred to me that maybe I should take a look at it myself since I could use some pointers.
I got to the first Exercise which counsels one to ‘examine the causes of happiness’ and to remember when you were last happy. Suddenly – wallop - the speeding train straight from Misery Central mows me down then reverses back up the line just to make sure I'm well and truly flattened.
Okay, so that won't work.
Somewhat opposed to Mr Ricard’s views of cultivating inner harmony, my agent tells me to wallow in the grief, to grab it with both hands and write my way out of it. ‘We need a second book, darling, get going on it.’
The idea appeals. I could be a tortured muse, banging away on the battered Olivetti of life, churning out a masterpiece. I could be Elizabeth Barrett without the Browning and write Hallmark Greeting Card rhymes for Rejected Wives and the Recently Bereaved. But instead I just whine to my friends looking like a Basset Hound with a hangover. I want to sink into the armchair of gloom or take to my bed with one of those Victorian illnesses that requires invalid food and a couple of housemaids to serve it, fresh linen, smoothed brows, drawn curtains, and maybe even a little fire burning in the grate to keep off the chill. I want to take my meals on a tray and waste away. I want to swoon and brush my forehead with the back of my hand like a pre-Raphaelite heroine, and generally look tragic.
Sadly, or should I say even more sadly, there’s little chance of that. The only thing that looks a bit tragic about me are my decades old jeans that since I began to live on cup-a-soup, I can miraculously fit into, though they are flares and come up to my navel so I look like Simon Cowell doing ladies’ leisure wear. All I need to do is get a chest rug and have my teeth bleached. The hair’s a bit tragic too. I used to have a side parting but I haven’t looked in a mirror for a week and so I fear the coiffeur has suffered somewhat and now looks like I’ve been raising fledglings in it, or keeping mice, a la Russell Brant. What with the too tight trousers and the big hair, if I could squeeze into PVC shirt (another 7 pounds to go) and I could almost do stand up impressions of him. Well, except for the accent.
My publisher at Waddling Duck wants a picture for their publicity department. Who of? The old me or the new me? A month ago I was blonde. A week ago I was a stone heavier. Yesterday I came in wearing my dress inside out. I told her to wait another week – who knows, by then I could be Sienna Millar in the big pants.
Exercise two is ‘developing attention’. Well, I suppose I could start by checking that I’ve got my shirt on the right way round.
Does that count?
Friday, 30 May 2008
Thursday, 29 May 2008
Gormley-less
Okay, don’t get too excited, Steven Spielberg isn’t calling me on speed-dial begging for the film option, in fact, strictly speaking the American publisher has not offered to buy the book, but rather the idea of the book, on the basis that I will set it in America. And, em, elaborate on the ending.
In other words. Rewrite it (for the third time).
‘But what if you win the Booker?’ says Val in the A Team Office. ‘If people try to read your back list they will find that you have two different versions of the same book.’
This, of course, is true. But then if I win the Booker, then it will have to have a brand new category, just for me and hell will probably have frozen over and so we'll have bigger problems. I don’t think I’m going to lose very much sleep over the fact that there’s a New England Agnes and a Scottish Agnes living parallel lives on either side of the Atlantic. I think it’s pretty safe to say that winning the Booker is about as likely as me going home and finding a bottle of champagne cooling in the fridge for what should have been my wedding anniversary.
So I’ll do the rewrite, and try and perform a one woman show of enthusiasm, tell myself well done, and try not to dwell on the things that are not happening in my life.
In any case it’s all too premature to book the marching band but as part of the pre-jubilation cheer-me-up scheme undertaken by one of my long suffering friends, I was transported last night to the ballet at Sadler’s Wells.
Mmm
A Moroccan-Belgian choreographer with a group of Shaolin Buddhists and a lot of coffin-sized crates – sort of Jenga with Monks doing marshal arts.
The coffins were variously bookshelves, temples, graves, beds, boats, dominos. You name it, really. But instead of what I had imagined – namely small athletic men leaping up and down in synch making Ayeeah noises, it was small athletic men leaping up and down occasionally making Ayeeah noises while doing an awful lot of dragging big bleeding boxes around, which squeaked and groaned when moved, and then fussily reassembling them in various shapes then hiding inside them, writhing inside them, hanging upside down in them, moving gracefully around inside them, then leaping up and down occasionally making Ayeeah noises before dragging big bleeding boxes around, etc, etc.
The audience loved it. The girl next to me was rapt, hanging over the seat in front of her entranced, or possibly catatonic with boredom. I just got rather irritated when, once again, the boxes were shuffled about. I wanted to shout: STOP BLOODY FIDDLING WITH THEM AND JUST DANCE.
I was, I admit, in a minority.
At the end when there was about ten minutes of absolutely sublime movement I finally began to enjoy it.
And then came the talk.
My friend is a serious artist. She always stays for the talk. The stage designer was Anthony Gormley, so she was definitely staying for the talk. (Apparently he too got irritated with the boxes not staying where he had put them.)
Seven people sat on the stage, one signing for the deaf, one translating for the two Chinese monks, with an empty seat for Antony who was, lucky bugger, in Japan so did not attend.
Sigh, too late, we were hemmed in Gormley-less and the microphone was circulating.
Audience member: This is a question for the monks. How much cooperation was there between the Monks and the Choreographer?
Silence while interpreter stares into space.
Embarrassed pause. Question repeated by the chairperson to the interpreter.
Interpreter: short stream of chah chah chah chah chah, Chinese dialogue.
Monks: Stunned silence, followed by hesitant but very, very long stream of chah chah chah chah Chinese dialogue.
Interpreter: They say there was a lot of co-operation.
Signer: Rapid hand movements
Choreographer: Oh yes, we co-operated all the time, followed by long stream of explanation and lots of jazz hands while looking all the time at the Chinese monks for confirmation, who continued to look blankly into the audience.
Signer: Very rapid hand movements
Audience member: I’m interested very much in your love of Kung Fu because I do discovered Kung Fu when I was a child and very much enjoyed Bruce Lee’s autobiography when I was younger. When I was at art school, in fact (little laugh), yeah it was when I was at art school that I discovered Bruce Lee, and he had a tremendous influence on me, like…..
And thankfully the swinging door of the auditorium closed behind him as finally, FINALLY, we left.
Leaving definitely cheered me up.
It was that easy.
Note to ex-husband. This does not apply to you.
In other words. Rewrite it (for the third time).
‘But what if you win the Booker?’ says Val in the A Team Office. ‘If people try to read your back list they will find that you have two different versions of the same book.’
This, of course, is true. But then if I win the Booker, then it will have to have a brand new category, just for me and hell will probably have frozen over and so we'll have bigger problems. I don’t think I’m going to lose very much sleep over the fact that there’s a New England Agnes and a Scottish Agnes living parallel lives on either side of the Atlantic. I think it’s pretty safe to say that winning the Booker is about as likely as me going home and finding a bottle of champagne cooling in the fridge for what should have been my wedding anniversary.
So I’ll do the rewrite, and try and perform a one woman show of enthusiasm, tell myself well done, and try not to dwell on the things that are not happening in my life.
In any case it’s all too premature to book the marching band but as part of the pre-jubilation cheer-me-up scheme undertaken by one of my long suffering friends, I was transported last night to the ballet at Sadler’s Wells.
Mmm
A Moroccan-Belgian choreographer with a group of Shaolin Buddhists and a lot of coffin-sized crates – sort of Jenga with Monks doing marshal arts.
The coffins were variously bookshelves, temples, graves, beds, boats, dominos. You name it, really. But instead of what I had imagined – namely small athletic men leaping up and down in synch making Ayeeah noises, it was small athletic men leaping up and down occasionally making Ayeeah noises while doing an awful lot of dragging big bleeding boxes around, which squeaked and groaned when moved, and then fussily reassembling them in various shapes then hiding inside them, writhing inside them, hanging upside down in them, moving gracefully around inside them, then leaping up and down occasionally making Ayeeah noises before dragging big bleeding boxes around, etc, etc.
The audience loved it. The girl next to me was rapt, hanging over the seat in front of her entranced, or possibly catatonic with boredom. I just got rather irritated when, once again, the boxes were shuffled about. I wanted to shout: STOP BLOODY FIDDLING WITH THEM AND JUST DANCE.
I was, I admit, in a minority.
