RUE (Resist the urge to edit!): 2013 365 Challenge #183

Cheeky Thomas

I finally sent Baby Blues to the proofreader today.

I like that sentence. Somehow it makes me feel more like a proper author.

Even though I know the person I chose is more used to working on business documents, I have every confidence that she will pick up all the typos and poor grammar in my novel. And, the bonus part? I don’t have to read it again and find another dozen things wrong.

A book is never finished. But, having a deadline, giving it to someone else, that marks an ending.

I used to find the same with my paintings. Often they were better if I worked to a tight deadline, because I didn’t over-think or over-work them. In the end, my paintings became too bland, too safe, as I worried about giving them a professional finish. I think the same could happen with a novel. I merrily hacked out sections of Baby Blues, to both reduce the word count and resolve point of view issues.

I’m as happy as a little boy on a train!

Once you start hacking, though, it’s hard to stop. There were at least two chapters I thought about pulling but kept in, lest the story become too bare. Has the manuscript suffered from losing 7000 of mostly internal thought? Probably not, although possibly some of the depth of understanding about character motivation may have gone. Unlikely.

There’s an acroynm, a phrase, in editing. RUE. Resist the Urge to Explain. Trust your readers get it, without hammering it home with a mallet. The first time I edited BBWS, I wrote RUE all over the manuscript. It’s easy to want to make sure your readers know what you and your characters really mean.

I think that’s why so many scenes ended up with me presenting the internal thoughts of both protagonists (and I can also see how confusing that can get).

I really hope Baby Blues does well, but for now it’s out of my hands. Time to get back to Claire, back to the children, back to Wimbledon and walking the dog. What would I really like to do right now (it’s 5pm)?

Go back to bed!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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Claire strode down the corridor, hoping the surge of anger didn’t fade before she reached her room. In her head, she replayed Michael’s words, and pushed all thoughts of Kim aside. Time enough to worry about her friend when she had her things and was safely away from the wedding. She had no idea where she would go, but that, too, could wait.

As she stalked past guests, she caught occasional glimpses of their faces. Some merely looked shocked to see her striding past like the grim reaper. Others glared and made noises as if to berate her. She shook them off like pesky flies.

At last the bedroom door was in front of her. She hoped, for a moment, that Michael had been bluffing and had re-joined the party. It would be a relief to collect her things and leave, with no more words spoken. Then his voice echoed in her mind, as he called her childish. His smug, arrogant voice, as he’d explained how he intended to brow-beat her into submission.

Bastard.

Claire flung open the door and had the satisfaction of seeing Michael jump. Before he could gather himself, she swept in and began collecting her things together. Hot words filled her mouth, but she knew the shaking in her limbs would betray her if she spoke. If she could gather everything up before Michael had a chance to open his mouth, he could hurl whatever accusations he liked at her retreating back.

It was a vain hope.

“What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

“I can see that.” He leant back against the headboard. “I mean, where are you going? It’s nearly midnight. We’re miles from anywhere. You can’t leave.”

“Watch me.”

Michael sat up, narrowly missing head-butting the top bunk. He swung his feet to the floor and glared up at her.

“Claire, you’re being childish. Go and find Kim, apologise. We’ll sleep on it and everything will seem a hundred times better in the morning.”

“Apologise? I have nothing to be sorry for. It was you who blurted her secret out to the whole party.”

“And who told me that secret in the first place?” He raised an eyebrow at her, and she itched to slap him.

“I only said she wanted a baby. You put it together in your mind, because you’re obsessed. Honestly, Michael, what is it with you? I didn’t think men had a biological clock?”

She looked over at him, on her way to the bathroom to get her things, and saw something in his expression, a vulnerability, that made her hesitate. There was a reason behind his desire to be a dad. For a moment she wanted to know what it was. Then his face shifted and resumed the smug expression he had worn since the party. Resuming her journey to the en-suite, she spoke over her shoulder.

“I will apologise to Kim when she’s had a chance to calm down. I won’t encroach on her special day any further. Walking back into the bedroom, she stood facing him, hands on hips.

“As for staying here tonight, I don’t think that’s appropriate, do you? I shall find a motel. Make yourself scarce tomorrow. You are not welcome, and I do not want to see you here when I return.” She stuffed the last of her things into her bag, enjoying the stunned silence.