At the end when there was about ten minutes of absolutely sublime movement I finally began to enjoy it.
And then came the talk.
My friend is a serious artist. She always stays for the talk. The stage designer was Anthony Gormley, so she was definitely staying for the talk. (Apparently he too got irritated with the boxes not staying where he had put them.)
Seven people sat on the stage, one signing for the deaf, one translating for the two Chinese monks, with an empty seat for Antony who was, lucky bugger, in Japan so did not attend.
Sigh, too late, we were hemmed in Gormley-less and the microphone was circulating.
Audience member: This is a question for the monks. How much cooperation was there between the Monks and the Choreographer?
Silence while interpreter stares into space.
Embarrassed pause. Question repeated by the chairperson to the interpreter.
Interpreter: short stream of chah chah chah chah chah, Chinese dialogue.
Monks: Stunned silence, followed by hesitant but very, very long stream of chah chah chah chah Chinese dialogue.
Interpreter: They say there was a lot of co-operation.
Signer: Rapid hand movements
Choreographer: Oh yes, we co-operated all the time, followed by long stream of explanation and lots of jazz hands while looking all the time at the Chinese monks for confirmation, who continued to look blankly into the audience.
Signer: Very rapid hand movements
Audience member: I’m interested very much in your love of Kung Fu because I do discovered Kung Fu when I was a child and very much enjoyed Bruce Lee’s autobiography when I was younger. When I was at art school, in fact (little laugh), yeah it was when I was at art school that I discovered Bruce Lee, and he had a tremendous influence on me, like…..
And thankfully the swinging door of the auditorium closed behind him as finally, FINALLY, we left.
Leaving definitely cheered me up.
It was that easy.
Note to ex-husband. This does not apply to you.
Across the pond life
Executive decisions taken so far this morning:
Whether or not to go down to Mr Patel for milk for Mr T’s morning coffee or hope someone else will do it.
It was a tough one. Took me a good ten minutes to ponder, but I decided, after judicious consideration, and weighing up all the different variables, including the fact that I had only 20p in my pocket, just to wait.
Em… that’s it.
Later, I made two rounds of coffee with milk fetched by AN Other (was thanked by an affectionate touch on the arm by one of the recipients – lovely man, is he looking for a wife – really I’m that easy…), poured several glasses of water, and sent out some books to very grand authors. Then I fielded a couple of phone calls from very important agents, one who spit into my ear like a shot from a close range rifle when I told him Mr T was ‘in a meeting’ – and the other who sounded like Brian Sewell pretending to be a female impersonator with a pug under each arm who said he would ring him on his direct line before I could tell him this was pointless, and the call diverted back to my extension.
'As I said, he's in a meeting,' I repeated, dryly.
Otherwise I waited outside Mr T’s office ready to spring on him between appointments, with little success – it’s just as well I’m not a lioness waiting to bring down an impala at a watering hole, because slapping post-it notes on desks and waving paper in front of fleeting eyes does not attest to my stalking skills.
I also walked round to One Alfred Place where Mr T had breakfast and picked up the credit card that he had left there after his breakfast meeting. I mean, when I say I work in publishing, you get an idea of the range of expertise this demands. So don’t bother asking me if I can get your little Pandora of Crispin work experience when they’ve finished their degree in Sanscrit and Psycho-geography at Bristol because they will need a first and/or a couple of living languages before they would even be considered.
You don’t get to run this caliber of errand on six GCSEs and a certificate in life-saving unless you’re me.
And then the phone rings:
Imagine mincing Kenneth Williams type drawl: Yes, good morning, I would like to speak to someone about a book I’ve written.
Imagine bored Scottish sigh: Yes…. (oh bugger off implied but not voiced)
Which is all I get out before he launches into long monologue: Blah blah blah, my book, similar to Robert Kagan’s Return of History blah blah blah manuscript 300 pages (I’m waiting for the word count) I don’t have an agent blah blah… (although in fact it was more of a mya mya mya sound.
Me leaping in with icy diction straight from Miss Jean Brodie: Let me stop you there because I’m afraid we don’t accept any unsolicited manuscripts…
Kenneth Keegan crosses the field and tackles: But as I explained it’s in the same spirit as Robert Kagan’s
Marion, sweeps in, grabs the ball: Yes, but as I’m explaining we don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts and the fact that we’ve already published the Kagan would probably mean that we wouldn’t publish anything too similar.
Foul, I’m over clutching my ankle as he continues to insist: I didn’t say it was exactly the same, it’s about mya mya mya.
Still, you’ll need to get an agent first, I say, absently clicking on my email where I see an email from my own agent. I know it can’t be anything good or she would have called me. I’m guessing it’s more or less what I’ve been expecting – bad news or no news from the American publisher.
But I don’t have an agent, persists Mr Train Spotter, look – is there anyone else I can speak to?
OH MY GOD! I screamed.
This silenced him for oooooooooh all of one second.
I beg your pardon? he coughs, all affronted.
But I couldn’t answer him, my eyes were fixated on the email:
Then my mouth starts moving, saying ‘Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook’ and ‘list of agents’ and ‘all unsolicited manuscripts come to me and are returned’ as I read the words on the screen over and over again.
That lovey, wonderful, amazingly precient woman from Harpy in New York has typed with her very own fingers: ‘...and so believe it or not I would like to offer…’
Bloody hell – I’ve got an American publisher.
Whether or not to go down to Mr Patel for milk for Mr T’s morning coffee or hope someone else will do it.
It was a tough one. Took me a good ten minutes to ponder, but I decided, after judicious consideration, and weighing up all the different variables, including the fact that I had only 20p in my pocket, just to wait.
Em… that’s it.
Later, I made two rounds of coffee with milk fetched by AN Other (was thanked by an affectionate touch on the arm by one of the recipients – lovely man, is he looking for a wife – really I’m that easy…), poured several glasses of water, and sent out some books to very grand authors. Then I fielded a couple of phone calls from very important agents, one who spit into my ear like a shot from a close range rifle when I told him Mr T was ‘in a meeting’ – and the other who sounded like Brian Sewell pretending to be a female impersonator with a pug under each arm who said he would ring him on his direct line before I could tell him this was pointless, and the call diverted back to my extension.
'As I said, he's in a meeting,' I repeated, dryly.
Otherwise I waited outside Mr T’s office ready to spring on him between appointments, with little success – it’s just as well I’m not a lioness waiting to bring down an impala at a watering hole, because slapping post-it notes on desks and waving paper in front of fleeting eyes does not attest to my stalking skills.
I also walked round to One Alfred Place where Mr T had breakfast and picked up the credit card that he had left there after his breakfast meeting. I mean, when I say I work in publishing, you get an idea of the range of expertise this demands. So don’t bother asking me if I can get your little Pandora of Crispin work experience when they’ve finished their degree in Sanscrit and Psycho-geography at Bristol because they will need a first and/or a couple of living languages before they would even be considered.
You don’t get to run this caliber of errand on six GCSEs and a certificate in life-saving unless you’re me.
And then the phone rings:
Imagine mincing Kenneth Williams type drawl: Yes, good morning, I would like to speak to someone about a book I’ve written.
Imagine bored Scottish sigh: Yes…. (oh bugger off implied but not voiced)
Which is all I get out before he launches into long monologue: Blah blah blah, my book, similar to Robert Kagan’s Return of History blah blah blah manuscript 300 pages (I’m waiting for the word count) I don’t have an agent blah blah… (although in fact it was more of a mya mya mya sound.
Me leaping in with icy diction straight from Miss Jean Brodie: Let me stop you there because I’m afraid we don’t accept any unsolicited manuscripts…
Kenneth Keegan crosses the field and tackles: But as I explained it’s in the same spirit as Robert Kagan’s
Marion, sweeps in, grabs the ball: Yes, but as I’m explaining we don’t accept unsolicited manuscripts and the fact that we’ve already published the Kagan would probably mean that we wouldn’t publish anything too similar.
Foul, I’m over clutching my ankle as he continues to insist: I didn’t say it was exactly the same, it’s about mya mya mya.
Still, you’ll need to get an agent first, I say, absently clicking on my email where I see an email from my own agent. I know it can’t be anything good or she would have called me. I’m guessing it’s more or less what I’ve been expecting – bad news or no news from the American publisher.
But I don’t have an agent, persists Mr Train Spotter, look – is there anyone else I can speak to?
OH MY GOD! I screamed.
This silenced him for oooooooooh all of one second.
I beg your pardon? he coughs, all affronted.
But I couldn’t answer him, my eyes were fixated on the email:
Then my mouth starts moving, saying ‘Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook’ and ‘list of agents’ and ‘all unsolicited manuscripts come to me and are returned’ as I read the words on the screen over and over again.
That lovey, wonderful, amazingly precient woman from Harpy in New York has typed with her very own fingers: ‘...and so believe it or not I would like to offer…’
Bloody hell – I’ve got an American publisher.
Tuesday, 27 May 2008
How to say No without really caring
I took home The Risk of Infidelity Index from the office in an attempt to stir myself out of the black hole that has swallowed me up. Perhaps I should have consulted it earlier to see where I was on the scale.
At work, I tackle the pile of unsolicited manuscripts. Rejection seems to suit my mood, though in this case I’m the one doling it out. I usually scrape up some sympathy for those whose literary efforts I have to decline, but I seem to have entered an empathy free zone. I just type the letters like an automaton.
'No' to the chap who sent a ream of manuscripts all decorated with jolly clip art and full of long verbose sentences that dance in front of my eyes like ants doing the conga after a few cocktails. They make about as much sense too. Reading them reminds me of standing at the bar when out at the theatre with a loud boring actor on coke, and not the stuff that wants to teach the world to sing.
Then 'no' to the history of the Local Council Elections whose author does not think it worth sending in a sample chapter, but wants me to rely on the index and a list of contents. Yep, knowing that Poll Tax is discussed on page 12, 98 and 156-187, really does give you a clear idea of the book. I might take it home with me as bedtime reading. It might hit the spot that so far the cocktail of Codeine and Sleepytime Tea aren’t touching.
‘Copyright exists’ should you wish to plagiarise.
'No' too to the person looking for work experience with bad A levels in subjects not usually associated with publishing such as Ceramics and Music Technology, and a love of historical fiction if, for no other reason because she’s is currently writing her own bodice ripper set in the Middle Ages. I know from personal experience, publishing books, enjoying reading them, and writing the buggers are not related.
Two weeks on my slush pile and she will never want to read another word.
'No', again, for the third time to the gay coming of age tale about a young boy seduced by his surrogate father.
And finally 'no' to the autobiography of a special needs teacher which is written on notepaper with pencil lines drawn across it.
I thought I was depressed when I started this but now I just want to bang my head on the table and cry.
It’s no surprise that publishers drink a lot.
I do feel bad. I do. I feel sorrow over the misery memoires (hell I could write my own) and pathos over the letters written in broken English with no punctuation. But most of all I just worry about licking the stamped addressed envelopes in case they have put arsenic on them as punishment for the rejection slip.
In other news, well, the world of publishing climbs to Alpine Heights of excitement.
Last night I got a call from an editor at Harpy with a drawling accent like the bottom of a Brooklyn budgie’s cage. For a second I thought it was my husband’s Buffalo girlfriend and I almost told her to go hunt herself into extinction, but managed to contain myself until the editor introduced herself.
Short story long - she had read my manuscript and ‘LOVES it, read it in one gulp’ but she has a ‘problem’ with the ending. She wants some sort of resolution. She felt let down by it. Join the club, my dear, join the club.
Excited I skipped into Mr T's office where he looked surprised, nay shocked even as I relayed my news, and then warned about the fickleness of American Publishers who promise the earth and never so much as cough up a bucket of stones, nevertheless I passed the message on to my agent and together we wait in hope to hear from the editor. So far, the silence has been deafening.
Hope? Way over there on a little speck in the centre of the Pacific. Me? Way over here in a cupboard under the stairs.
At work, I tackle the pile of unsolicited manuscripts. Rejection seems to suit my mood, though in this case I’m the one doling it out. I usually scrape up some sympathy for those whose literary efforts I have to decline, but I seem to have entered an empathy free zone. I just type the letters like an automaton.
'No' to the chap who sent a ream of manuscripts all decorated with jolly clip art and full of long verbose sentences that dance in front of my eyes like ants doing the conga after a few cocktails. They make about as much sense too. Reading them reminds me of standing at the bar when out at the theatre with a loud boring actor on coke, and not the stuff that wants to teach the world to sing.
Then 'no' to the history of the Local Council Elections whose author does not think it worth sending in a sample chapter, but wants me to rely on the index and a list of contents. Yep, knowing that Poll Tax is discussed on page 12, 98 and 156-187, really does give you a clear idea of the book. I might take it home with me as bedtime reading. It might hit the spot that so far the cocktail of Codeine and Sleepytime Tea aren’t touching.
‘Copyright exists’ should you wish to plagiarise.
'No' too to the person looking for work experience with bad A levels in subjects not usually associated with publishing such as Ceramics and Music Technology, and a love of historical fiction if, for no other reason because she’s is currently writing her own bodice ripper set in the Middle Ages. I know from personal experience, publishing books, enjoying reading them, and writing the buggers are not related.
Two weeks on my slush pile and she will never want to read another word.
'No', again, for the third time to the gay coming of age tale about a young boy seduced by his surrogate father.
And finally 'no' to the autobiography of a special needs teacher which is written on notepaper with pencil lines drawn across it.
I thought I was depressed when I started this but now I just want to bang my head on the table and cry.
It’s no surprise that publishers drink a lot.
I do feel bad. I do. I feel sorrow over the misery memoires (hell I could write my own) and pathos over the letters written in broken English with no punctuation. But most of all I just worry about licking the stamped addressed envelopes in case they have put arsenic on them as punishment for the rejection slip.
In other news, well, the world of publishing climbs to Alpine Heights of excitement.
Last night I got a call from an editor at Harpy with a drawling accent like the bottom of a Brooklyn budgie’s cage. For a second I thought it was my husband’s Buffalo girlfriend and I almost told her to go hunt herself into extinction, but managed to contain myself until the editor introduced herself.
Short story long - she had read my manuscript and ‘LOVES it, read it in one gulp’ but she has a ‘problem’ with the ending. She wants some sort of resolution. She felt let down by it. Join the club, my dear, join the club.
Excited I skipped into Mr T's office where he looked surprised, nay shocked even as I relayed my news, and then warned about the fickleness of American Publishers who promise the earth and never so much as cough up a bucket of stones, nevertheless I passed the message on to my agent and together we wait in hope to hear from the editor. So far, the silence has been deafening.
Hope? Way over there on a little speck in the centre of the Pacific. Me? Way over here in a cupboard under the stairs.
How to say No without really caring
I took home The Risk of Infidelity Index from the office in an attempt to stir myself out of the black hole that has swallowed me up. Perhaps I should have consulted it earlier to see where I was on the scale.
At work, I tackle the pile of unsolicited manuscripts. Rejection seems to suit my mood, though in this case I’m the one doling it out. I usually scrape up some sympathy for those whose literary efforts I have to decline, but I seem to have entered an empathy free zone. I just type the letters like an automaton.
'No' to the chap who sent a ream of manuscripts all decorated with jolly clip art and full of long verbose sentences that dance in front of my eyes like ants doing the conga after a few cocktails. They make about as much sense too. Reading them reminds me of standing at the bar when out at the theatre with a loud boring actor on coke, and not the stuff that wants to teach the world to sing.
Then 'no' to the history of the Local Council Elections whose author does not think it worth sending in a sample chapter, but wants me to rely on the index and a list of contents. Yep, knowing that Poll Tax is discussed on page 12, 98 and 156-187, really does give you a clear idea of the book. I might take it home with me as bedtime reading. It might hit the spot that so far the cocktail of Codeine and Sleepytime Tea aren’t touching.
‘Copyright exists’ should you wish to plagiarise.
'No' too to the person looking for work experience with bad A levels in subjects not usually associated with publishing such as Ceramics and Music Technology, and a love of historical fiction if, for no other reason because she’s is currently writing her own bodice ripper set in the Middle Ages. I know from personal experience, publishing books, enjoying reading them, and writing the buggers are not related.
Two weeks on my slush pile and she will never want to read another word.
'No', again, for the third time to the gay coming of age tale about a young boy seduced by his surrogate father.
And finally 'no' to the autobiography of a special needs teacher which is written on notepaper with pencil lines drawn across it.
I thought I was depressed when I started this but now I just want to bang my head on the table and cry.