Soon everything was packed, and it seemed she would escape without any more words from Michael. As she reached the door, he spoke.

“You’ve changed, Claire. You’ve grown hard. You never used to be this confrontational.”

She turned and smiled. “Well, more fool me. I haven’t grown hard, Michael, I’ve grown up. You should try it some time.”

With that she wrenched open the door and stormed down the corridor.

***

Tears for Thomas: 2013 365 Challenge #182

Enjoying a tractor ride at Nene Valley Railway

Goodness me, it’s 1st July. I’ve made it through six months of my daily writing challenge. Last night, the sixth volume of Two-Hundred Steps Home appeared on Smashwords and has already had 25 downloads.

Baby Blues (Part One!) went to the proofreader last night too. It should have been all of it, but a crazy-busy weekend meant it didn’t quite happen. I hope to have finished editing the last 20 pages today, so the proofreader can have the whole manuscript, and I can get back to just worrying about Claire, promoting Dragon Wraiths (which will probably mean putting it back in the Select Programme, seeing as Smashwords has not produced additional sales), and catching up on some of the other projects that have been waiting for my attention.

July also means my daughter starts school in two months, and my son is ten weeks from his 3rd birthday. I know parenting continues to be challenging, but I do feel like I’ve survived a hurricane and can start rebuilding my house.

The penyy-farthing following us on the tractor ride

The penny-farthing following us on the tractor ride

Yesterday, visiting Thomas the Tank Engine, at the local steam railway, was a perfect example. We went to say farewell, as the little blue steam engine is going to hospital for his ten-year check up. The day was still tiring, still stressful, but oh so much easier than it would have been a year ago. No pushchair, no nappies (unfortunately it also means dashes to the toilet and forgetting to pack wet-wipes for the ice cream mess. Ah well.)

We watched the model railway, with James and Thomas, Emily and Percy (trains), as well as cameos from Postman Pat and Peppa Pig. (Photos will follow, when my computer stops being a pain). We sat in a cream and blue carriage while Thomas pulled us along the track and through a long tunnel. We went to a Victorian fair and had a tractor ride, sitting on straw bales. We had ice cream. We saw a man on a penny-farthing. A great day.

I watched mothers with pushchairs, with a toddler and a baby, and I wanted to help. I wanted to say, it gets easier. I wanted to reassure them it was worth the effort. I couldn’t, I don’t know how to do that without sounding patronising. But I hope they saw me with mine and saw a future where their children could both climb on the train unassisted and didn’t need carrying!

And now my daughter has tears for Thomas. She woke up crying last night, because she missed Thomas. This is a steam train we have visited maybe four times, which is going for a boiler overhaul and won’t be back for a year. My daughter’s capacity for empathy is bewildering and amazing in equal measure. One more thing to be thankful for, I guess!

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Claire dragged at the car handle, but it wouldn’t open. She aimed a kick at the tyre and immediately regretted it, as her toe stabbed through the skimpy sandals she’d purchased to go with her maid of honour dress.

Behind her, she could hear that the band had started their next song. Slowly, the conversation returned, almost drowning out the sound of approaching footsteps. They weren’t the light ones she wanted to hear, but the heavy tread of an unwelcome male. For a moment she hoped it might be Jeff, come to reassure her that Kim wasn’t really that angry. Then she caught a hint of aftershave on the night breeze, and hope died.

Praying she could escape into the dark, Claire scurried round the car and wove through the others in the car park until she reached a Range Rover. Without thinking, Claire ducked down in the shadow of the 4×4 and listened. The footsteps stopped, and she felt he might hear her heart thudding in the silence, despite the sounds of the party in the distance.

“Claire?”

Michael’s voice rang out, closer than Claire expected. She flinched, but stayed ducked low, trying not to dwell on how absurd her actions were.

“Come on, Claire. I saw you come over here. The Skoda’s locked. Why are you hiding like a child?”

Because you sound like an angry parent. Claire clenched her jaw, and dug her nails into her hand. She concentrated on keeping her breathing shallow. Go away, Michael. You’ve done enough damage. Let me skulk off in peace.