It’s no surprise that publishers drink a lot.
I do feel bad. I do. I feel sorrow over the misery memoires (hell I could write my own) and pathos over the letters written in broken English with no punctuation. But most of all I just worry about licking the stamped addressed envelopes in case they have put arsenic on them as punishment for the rejection slip.
In other news, well, the world of publishing climbs to Alpine Heights of excitement.
Last night I got a call from an editor at Harpy with a drawling accent like the bottom of a Brooklyn budgie’s cage. For a second I thought it was my husband’s Buffalo girlfriend and I almost told her to go hunt herself into extinction, but managed to contain myself until the editor introduced herself.
Short story long - she had read my manuscript and ‘LOVES it, read it in one gulp’ but she has a ‘problem’ with the ending. She wants some sort of resolution. She felt let down by it. Join the club, my dear, join the club.
Excited I skipped into Mr T's office where he looked surprised, nay shocked even as I relayed my news, and then warned about the fickleness of American Publishers who promise the earth and never so much as cough up a bucket of stones, nevertheless I passed the message on to my agent and together we wait in hope to hear from the editor. So far, the silence has been deafening.
Hope? Way over there on a little speck in the centre of the Pacific. Me? Way over here in a cupboard under the stairs.
At work, I tackle the pile of unsolicited manuscripts. Rejection seems to suit my mood, though in this case I’m the one doling it out. I usually scrape up some sympathy for those whose literary efforts I have to decline, but I seem to have entered an empathy free zone. I just type the letters like an automaton.
'No' to the chap who sent a ream of manuscripts all decorated with jolly clip art and full of long verbose sentences that dance in front of my eyes like ants doing the conga after a few cocktails. They make about as much sense too. Reading them reminds me of standing at the bar when out at the theatre with a loud boring actor on coke, and not the stuff that wants to teach the world to sing.
Then 'no' to the history of the Local Council Elections whose author does not think it worth sending in a sample chapter, but wants me to rely on the index and a list of contents. Yep, knowing that Poll Tax is discussed on page 12, 98 and 156-187, really does give you a clear idea of the book. I might take it home with me as bedtime reading. It might hit the spot that so far the cocktail of Codeine and Sleepytime Tea aren’t touching.
‘Copyright exists’ should you wish to plagiarise.
'No' too to the person looking for work experience with bad A levels in subjects not usually associated with publishing such as Ceramics and Music Technology, and a love of historical fiction if, for no other reason because she’s is currently writing her own bodice ripper set in the Middle Ages. I know from personal experience, publishing books, enjoying reading them, and writing the buggers are not related.
Two weeks on my slush pile and she will never want to read another word.
'No', again, for the third time to the gay coming of age tale about a young boy seduced by his surrogate father.
And finally 'no' to the autobiography of a special needs teacher which is written on notepaper with pencil lines drawn across it.
I thought I was depressed when I started this but now I just want to bang my head on the table and cry.
It’s no surprise that publishers drink a lot.
I do feel bad. I do. I feel sorrow over the misery memoires (hell I could write my own) and pathos over the letters written in broken English with no punctuation. But most of all I just worry about licking the stamped addressed envelopes in case they have put arsenic on them as punishment for the rejection slip.
In other news, well, the world of publishing climbs to Alpine Heights of excitement.
Last night I got a call from an editor at Harpy with a drawling accent like the bottom of a Brooklyn budgie’s cage. For a second I thought it was my husband’s Buffalo girlfriend and I almost told her to go hunt herself into extinction, but managed to contain myself until the editor introduced herself.
Short story long - she had read my manuscript and ‘LOVES it, read it in one gulp’ but she has a ‘problem’ with the ending. She wants some sort of resolution. She felt let down by it. Join the club, my dear, join the club.
Excited I skipped into Mr T's office where he looked surprised, nay shocked even as I relayed my news, and then warned about the fickleness of American Publishers who promise the earth and never so much as cough up a bucket of stones, nevertheless I passed the message on to my agent and together we wait in hope to hear from the editor. So far, the silence has been deafening.
Hope? Way over there on a little speck in the centre of the Pacific. Me? Way over here in a cupboard under the stairs.
Monday, 19 May 2008
It's a dog walking life
I have nothing against dogs. I even sort of, kinda, quite like them. As long as they are about two feet away from me and don’t have their snout anywhere it shouldn’t be without an explicit invitation. I’m not that mad about kids either. Yes, mine are great and when they were small, there was a select number of other people’s that I could tolerate. Even now some friends have children who leap over all my defences, but as a race, I’m not that keen and I don’t think that breeding is the be all and end all of life time experiences and things to do before you die.
I’m glad I did, but there are still other things on the list.
Having a cocker spaniel with a ribbon in its hair isn’t one of them.
I know I have the retirement fantasy of the yellow Labrador called Mabel, but that’s all it is – a fantasy. I can see the attraction of having another breathing, living thing in the room that sleeps all the time and doesn’t say much and looks at me adoringly. And far down the line when I give up on the idea of ever fitting into a size twelve frock and when my cleavage looks like a toast rack, yes, I could just about see myself in the heavy waterproofs and the wellies, with the wet dog at my feet panting. I mean assuming that Brad Pit is unavailable.
But…wet? On second thoughts, maybe not a wet dog – I’d probably take it out in plastic shoes and dry it with the hairdryer in the hall after I make it walk through a santised foot bath.
I’m just not doggy.
Sorry.
Don’t get it.
I can see why other people get it, but at this point in my life I just don’t need another dependant being whose toilet habits I have to be on plastic bag terms with. They might be child substitutes, but who needs a child substitute when you have four and a half of them already?
But the doggily demented are always with us. I am happy to live and let live. Whether you want to dress up in ladies’ clothes and wear make up like my friend Jenny/Andrew then go in peace and walk in heels. I don’t necessarily want to look at the before and after pictures of your surgery, but to be honest, neither do I much want to see a picture of your dog.
I don’t whip out pictures of my kids the minute I’m sitting comfortably on a train, so why am I expected to swoon over snaps of your Yorkshire Terrier? Let me tell you something – even if her name is Mitzy and she is wearing a tartan coat the truth is she’s not that distinctive. She looks like ALL THE OTHER Yorkshire Terriers. I am not going to be able to pick her out of a line up.
I am prompted to launch into this long rant because of a weekend spent with a woman of a certain age who, seconds after we had been introduced, whipped out her wallet (her wallet, I ask you?) to reveal a snap of her baby – a little brown pug called Sasha, who, she giggled as she pointed out, ‘has exactly the same hair colour as me’. Family resemblance then. In fact they both had a bit of a pug face too, but the doggy didn’t have freckles.
The rest of the weekend, whenever the rest of us who are sprogged up, talked about the minutae of sprog-life, like who was looking after them, or how old they were, what they were doing while we were gone, we were treated to anecdotes about Sasha, and how she would be missing her, and where she was staying, and… well I risk you murdering me even by repeating it.
I wanted to scream: IT’S A DOG. It’s not a child. Mentioning your pug in the same breath as someone else’s kid’s 11 plus exam, or comparing a teenager's drug problem to a worming treatment IS NOT THE SAME THING.
At one point during the weekend we all sloped off to a farmhouse in the middle of the countryside and this huge black mastiff came careering out of the long grass, loping like a tank over tough terrain with enormous jowls, a sneer at each side of its mouth revealing blood red gums and dripping white frothing saliva hanging in soapy rings from its jagged teeth.
Anybody who had any sense, or love of their extremities, jumped back except for doggy person who made cooing noise, stuck out her hand and attempted to stroke it. The dog could have swallowed her whole, but unluckily, did not choose to do so.
‘I so miss my little Sasha,’ she crooned once the beast had been tethered by an inch wide chain.
If I heard one more thing about that pug I would have bitten her head off myself.
Elsewhere I seem to be surrounded by the dogged. Since my friend Nel and I have started tramping round Wormwood Scrubs as part of our health drive, it’s impossible to miss them (together with a number of other subspecies of the strange and desperate – model air enthusiasts, kite flyers, flashers and junkies). They seem to have a uniform – including anything fom Boden. a Barbour, waxed jacket or one of those sleeveless puffa jacket thingies from the eighties, big Wellington boots and a headscarf. Even in May when we’re walking in short sleeves, they are still in full dog-walking kit. It’s all faintly ridiculous when having passed by this Teutonic woman bristling with tweed, you see her followed by miniscule poodles with pom pom coats. There are the ‘local’ dog walkers too – ie men with shaved heads and tattoos with Staffordshire and Pit Bull Terriers.