The footsteps came nearer, crunching the gravel underfoot. Claire tensed, ready to run. She wondered if she should remove her sandals, but they were preferable to running barefoot across the stones. Michael stood between her and the hostel entrance.

“What are you going to do, Claire? Hide out here all night? I’m going to go and wait in our room, so you’ll have to face me eventually.” He stopped, as if listening for a response.

“You’re being childish, Claire. So Kim’s angry, so what? She’s the bride and, from what you say, she’s pregnant. Tears and tantrums go with the territory.” His voice sounded amused, patronising. Claire wanted to fly at him and gouge his eyes with her pink nails.

What did I ever see in him? What a self-satisfied prig. Kim was right. Thinking about her best friend – and the look of anger on her face as she inadvertently revealed her secret to all her wedding guests – brought bile to Claire’s throat. Her head thumped with too much champagne and she swallowed hard against the urge to vomit. That would give her away for sure.

Tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. What a mess. She shivered, realising it was bitterly cold out in the car park, away from the heat of the hostel. Come on Michael, go away! She wondered if he was going to stand there all night, cornering her until she had to break cover or freeze. Then she remembered his threat to stand guard over her bag and car keys. What a tosser.

“Okay, Claire. Have it your way. I’m going to sit in the warm and wait for you to come to your senses.”

She heard the sound of gravel crunching, fading into the distance, as Michael carried out his threat.

“Damn!” Claire whispered, when she was sure he was gone. She stood and stretched out cramped muscles, resisting the temptation to lean against the Range Rover in case it set off the alarm. “How am I going to get my stuff back, without facing him?”

She stood in the dark and brushed away the tears, as options ran through her mind. She could bribe a member of staff to distract him, or call the police and tell them Michael was harassing her. Or she could get the RAC to get her into the car, tell them she had dropped the keys down a drain. Or she could just face him, and get it over with. Get the hell out, and leave him and his self-righteous preaching behind.

Shoulders back, chin high, Claire strode towards the building.

***

Lesson from a steam train (starrystez.com)
nvr.org.uk

Tidying Futility: 2013 365 Challenge #181

Playroom Carnage: We’re taking Baby Annabelle to France

I have taken to saying / tweeting lately that Cleaning with children in the house is like trying to paint a boat that’s still in the water. Utterly pointless.

Dragged myself out of bed this morning to tidy up, after a night if calpol and cuddles for fever boy. (Fever broke at 4am) I found craft sand all over the playroom after Daddy and daughter craft last night, so cleaning had to start there.

After ninety minutes of sorting, tidying and hoovering I found the playroom floor. It looked lovely.

Then Saturday morning TV ended and the children decided they wanted to go on holiday to France. They packed bags and babies and buckets of other junk (they’ve watched Mummy pack too often!) and the cushion corner became their car. I’ve been reading recently about the importance of play for the sake of play, and that mess is good. So, I am turning a blind eye.

Sometimes it takes effort to do nothing. No one said it was easy to be the parent you want to be. Lord knows I don’t manage it very often. But for now I’m off to hoover the lounge, and then LOCK THE DOOR!

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“I, Jeffery Philip Westwood, take you, Kim Louise Jenkins, to be my lawful wedded wife…”

Claire stood next to her best friend and tuned out the familiar words. It was the first time she’d been part of a wedding, although she had attended a few. It felt different, standing at the front, with the registrar so close. She was almost scared to breathe, in case she interrupted the ceremony. Gazing at the side of Kim’s face; her eyes sparkling, her lips quivering in a smile as she locked eyes with Jeff, Claire thought she could set off a firework and the bride and groom would be oblivious.

Her shoulder-blades itched. She could feel Michael sitting behind her; could sense his eyes boring into her back. It wasn’t hard to imagine his thoughts, as she stood this close to an altar. Although they’d never discussed marriage, the fight that had ended their relationship gave her a pretty good idea where Michael’s desires lay. People didn’t want children without wanting the full family experience.

The formulaic exchange of promises droned on. Claire recalled the awful night, four months ago, when her rosy view of the future had ended. When she’d realised how desperate Michael was for children. Their discussion had confirmed for her how equally-desperate she was not to have them. There hadn’t been anything to say after that.

And now, my best friend is married and with child. Wouldn’t Michael have a field day, if he knew. Resisting the urge to look behind her, Claire squared her shoulders and prayed for the weekend to be over.

The sun hovered low on the horizon. Dinner had been survived, and the free alcohol was going down a storm. Claire stood in the corner of the terrace, watching groups of friends mingling and separating in a slow, elaborate dance. Laugher echoed on the breeze, and through the people, the occasional flash of cream silk showed the bride at the centre of things.

Kim had managed to persuade some high school friends to turn up with their drums and guitars, and live music drifted out from the great hall. Claire had sent Michael for drinks, glad to get away from his pervading presence. Now the chores were done, he had taken to standing behind her shoulder like a bodyguard, scaring away anyone else brave enough to attempt to approach for a chat.

Claire mused that it would have been infinitely preferable to have come alone, and feel like the awkward spinster, rather than have the dark cloud of her past literally following her around, raining on her parade.

She felt a touch at her elbow and turned to see Michael holding out a glass of champagne.

“Have they run out of gin?” Claire frowned. Champagne made her giddy. What she needed was good, hard liquor.

Michael looked awkward for a moment, before saying, “Tonic. They’ve run out of tonic.”

It was clearly a lie. Claire sighed, the pent-up frustration of four months gusting forth like a hurricane.

“Enough, Michael. Stop trying to control my life.”

Michael’s head jerked back, as if she had slapped him. “I’m not trying to control anything.”

“Then why bring me champagne when it’s obvious they have plenty of gin and tonic. This is a licensed bar, not a village hall party. Are you hoping I’ll get drunk and you will get me horizontal? You can scrap that idea right now.”

Michael’s eyes hardened. “That’s not fair, Claire. You asked me to come, and all you’ve done is avoid me. Now you’re acting like I’m your father one minute, and some oik in a bar trying to get laid the next. I am none of those things.”

“Then stop acting like it. What happened, Michael? We used to work, once. What went wrong?”

“Nothing.” He took a step closer and she unconsciously stepped back, avoiding his outstretched hand. “Nothing went wrong. We had a misunderstanding, that’s all. I still love you.”

His words made her shiver. “If you do, then leave me alone. Please. I’ve moved on, Michael.” She wanted to add, I’ve out-grown you, but managed to hold her tongue.

“Is it still about the baby? We can talk about that. We never talked about it properly.”

“There was no baby, Michael, except in your mind. I was late for my period, that’s all. I wanted you to reassure me I could do what I needed to do, if I was pregnant. And you went all doolally on me, practically picking the baby names and decorating the spare room.” She glared at him. “I wasn’t ready for happy families, not then, not now.”

“But, I thought… All that time with Sky.”

“You thought, because I had fun with my niece, I was ready to be a mother? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You want to start again?”

He didn’t respond, but the shift in his expression told her she was right.

A boiling heat rushed through Claire, darkening her vision and causing her hands to tremble. “Get the message, Michael. I am not interested.” Her voice rose. “I do not want a baby. Kim can go ahead and have one, if she wants. Get married, have the happy ever after, but not me. I’m not ready for that kind of responsibility.”

“Kim’s pregnant?”

Michael’s voice rang out across the terrace, just as the band finished one song and were about to start another. His words caused a hush to fall across the assembled guests.

Claire felt the world close in. Me and my big mouth. She turned, seeking out Kim in the crowd. Her friend stood several feet away, her face white. Claire took a step forward, apologies on her lips. Kim gave her a furious stare and swept away.

Dropping her arms to her side, Claire prayed for the world to end. Of course it was a secret. Now her Director knows, everyone knows. How much trouble is she going to be in? She’s never going to speak to me again.

Michael reached out a hand, whether to blame or reassure her, wasn’t clear. She shook him off, and ran from the terrace towards her car.

***

Tennis and Temperatures: 2013 365 Challenge #180

Murray having a dip in the 3rd set

Today was meant to be about cleaning (my Mum and her in-laws are coming for lunch tomorrow) and my son getting his new bike.

We managed the second part – collecting the bike from the friend who kindly picked it up from the ebay seller. Unfortunately, it’s been raining most of the day and, during the short time he had a go, he fell off twice. The downside of buying online is not being able to feel how heavy the thing is. My son’s new bike is much heavier than his sister’s. He’ll get used to it. Of course now my daughter has decided she needs a new bike, because the new one is a bit bigger than hers.