But they don't bother with the ribbons in their hair.
Nel bemoans her otherwise highly intelligent academic friend who greets her dog with the regular call of ‘come to mummy’ while yet another, previously sane friend has also succumbed to the lure of the evil hound. Every day she’s out tramping with a pair of Alsatians, coincidentally with somebody I used to know who has recently acquired a whippet. Nel joined them one morning and was distinctly unnerved by the conversation. We talk about food and the GI content of almond chocolate muffins (1, apparently – seems unlikely but we’re willing to be convinced) as well as regular moaning about college kids (lazy idle), DIY obsessed husbands (Energetic always busy), ex husband (gone) and writing (not happening).
Yup, we’re Renaissance women.
The dogged, however, just have very strange doggy conversations: whether you can take them with you on airplanes (thank you Richard Branson for making sure I never fly with you again), doggy passports and doggy cars. My friend has a big Range Rover, especially for transporting the dog twenty yards from her house to the car park where they walk. They know all the other doggeds by the breed of their pet (‘Oh look it’s the corgi/sheepdog over there’/’haven’t seen the two Airedales for a while, do you think they’re on holiday?’)
I met my friend (whippet, keep up) the other day just as she was putting it in the front seat of the specially bought car with the belt around it (dog can’t sit in the boot behind the bars because she gets lonely).
‘How are you?’ I cried, all excited to see her and hear about how her job at the FT and her kids and her husband's new book are doing.
The dog, in the meantime, let off a volley of barking that sounded like a rocket launcher going off in my ear, and flattened itself against the car window, snarling, its mouth open revealing a ring of slavering teeth like the hound of hell.
I jumped back into a different postal district.
‘Oh ignore her, she’s such a sweetie’, said my friend as I cowered.
She didn’t tell me anything about her life, but you’ll be pleased to know she’s the dog is actually a whippet cross.
A bit too f*ing cross if you ask me.
I’m glad I did, but there are still other things on the list.
Having a cocker spaniel with a ribbon in its hair isn’t one of them.
I know I have the retirement fantasy of the yellow Labrador called Mabel, but that’s all it is – a fantasy. I can see the attraction of having another breathing, living thing in the room that sleeps all the time and doesn’t say much and looks at me adoringly. And far down the line when I give up on the idea of ever fitting into a size twelve frock and when my cleavage looks like a toast rack, yes, I could just about see myself in the heavy waterproofs and the wellies, with the wet dog at my feet panting. I mean assuming that Brad Pit is unavailable.
But…wet? On second thoughts, maybe not a wet dog – I’d probably take it out in plastic shoes and dry it with the hairdryer in the hall after I make it walk through a santised foot bath.
I’m just not doggy.
Sorry.
Don’t get it.
I can see why other people get it, but at this point in my life I just don’t need another dependant being whose toilet habits I have to be on plastic bag terms with. They might be child substitutes, but who needs a child substitute when you have four and a half of them already?
But the doggily demented are always with us. I am happy to live and let live. Whether you want to dress up in ladies’ clothes and wear make up like my friend Jenny/Andrew then go in peace and walk in heels. I don’t necessarily want to look at the before and after pictures of your surgery, but to be honest, neither do I much want to see a picture of your dog.
I don’t whip out pictures of my kids the minute I’m sitting comfortably on a train, so why am I expected to swoon over snaps of your Yorkshire Terrier? Let me tell you something – even if her name is Mitzy and she is wearing a tartan coat the truth is she’s not that distinctive. She looks like ALL THE OTHER Yorkshire Terriers. I am not going to be able to pick her out of a line up.
I am prompted to launch into this long rant because of a weekend spent with a woman of a certain age who, seconds after we had been introduced, whipped out her wallet (her wallet, I ask you?) to reveal a snap of her baby – a little brown pug called Sasha, who, she giggled as she pointed out, ‘has exactly the same hair colour as me’. Family resemblance then. In fact they both had a bit of a pug face too, but the doggy didn’t have freckles.
The rest of the weekend, whenever the rest of us who are sprogged up, talked about the minutae of sprog-life, like who was looking after them, or how old they were, what they were doing while we were gone, we were treated to anecdotes about Sasha, and how she would be missing her, and where she was staying, and… well I risk you murdering me even by repeating it.
I wanted to scream: IT’S A DOG. It’s not a child. Mentioning your pug in the same breath as someone else’s kid’s 11 plus exam, or comparing a teenager's drug problem to a worming treatment IS NOT THE SAME THING.
At one point during the weekend we all sloped off to a farmhouse in the middle of the countryside and this huge black mastiff came careering out of the long grass, loping like a tank over tough terrain with enormous jowls, a sneer at each side of its mouth revealing blood red gums and dripping white frothing saliva hanging in soapy rings from its jagged teeth.
Anybody who had any sense, or love of their extremities, jumped back except for doggy person who made cooing noise, stuck out her hand and attempted to stroke it. The dog could have swallowed her whole, but unluckily, did not choose to do so.
‘I so miss my little Sasha,’ she crooned once the beast had been tethered by an inch wide chain.
If I heard one more thing about that pug I would have bitten her head off myself.
Elsewhere I seem to be surrounded by the dogged. Since my friend Nel and I have started tramping round Wormwood Scrubs as part of our health drive, it’s impossible to miss them (together with a number of other subspecies of the strange and desperate – model air enthusiasts, kite flyers, flashers and junkies). They seem to have a uniform – including anything fom Boden. a Barbour, waxed jacket or one of those sleeveless puffa jacket thingies from the eighties, big Wellington boots and a headscarf. Even in May when we’re walking in short sleeves, they are still in full dog-walking kit. It’s all faintly ridiculous when having passed by this Teutonic woman bristling with tweed, you see her followed by miniscule poodles with pom pom coats. There are the ‘local’ dog walkers too – ie men with shaved heads and tattoos with Staffordshire and Pit Bull Terriers.
But they don't bother with the ribbons in their hair.
Nel bemoans her otherwise highly intelligent academic friend who greets her dog with the regular call of ‘come to mummy’ while yet another, previously sane friend has also succumbed to the lure of the evil hound. Every day she’s out tramping with a pair of Alsatians, coincidentally with somebody I used to know who has recently acquired a whippet. Nel joined them one morning and was distinctly unnerved by the conversation. We talk about food and the GI content of almond chocolate muffins (1, apparently – seems unlikely but we’re willing to be convinced) as well as regular moaning about college kids (lazy idle), DIY obsessed husbands (Energetic always busy), ex husband (gone) and writing (not happening).
Yup, we’re Renaissance women.
The dogged, however, just have very strange doggy conversations: whether you can take them with you on airplanes (thank you Richard Branson for making sure I never fly with you again), doggy passports and doggy cars. My friend has a big Range Rover, especially for transporting the dog twenty yards from her house to the car park where they walk. They know all the other doggeds by the breed of their pet (‘Oh look it’s the corgi/sheepdog over there’/’haven’t seen the two Airedales for a while, do you think they’re on holiday?’)
I met my friend (whippet, keep up) the other day just as she was putting it in the front seat of the specially bought car with the belt around it (dog can’t sit in the boot behind the bars because she gets lonely).
‘How are you?’ I cried, all excited to see her and hear about how her job at the FT and her kids and her husband's new book are doing.
The dog, in the meantime, let off a volley of barking that sounded like a rocket launcher going off in my ear, and flattened itself against the car window, snarling, its mouth open revealing a ring of slavering teeth like the hound of hell.
I jumped back into a different postal district.
‘Oh ignore her, she’s such a sweetie’, said my friend as I cowered.
She didn’t tell me anything about her life, but you’ll be pleased to know she’s the dog is actually a whippet cross.
A bit too f*ing cross if you ask me.
Wednesday, 14 May 2008
Rats...
We didn't win.
Moving swiftly on... did I mention that my daughter who is currently gap-yearing on a remote islant in Vanuatu has a new skill?
Apparently she can kill rats with her machete.
You've got to stab at them.
Really hard. Really, really hard.
That's all.
Just thought I would share that with you.