We got back from the supermarket to discover that littlest Martin had a temperature of 38.9C (102F). Then Mummy Martin began to feel poorly too. So this afternoon has been about survival, paracetamol and running round with no clothes on (him, not me!)

It’s raining, the roof is shut on Centre Court

We fell asleep watching Tangled and littlest Martin got a bit hotter (39.9C). Started planning a trip to the walk-in centre, but thankfully ice cream seemed to bring it down again. Darn bugs.

Now we’re curled up on the sofa, kids are watching TV on the iPads and I’m watching Wimbledon. I’m meant to be editing Baby Blues to send to the proofreader on Sunday (haven’t abandoned the cleaning. They’ll have to take us as they find us), but my brain is fuzzy. Wondering if I should put her off for a week or two, but I’d rather not.

Murray was playing really well, until I started watching, and now Robredo is fighting back. Oops. Oh, he won. Good stuff.

Is it bedtime yet?________________________________________________________________________________

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“Claire, thank God you’re already here.”

Kim ran across the terrace and threw herself into her friend’s arms. “I’m so nervous. Find me gin, please. Tell me I’m doing the right thing.”

Claire laughed and hugged Kim tight. “You’re doing the right thing. The bar will open soon. Everything is going to be fine. The ceremony isn’t until 4pm, and it’s only 9 o’clock. Calm down.”

“I’ve been awake since 5am. Poor Mum, I’ve been driving her bonkers. She didn’t want to leave so early, but I insisted.”

“You stayed locally last night?” Claire cursed under her breath. If only she’d known, it would have been the perfect excuse to escape Michael. “I thought you had rehearsals.”

“I told them I couldn’t make it and they should give the understudy a run through. The director didn’t like it, but as they’ll all be drinking at our expense this weekend, they can just lump it!”

Claire’s brain reeled with the barrage of words. “I thought we were paying our own way? Wasn’t that the point?”

“Jeff’s parents are insisting on providing alcohol. They’re horrified that we asked everyone to cough up the cash. Jeff’s Mums says it’s common.”

The girls linked arms and walked to the edge of the terrace, taking a moment to appreciate the rolling hills spread out in front of them.

“What are you doing out here, anyway? Have you had breakfast?” Kim turned to face Claire.

“I’m hiding from Michael. I had breakfast early, and I’ve been out for a walk.”

“Michael, what’s he doing here already?” Kim frowned and pursed her lips, the sparkle in her eye fading.

“He came last night, the same as I did.” She saw Kim’s expression, and grimaced. “Not with me! I came to make sure I was here when you arrived. He had the same thought. Actually, I suspect he came to talk to me before I became caught up in wedding fever.”

Kim made a face as if she felt sick. “And did he? Come over all mushy?”

“Didn’t give him the chance. You’ve never heard so much relentless nonsense spilling from my mouth.”

Kim raised an eyebrow. “I probably have. Poor Michael, I almost feel sorry for him.”

Claire glared and swung out at Kim’s arm. “Cheeky cow!” She laughed. “Come on, I need a coffee. Let’s go and find the bridal suite and get you settled in. I want a bounce on your four-poster bed!”

“Oh, Kim, you look amazing.”

Claire stood in front of her friend and felt tears well up. Brushing them away, she reached forward to tug at a ringlet and straighten Kim’s string of pearls. Between them, she and Kim’s Mum had curled the red locks and pinned them up carefully to hide any blonde roots. The cream charity shop wedding dress fitted perfectly and contrasted beautifully with the red roses and stargazer lilies in her bouquet. Claire smoothed down the pink bridesmaid dress they’d managed to find for her, in the same shop. It didn’t fit quite as well as Kim’s, and she’d had to pin it to her bra to make sure it stayed in place.

Time had drained away like bath water, too fast for comfort. Claire had successfully avoided Michael, who’d been sent to put up signs, usher arrivals to their rooms and generally make himself useful. Every time they bumped into each other, he opened his mouth as if to speak, and Claire found a reason to escape. Flowers to be collected, the cake to be checked, hair to be dressed, make-up applied.

Now, it was ten to four, and everything was ready. Jeff had arrived and been whisked to the room allocated for the civil ceremony, while Kim hid in the bridal suite.

“Having it all in one building is genius,” Claire said to Kim, as she whisked a final brush of blusher across her cheeks. “You don’t need to worry about cars breaking down, traffic, parking or anything. I once knew a girl whose limo didn’t turn up, and she was an hour late. No one told the groom: he thought she’d changed her mind. It was awful.”

Kim shook her head, as if brushing off a pesky fly. “Don’t tell me things like that. Knowing my luck I’ll trip on my dress, fall down the stairs and break a leg.”

“That’s why you have a maid of honour. It’s my job to hold your dress and, if need be, carry you to the altar to say your vows before the paramedics arrive.”

Giggling, the friends linked arms and headed for the door.

***

Being the Customer: 2013 365 Challenge #179

When will I ever get a walk?

I made my decision regarding a proofreader today, and it was really hard!

Everyone picked up my planted typos and there were certain phrases that most of them highlighted as awkward. Apart from that, the punctuation was really subjective. One person favoured em-dashes, another highlighted spliced commas, which I only recently learned existed as a result of a comment on Twitter leading me to this post (thanks, Rinelle!)

In the end it came down to two, mostly on gut feel for what the relationship would be like, as there was so little to choose with the editing. One presented findings as ‘change this’, one presented them as ‘maybe change this’. Part of me thought the former might be more experienced (bearing in mind the comment about getting inexperienced proofreaders for a low budget). Then I realised the ‘maybe’ approach would suit me better.

One person justified the text and said ‘should be justified’. My immediate response was, ‘not for an ebook, thanks.’ One person commented on my first paragraph indentation being wrong at only 0.01 – again an ebook formatting convention. These weren’t deal-breakers, they just made me realise I don’t like being told I’m wrong, when I think I’m not (I know, I’ll learn!). I prefer the gentler approach. As this is my first foray into editing and proofreading – and I have yet to grow that extra layer of skin – I thought, why not be gentle on myself, if it’s going to get the same results.

Anyway, decision made. Finally, I can visit Catherine, Caffeinated’s site again and not feel like a bad person! All I have to do now is get through my final 40 pages by Sunday, having lost my editing time today to choosing a proofreader! 🙂

Time to walk the dog. She’s been waiting patiently all day (and now it’s raining!)

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Claire drove up to the hostel and felt a sliver of ice slide into her chest. Oh, God, I hope Kim isn’t going to be disappointed. The hostel didn’t look like a dream wedding location. The building loomed stark against a grey sky. It looked like the setting for Jane Eyre, or the main building of a severe boarding school.

With a sinking heart, Claire parked her car and headed for reception. She’d managed to book accommodation for the Friday night, to ensure there was no last-minute panic to get there in the morning.

“Checking in, please.”

The woman behind the desk dragged her hands through her hair and glanced up at Claire.

“Just a minute,” she said, and turned to the computer. “Just one night, is it? There’s a wedding here tomorrow.” Her voice suggested this was not a good thing.

“Yes, I know, I’m invited. I’m the maid of honour, actually.” Claire gave a grin. The lady nodded without smiling.

“You’re not the only guest who has come early. It isn’t making my job any easier.”

Claire found herself wanting to apologise. “I suppose there’s a lot to prepare, for a wedding.”

“That’s an understatement, although at least your friend hasn’t opted for a Medieval theme or any such nonsense. Nice and simple, how we like it.”

She retrieved Claire’s key and silently pointed her in the direction of her room. With a shrug, Claire decided to be forgiving. I wouldn’t want to try and organise a wedding with the property still full of guests.

Now she was inside the building, her misgivings faded away. The recent refurbishment was obvious and, while the place still bore all the marks of a YHA hostel, it had been renovated sympathetically. Wooden beams and exposed walls helped retain the feel of an Elizabethan Manor, despite the steel-framed bunk-beds. She’d been allocated a bed in a twelve-person dorm and she was surprised that the room didn’t feel crowded. Wooden floors and sunshine welcomed her in, and she chose a bed near the furthest window.