Moving swiftly on... did I mention that my daughter who is currently gap-yearing on a remote islant in Vanuatu has a new skill?
Apparently she can kill rats with her machete.
You've got to stab at them.
Really hard. Really, really hard.
That's all.
Just thought I would share that with you.
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Why doesn't the darn shoe fit?
About this blog which I have been given the task of writing:
‘You can write whatever you want…’ says Mr T.
There’s a pause while he smiles at me encouragingly like a bank manager urging me to take out a really big loan that he knows I won’t be able to pay back.
‘…just as long as it’s not libelous,’ he adds, hurriedly.
I knew there would be a catch. This means I can say whatever I want as long as I’m nice.
The problem is that I’m not very good at nice. Bitch, I’m good at. Nice? Not so much.
It doesn’t help that everyone around me in the office is giddy with party fever about tonight’s Nibbie’s for which my gold embossed stiffy never arrived.
Nibbie’s, which those of you who (like me until five minutes ago) might think is a brand of cat food or an extra nipple - neither of which make you want to reach for a posh frock - are in fact the affectionate name for the British Book Industry Awards where the prize, should you get one, is an engraved.....wait for it...nippl, I mean nib.
Got your interest there for a minute, though didn't I?
Mr T won Baker Tilly Imprint & Editor in 2005 and this year The A Team have been nominated for no fewer that three gongs: Baker Tilly Imprint & Editor, Frankfurt Book Fair Rights Professional and BBIA Lightning Source Independent Publisher of the Year.
Naturally, it’s the big guns who dust down their top hat and tails and pitch up to this sort of thing - those who have been nominated, suitably accessorised by some of the Directors and Managers. But on this occasion - sing Hallelujah and Loud Rejoicing in the Choir- we’ve just been told that there’s a spare ticket.
The invitation is offered round the office in diminishing order of seniority and time served: so naturally I’m last, just before accounts and Marco the doorman. Truth to tell, I think Marco might have beaten me to it.
Cinderella, must have felt like this.
Oh well, I comfort myself, I couldn’t have gone to the ball anyway, even if I had longed to, even if I had a dress to wear, not even if I was first pick and Marco's suit wasn't in the cleaners. Thanks to the youngest of my four children, I’m currently doing my GCSE’s for the fifth time and I’ve got Religious Education tomorrow afternoon. Revision doesn’t happen on its own you know. Somebody has to dangle chocolate and jimmy the remote control out of said daughter's hand, lead her away from the Castaway marathon, and gently suggest she opens a book (and then duck when it flies across the room and hits the wall behind your head).
Definitely no ball for me then. There’s absolutely no way I could swan off to Brighton and gorge on canapés whilst basking in the glow of other people’s hard work and achievements even if there was any good reason why I should be there.
Instead I get to draw the raffle.
Yes indeedy – since all of the more senior people have passed, we’re having our very own Nibbie’s Lottery with the names of all those interested placed inside a large manilla envelope, which I’m holding feeling like one of those rent a celebrities that they drag out for award’s ceremonies, but without the plastic surgery and the borrowed dress from Alexander McQueen.
‘It’s a great honour to be here with you this evening rewarding the work of the Publicity Department, the Editorial Staff, and the Sales Team (pause for applause)…and before I open the envelope, I would just like to say a few words...
I am told to get on with it. Everyone is trying to look casually disinterested while mentally getting their hot party dress ironed and into a garment bag by four o'clock., having already memorised the train timetable
….and so, tonight’s winner is…
Not me.
Obviously.
You’ve got to be in it to win it.
‘Never mind,’ said Ms Rights, who earlier in the day had looked at my outfit and told me I reminded her of a luxury Park Avenue Apartment. Small, chic, compact and terribly expensive, perhaps? No, beige, taupe, peach and brown - you know, like the upholstery. My, I was flattered. And very glad nobody tried to sit on me.
I nod. But then I remember, just at about the same time as it dawns on her.
I’m not going to that either.
‘You can write whatever you want…’ says Mr T.
There’s a pause while he smiles at me encouragingly like a bank manager urging me to take out a really big loan that he knows I won’t be able to pay back.
‘…just as long as it’s not libelous,’ he adds, hurriedly.
I knew there would be a catch. This means I can say whatever I want as long as I’m nice.
The problem is that I’m not very good at nice. Bitch, I’m good at. Nice? Not so much.
It doesn’t help that everyone around me in the office is giddy with party fever about tonight’s Nibbie’s for which my gold embossed stiffy never arrived.
Nibbie’s, which those of you who (like me until five minutes ago) might think is a brand of cat food or an extra nipple - neither of which make you want to reach for a posh frock - are in fact the affectionate name for the British Book Industry Awards where the prize, should you get one, is an engraved.....wait for it...nippl, I mean nib.
Got your interest there for a minute, though didn't I?
Mr T won Baker Tilly Imprint & Editor in 2005 and this year The A Team have been nominated for no fewer that three gongs: Baker Tilly Imprint & Editor, Frankfurt Book Fair Rights Professional and BBIA Lightning Source Independent Publisher of the Year.
Naturally, it’s the big guns who dust down their top hat and tails and pitch up to this sort of thing - those who have been nominated, suitably accessorised by some of the Directors and Managers. But on this occasion - sing Hallelujah and Loud Rejoicing in the Choir- we’ve just been told that there’s a spare ticket.
The invitation is offered round the office in diminishing order of seniority and time served: so naturally I’m last, just before accounts and Marco the doorman. Truth to tell, I think Marco might have beaten me to it.
Cinderella, must have felt like this.
Oh well, I comfort myself, I couldn’t have gone to the ball anyway, even if I had longed to, even if I had a dress to wear, not even if I was first pick and Marco's suit wasn't in the cleaners. Thanks to the youngest of my four children, I’m currently doing my GCSE’s for the fifth time and I’ve got Religious Education tomorrow afternoon. Revision doesn’t happen on its own you know. Somebody has to dangle chocolate and jimmy the remote control out of said daughter's hand, lead her away from the Castaway marathon, and gently suggest she opens a book (and then duck when it flies across the room and hits the wall behind your head).
Definitely no ball for me then. There’s absolutely no way I could swan off to Brighton and gorge on canapés whilst basking in the glow of other people’s hard work and achievements even if there was any good reason why I should be there.
Instead I get to draw the raffle.
Yes indeedy – since all of the more senior people have passed, we’re having our very own Nibbie’s Lottery with the names of all those interested placed inside a large manilla envelope, which I’m holding feeling like one of those rent a celebrities that they drag out for award’s ceremonies, but without the plastic surgery and the borrowed dress from Alexander McQueen.
‘It’s a great honour to be here with you this evening rewarding the work of the Publicity Department, the Editorial Staff, and the Sales Team (pause for applause)…and before I open the envelope, I would just like to say a few words...
I am told to get on with it. Everyone is trying to look casually disinterested while mentally getting their hot party dress ironed and into a garment bag by four o'clock., having already memorised the train timetable
….and so, tonight’s winner is…
Not me.
Obviously.
You’ve got to be in it to win it.
‘Never mind,’ said Ms Rights, who earlier in the day had looked at my outfit and told me I reminded her of a luxury Park Avenue Apartment. Small, chic, compact and terribly expensive, perhaps? No, beige, taupe, peach and brown - you know, like the upholstery. My, I was flattered. And very glad nobody tried to sit on me.
She continued: ‘We’ve still got the Orange Prize to look forward to.’ Everybody on the A team is really excited about our author Nancy Huston’s novel Fault Lines being shortlisted and we have a whole table to fill.
‘Everyone will be there and we'll all be together then. It’ll be so much better.’
‘Everyone will be there and we'll all be together then. It’ll be so much better.’
I nod. But then I remember, just at about the same time as it dawns on her.
I’m not going to that either.
Saturday, 10 May 2008
Expect the unexpected
I've just come back from a job in France.
This was heavy duty coal face stuff – first class Eurostar then TGV to Dijon, for three days in a 13th Century Abbey that has been taken over by Relais & Chateaux, to sample the Michelin starred food, wine taste and hob nob with local sculptor Paul Day, who is responsible for the kissing couple at St Pancras. Yep, it’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it.
Naturally, the sun came out, the countryside was idyllic, there were little Shetland ponies on the grounds which included topiary, fountains and a small lake. The bathrooms had Jacuzzis, the restaurant featured fine wines of the region that just happens to be, Burgundy and….well you know the sort of thing – champagne and lobster canapés in the lounge before dinner, chocolates in the bedroom with more champagne in an ice bucket.