I wonder if I would get away with staying in here over the weekend, rather than sharing with Michael. She’d had plenty of time to regret letting Michael invite himself. As she gazed round the large shared dorm, the difficulty of allocating guest rooms now hit her, and she giggled at Kim and Jeff’s dilemma. Rather them than me. It could be a roudy event, if they’ve got it wrong.

Pleased to have the room to herself, Claire pulled out the paperback she’d grabbed at the last hostel and settled down to read.

Claire closed her book and decided to head to the lounge to complete her blog post. The phone call from Roger the day before kept echoing through her mind. On the surface, flying half way round the world seemed nothing but a crazy idea. It’s winter over there, too. May is a time to be in England, going to barbecues and sitting on wine bar terraces drinking G&T. The beaches were unlikely to be hot or sunny, although somewhere in the back of her mind she thought maybe Australia didn’t have harsh winters. She knew very little about either country.

Curling into the corner of the Chesterfield sofa, near the original stone fireplace, Claire found it hard to imagine what Antipodean hostels would be like. They won’t be in refurbished sixteen-century manor houses, that’s for sure.

With a guilty feeling that she should be writing her post, or thinking about the following day, Claire loaded up the internet and typed in, “YHA New Zealand.” She hovered over the hostels in the south, thinking they would be the warmest in the winter. The hostel in Catlins looked like a colonial house, sunny and inviting. Then Claire read the note saying the hostel was closed for the winter.

So, even in the south it’s cold in the winter. Then something murmured in her brain. It’s warm in the south here, but what about on the opposite side of the world. Would the north be the hot bit? Geography wasn’t a strong point, but her thought felt right.

Clicking on the northern-most hostel at Ahipara, her screen filled with pictures of long sandy beaches and royal-blue seas. A few more clicks revealed that the weather was still bearable, even in the depths of winter.

Lost in thought, Claire barely heard the footsteps approaching across the wooden floor. Shoes clicked, then came to a standstill next to the sofa. She heard a small cough, and a deep voice spoke.

“Hello, Claire. Planning a holiday?”

Claire flipped closed the iPad case, and turned to face the newcomer, swallowing a surge of irritation.

“Merely researching a writing project, Michael. What are you doing here?”

“Er, you invited me to a wedding?” Michael walked round and sat next to Claire on the sofa, relaxing into the seat with his right ankle pulled up on his left knee.

“I think you invited yourself, actually. And the wedding isn’t until tomorrow.”

Michael smiled, his face open, radiating sincerity. “I didn’t want to be late. Besides, you said I was to make myself useful.” He spread his arms wide. “Here I am.”

Claire was conscious of a frown pulling at her forehead as she felt her peaceful evening slipping away. “Kim isn’t arriving until tomorrow morning – she has rehearsals this evening.”

“Yes, I wondered about that. How come they’re getting married all of a sudden, when she is working so hard.” Michael’s face remained impassive, but Claire felt his curiosity. She had no intention of giving the real reason. Kim hadn’t sworn her to secrecy, but she knew few people were aware of the pregnancy, particularly Kim’s boss.

“This place came available at short notice.” She gazed round at the period fixtures, the grandeur of the great hall. “Who wouldn’t grab it with two hands?”

“You?” Michael met her eyes, and there was an intensity burning deep in his gaze.

Claire’s stomach squirmed and she dragged her gaze away. Silence spread between them like dry ice, suffocating, using up the oxygen. She felt a strong urge to flee the room, get in the Skoda and keep driving. Then her tummy gurgled, the sound resonating like an angry monster growling in rage.

Michael sniggered, and the tension snapped. “Hungry?”

Looking up with a rueful expression on her face, Claire sighed and shrugged. “Starving.”

“Then let’s eat.”

Michael led her to the dining room, with Claire following meekly behind

***

School Clothes and Climbing Frames: 2013 365 Challenge #178

In the boat with Iggle Piggle

I had a morning away from the laptop and away from writing today. Foolish, maybe, with pressing deadlines looming. But I think sometimes the body and mind need to be replenished. Sitting in the lounge editing for long periods of time is playing havoc with my knees, as I end up sitting with one leg tucked under me without realising.

I do now have a study, but it has a plastic roof so is impossibly hot, and too sunny to see my screen.