The usual.
What's not to like?
Well apart from the snails, that is?
No mobile phone reception, perhaps?
That is not something that usually worries me, but with my kids scattered hither and thither, I do like to be able to be contacted so I know they are just ignoring me rather than calling frantically from a Peruvian prison, say, while Juan slips on his rubber gloves outside the cell.
But nothing. Not a peep. No signal. Mr French Photographer had the same problem, as did some of the other guests on other networks so that we all spent our time shaking small handsets and wandering round the grounds with one hand outstretched or in the air as though we had suddenly got religion, or an urge to join the National Front.
There was wifi but the signal kept dropping so it was sporadic to say the least.
Then my phone died, unexpectedly so I couldn't get any of my numbers from it to use on the land line (and of course I am the kind of woman who can easily remember 11 digit strings of numbers off by heart - not. It all got a bit farcical, though without any trouser dropping. Well on my side of the pond anyway. I was less sure about this back in England, thus my desire to get in touch with my daughter and remind her not to speak to boys until she was 45 and not to have them in the house while I was gone.
Eventually I tried calling the house phone remotely.
...and three texts:
This was heavy duty coal face stuff – first class Eurostar then TGV to Dijon, for three days in a 13th Century Abbey that has been taken over by Relais & Chateaux, to sample the Michelin starred food, wine taste and hob nob with local sculptor Paul Day, who is responsible for the kissing couple at St Pancras. Yep, it’s a tough job but somebody’s got to do it.
Naturally, the sun came out, the countryside was idyllic, there were little Shetland ponies on the grounds which included topiary, fountains and a small lake. The bathrooms had Jacuzzis, the restaurant featured fine wines of the region that just happens to be, Burgundy and….well you know the sort of thing – champagne and lobster canapés in the lounge before dinner, chocolates in the bedroom with more champagne in an ice bucket.
The usual.
I discovered there’s more to Dijon than mustard. It’s where the Kir Royale was invented by the Mayor of Dijon who in an amazing coincidence was called Kir. The local food is Jambon Persille (last time I had this, I had been to see the chef Simon Hopkinson and he gave me the leftovers of a terrine of it, together with the accompanying sauce gribiche to take home for my supper) and boeuf bourguinon (the last time I had this, I forgot about it on the stove and burnt the meat to the bottom of the pan, so we only had gravy). They also do eggs poached in beef stock - Oeufs en Meurette. Come to think of it, this is all basic Simon Hopkinson fare, and more my kind of thing than all the Michelin morsels where vegetables, in particular, seem to be specks, usually arranged like a discrete logo on the side of the plate.
Anyhow. It was all very fine and fancy, and though I kept hold of the reigns of the diet, I did, nevertheless, let the horse have its head a little. It would have been churlish not to.
Unusually also for these sort of trips the company was quite pleasant. Some other friendly journalists, the photographer up the road who looks like he's stepped straight from Where's Wally, all slightly mad hair and fluting French accent, bounding around with the camera stuck to his face, sounding off knowledgeably and opinionatedly on everything from the wine choice to the shower height.
What's not to like?
Well apart from the snails, that is?
No mobile phone reception, perhaps?
That is not something that usually worries me, but with my kids scattered hither and thither, I do like to be able to be contacted so I know they are just ignoring me rather than calling frantically from a Peruvian prison, say, while Juan slips on his rubber gloves outside the cell.
But nothing. Not a peep. No signal. Mr French Photographer had the same problem, as did some of the other guests on other networks so that we all spent our time shaking small handsets and wandering round the grounds with one hand outstretched or in the air as though we had suddenly got religion, or an urge to join the National Front.
There was wifi but the signal kept dropping so it was sporadic to say the least.
Then my phone died, unexpectedly so I couldn't get any of my numbers from it to use on the land line (and of course I am the kind of woman who can easily remember 11 digit strings of numbers off by heart - not. It all got a bit farcical, though without any trouser dropping. Well on my side of the pond anyway. I was less sure about this back in England, thus my desire to get in touch with my daughter and remind her not to speak to boys until she was 45 and not to have them in the house while I was gone.
Eventually I tried calling the house phone remotely.
You have no new messages.
Then in Baume, I got my mobile working again.
3 messages:
I play them:
1. Editor at Waddling Duck re the copy edit (that's a less palable story of turmoil, violence and fear that I shall not go into here).
2. Friend asking if I want to go to the cinema last Wednesday.
3. Hang up.
...and three texts:
1. Orange update
2. This person called and left no message
3. Orange update
(Why all the freaking updates when you can't even get a signal in bloody France - I mean it's not outer Mongolia?)
My goodness, my popularity is unsurpassed.
My goodness, my popularity is unsurpassed.
So nothing from any of my children. I wondered what the PR in Scotland wanted, and then I switched on my laptop and checked my email:
1 message:
It's was a forward from the Scottish Daily Record saying that James Stocks, chef at Balbirnie House, who claims to be protege of celebrity chef Marco Pierre White is a sham. White says he doesn't know him and his entire CV has been, shall we say, somewhat elaborated? He has been suspended from his post at present re further investigations.Darn it, this was one of the places we visited on the gourmet tour of Fife.
So now, not only do I have to clear up (I may be exaggerating here, but only slightly) 2,326 (and I quote the copy editor) "insidious errors" in my novel, then type up all my notes on the French trip, write 1500 euphemisms for food and hold down the office job at Pedantic Press where Mr T is away all week in South Africa, but now I also have to rewrite the Scottish piece and scrape Mr Stocks into the bin.
It quite makes you lose your appetite.
So now, not only do I have to clear up (I may be exaggerating here, but only slightly) 2,326 (and I quote the copy editor) "insidious errors" in my novel, then type up all my notes on the French trip, write 1500 euphemisms for food and hold down the office job at Pedantic Press where Mr T is away all week in South Africa, but now I also have to rewrite the Scottish piece and scrape Mr Stocks into the bin.
It quite makes you lose your appetite.
Thursday, 1 May 2008
The Fugitives
I love hotel breakfasts. The big blowsy mushrooms, the fried bread, the poached eggs and the bacon, the toast in its little silver rack, the tiny jams in tiny pots - its saturated fat heaven.
And then the sun came out.
I couldn't believe it. Sun in Scotland. Are you mad? Until now I had a theory that Scotland saved up its small quota of sunny days especially so American tourists could say 'Oh yeah, Scoland - it's really wunnerful, we had wunnerful weather', when told that it rains there all the time. This leaves the locally bred tourist a bit short, as there are not enough good days to go round and I always get rain. Or even snow.
But perhaps I have been away so long that I count as a visitor, because there the sun was hanging in a blue sky with a scribble of big white clouds on the horizon.
We were on our way to St. Andrews, home of golf and student billets of gormless Royal princes, and following the road for Leven or Levin as in Bernard Levin as the photographer pronounced it.
'Look at that bloody power station. Who would put that at the seaside?' he asked as we passed a huge industrial monstrosity at the end of a big kiss curl of sand. I failed to tell him that people from my village used to come here on holiday.
So I held my wheesht and directed him across country to the restaurant. It took us a while to find it as everybody we stopped to ask was posh, under twenty and English and none of them seemed to have heard of it despite it being on the sea front. Eventually a man said: 'Oh you mean the gless boax' (glass box) and directed us to the car park which, having already established that Scotland is a country of aesthetes, is right slap bang at the front of one of the most beautiful beaches in Scotland with the concrete public toilets given pride of place.
Nevertheless, if you look past it, this has to be one of the all time great view restaurants, especially if you go there off season when the pristine beach is empty but for a few seagulls swooping overhead and a line of sunshine sparkling on the horizon like fat on a steak (only my mother would appreciate that simile). Sand stretched as far as the eye could see with seagulls sprinkled on the rocks like confetti.
I walked along the beach, my feet sinking in to the soft sand - a fisherman was laying out rusty chains in a long straight line along the beach. Another woman was fiddling in her little boat getting it ready to launch, litchen on the rocks of the harbour walls the colour of gold, Mediterranean blue sky, cute little pastel cottages.... and I thought - I could live here. Suddenly I saw my future. Me at 65 in wellies and a Barbour with a big hat on my head and a lolloping labrador called Mabel running ahead. I could get myself a tiny cottage for a couple of hundred thousand pounds and take in the odd rambler or hiker for Bed and Breakfast and one day an eccentric millionaire or Brian Eno on a bird watching holiday would wander in looking for one of the items on offer.
'I saved that bottle of wine we didn't finish the other night,' he suddenly remembered, dashing briefly back to the car and returning with a bottle of Lebanese Ksara which he poured into a couple of glasses that he borrowed from the Fish and Chip shop.
Scottish Fish and Chips and Lebanese wine. Almost my ex-marriage in a meal. It was bliss, but even in paradise there are problems - a wasp the size of the bobble on a fair isle hat in the guise of a huge white police van that cruised up and down the narrow little street.
'What on earth are the police here for? ' asked the photographer, as he gathered up his litter and wandered up and down the marina holding the wine bottle looking for a bin and only then saw a sign saying:
I can see the headline now: Food Writer and Paparazzi Arrested for Public Indecency.
I've never driven out of a town faster since I hit the car when reversing in a Tuscan village in 1987 and its side caved it.... I mean, I've never driven out of a town faster since I hit that car when reversing out of a parking spot in Knightsbridge....
I mean we drove really quite fast,
Bonnie and Clyde didn't have a look in - and they certainly didn't have an ice cream cone in their hands when they made their getaway.
And then the sun came out.
I couldn't believe it. Sun in Scotland. Are you mad? Until now I had a theory that Scotland saved up its small quota of sunny days especially so American tourists could say 'Oh yeah, Scoland - it's really wunnerful, we had wunnerful weather', when told that it rains there all the time. This leaves the locally bred tourist a bit short, as there are not enough good days to go round and I always get rain. Or even snow.
But perhaps I have been away so long that I count as a visitor, because there the sun was hanging in a blue sky with a scribble of big white clouds on the horizon.
We were on our way to St. Andrews, home of golf and student billets of gormless Royal princes, and following the road for Leven or Levin as in Bernard Levin as the photographer pronounced it.
'Look at that bloody power station. Who would put that at the seaside?' he asked as we passed a huge industrial monstrosity at the end of a big kiss curl of sand. I failed to tell him that people from my village used to come here on holiday.
So I held my wheesht and directed him across country to the restaurant. It took us a while to find it as everybody we stopped to ask was posh, under twenty and English and none of them seemed to have heard of it despite it being on the sea front. Eventually a man said: 'Oh you mean the gless boax' (glass box) and directed us to the car park which, having already established that Scotland is a country of aesthetes, is right slap bang at the front of one of the most beautiful beaches in Scotland with the concrete public toilets given pride of place.
Nevertheless, if you look past it, this has to be one of the all time great view restaurants, especially if you go there off season when the pristine beach is empty but for a few seagulls swooping overhead and a line of sunshine sparkling on the horizon like fat on a steak (only my mother would appreciate that simile). Sand stretched as far as the eye could see with seagulls sprinkled on the rocks like confetti.
Or maybe it was guano.
We were met by a snaggle toothed waiter with multihued teeth and staring eyes and a tumbling French accent rolling over his teeth like boulders in a stream, glaring at us: 'We didn’t know you were coming', he said, somewhat sinisterly, all but rubbing his hands together. I half expected to hear a da da da da crushing on the organ and have Vincent Price roll up with the wine and eat us.
After the requisite photoshoot we set off for Elie which the photographer insisted on pronouncing as though it was named after a character in the Bible, and Criel (I wont even tell you how he managed to get his tongue round that - I've since checked the Scottish Language entry in Scotland 1001 Things You Need To Know by Edwin Moore which we're publishing on 18 September but there are no guidelines for place names - we like the English to look stupid).
In Criel you could have lobster cooked while you waited which you ate outside on picnic tables. Lobster! I hear you cry. Outside! You wail. Sun, you chorus. Yes, I do not lie. I am astonished. Whatever happened to sitting in the car in a lay-by in the middle of nowhere (having shot through the scenic spots quickly admiring them from the safety of a car window) eating tea brewed up in the boot under a golf umbrella? Aye - the car parks of Bonnie Scotland - I've shivered in all of them. Where was the lobster then?
We were met by a snaggle toothed waiter with multihued teeth and staring eyes and a tumbling French accent rolling over his teeth like boulders in a stream, glaring at us: 'We didn’t know you were coming', he said, somewhat sinisterly, all but rubbing his hands together. I half expected to hear a da da da da crushing on the organ and have Vincent Price roll up with the wine and eat us.
After the requisite photoshoot we set off for Elie which the photographer insisted on pronouncing as though it was named after a character in the Bible, and Criel (I wont even tell you how he managed to get his tongue round that - I've since checked the Scottish Language entry in Scotland 1001 Things You Need To Know by Edwin Moore which we're publishing on 18 September but there are no guidelines for place names - we like the English to look stupid).
In Criel you could have lobster cooked while you waited which you ate outside on picnic tables. Lobster! I hear you cry. Outside! You wail. Sun, you chorus. Yes, I do not lie. I am astonished. Whatever happened to sitting in the car in a lay-by in the middle of nowhere (having shot through the scenic spots quickly admiring them from the safety of a car window) eating tea brewed up in the boot under a golf umbrella? Aye - the car parks of Bonnie Scotland - I've shivered in all of them. Where was the lobster then?
I walked along the beach, my feet sinking in to the soft sand - a fisherman was laying out rusty chains in a long straight line along the beach. Another woman was fiddling in her little boat getting it ready to launch, litchen on the rocks of the harbour walls the colour of gold, Mediterranean blue sky, cute little pastel cottages.... and I thought - I could live here. Suddenly I saw my future. Me at 65 in wellies and a Barbour with a big hat on my head and a lolloping labrador called Mabel running ahead. I could get myself a tiny cottage for a couple of hundred thousand pounds and take in the odd rambler or hiker for Bed and Breakfast and one day an eccentric millionaire or Brian Eno on a bird watching holiday would wander in looking for one of the items on offer.
I shared this erotic fantasy with the photographer - who didn't seem impressed by my chances of snagging a passing millionaire. Nor indeed of running into Brian (who let's face it I often see in Portobello Road and he hasn't swooned at my feet yet. Last time I saw him he was complaining about dog mess. Oh that man has a silver tongue...)
'But anyway, why is it called is a fish supper when it's only lunchtime?' asked the photographer.
'It just is'. I snapped as we made our way to the Anstruther Fish and Chip Shop in the pretty fishing village of, yes you've guessed it, Anstruther. It did not disappoint. Vinegar flowed like wine and salt like sugar over strawberries from giant shakers, mushy peas, pickled onion and sauce. We settled ourselves outside on a bench and ate it the traditional way - on our knees in the open air.
'But anyway, why is it called is a fish supper when it's only lunchtime?' asked the photographer.
'It just is'. I snapped as we made our way to the Anstruther Fish and Chip Shop in the pretty fishing village of, yes you've guessed it, Anstruther. It did not disappoint. Vinegar flowed like wine and salt like sugar over strawberries from giant shakers, mushy peas, pickled onion and sauce. We settled ourselves outside on a bench and ate it the traditional way - on our knees in the open air.
'I saved that bottle of wine we didn't finish the other night,' he suddenly remembered, dashing briefly back to the car and returning with a bottle of Lebanese Ksara which he poured into a couple of glasses that he borrowed from the Fish and Chip shop.
Scottish Fish and Chips and Lebanese wine. Almost my ex-marriage in a meal. It was bliss, but even in paradise there are problems - a wasp the size of the bobble on a fair isle hat in the guise of a huge white police van that cruised up and down the narrow little street.
'What on earth are the police here for? ' asked the photographer, as he gathered up his litter and wandered up and down the marina holding the wine bottle looking for a bin and only then saw a sign saying:
It is Illegal
to Drink Alcohol
In Public
Fine £500
I can see the headline now: Food Writer and Paparazzi Arrested for Public Indecency.
I've never driven out of a town faster since I hit the car when reversing in a Tuscan village in 1987 and its side caved it.... I mean, I've never driven out of a town faster since I hit that car when reversing out of a parking spot in Knightsbridge....
I mean we drove really quite fast,
Bonnie and Clyde didn't have a look in - and they certainly didn't have an ice cream cone in their hands when they made their getaway.
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