So, today, I got out in the sun. Mowed the lawn (and a metal dog bowl, oops), cleaned out my car, and went to collect our new (second hand, thank you ebay) climbing frame. It’s brilliant.

Unfortunately it was still assembled when I arrived and it took the two of us half an hour to get it into enough pieces to fit in my Saab. By the time I’d reassembled it at home, I didn’t have a nail left whole. But we’re so happy with it, and the kids love it. They’ve been climbing and building tents all afternoon.

I also learned first hand today how much nicer it is to complain politely. Valerie, over on Speak Happiness, advocates it, and I admit it’s not always my strong suit. But, today, it felt good. The saga is all about my daughter’s school uniform.

Fabulous new climbing frame

On advice from friends I ordered it all from the M&S website, as they have 20% off, and you can’t always get everything in store. So worth paying the delivery charge. Only apparently I ordered all the wrong sizes (they come up large), so I was a bit worried that I should have just gone into town.

Anyway, yesterday I got an email saying it wouldn’t be delivered until August. Arrggh. Not much time to try stuff on and no opportunity to get the discount on extra things. So today I dragged the poor kids into town after playgroup and we hit the shops. On our second M&S, and with much cursing and searching and some distraction of small boy with ipad, we found all the items we needed, tried them on and bought the lot.

Got home, attempted to cancel my online order: couldn’t. Called them and they said, Oh you should have an email, it’s out for delivery. Due tomorrow. Well, if I’d seen the email I would possibly have been less polite! As it is, I couldn’t fault their charming customer service. The lovely Richard promised me he would try and stop the delivery, or refund it if I managed to turn it away at the door.

Really, though, they need to sort their emails out. I very nearly shopped elsewhere, but their uniform is good value. Thank goodness it will be so much easier with my son. Today I bought three styles of dress, two lots of trousers, two different colour tops, tights and socks, and she already has two different colour jumpers and a cardigan. None of which can be passed down, as none is unisex. I’ve always said I’m happy to have one child of each gender, but clothes is definitely one area where I’m not!

Oh, but she’s going to look adorable! 🙂

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“Good afternoon, is that Ms Carleton?”

“Yes.” Claire looked around the tiny courtyard garden and tried to work out who would be calling her. She didn’t recognise the voice.

“Ah, Ms Carleton, my name is Roger Hazleton.”

Claire searched her mind for a clue, but none presented itself. He wasn’t a client. God, I hope he doesn’t work for Cocoa Cola or the YHA. Now was not the time to discover Carl’s assignment was indeed a genuine one, only to admit she was spending the weekend at a wedding.

“You recently contacted our newspaper with regards to your blog, and the possibility of writing a regular column for us.”

Claire’s heart began to beat a little faster. She had forgotten about her impetuous email to as many editors as she could find, after Kim’s suggestion that she try her hand at freelance journalism. She never expected anything to come of it, except the satisfaction of doing something that would irritate Carl if he found out.

“We have looked at your blog on the YHA and are impressed with your writing style. And your sense of adventure.”

Claire tried to gauge whether the man was being sarcastic. Deciding he had to be genuine, if he was bothering to contact her, she bubbled with enthusiasm. Roger’s next words stalled her.

“Unfortunately, we can’t offer you anything for your existing journey. There isn’t quite enough excitement to captivate our readers.”

With a wry smile, Claire thought that he would have a different view if he knew the half of what had happened to her since she left home in a battered Skoda, two months before.

“However, I wanted to ask whether you had any intention of continuing your adventures overseas, for example the hostels of New Zealand or Australia?”

Claire’s brain fizzed with the unexpected idea. Her skin tingled. With in-held breath, she asked the burning question. “Why, are you offering to pay for me to go?”

Roger laughed, as if Claire had told an entertaining joke. She laughed too, realising she would only look like an amateur if she confessed she was serious. Clearly that was not what was on offer.

“Wouldn’t that be lovely? No, I’m afraid you would have to pay your own travel expenses, although we would, of course, pay you our standard freelance rate for your column. We can discuss the details later, if you’re interested.”

Claire felt like she’d been walloped with a wet flannel. Leave the UK? Travel somewhere hot and sunny, with attractive surfer dudes and long sandy beaches. It sounded even better than the Maldives. Then images crashed in on her daydream: The look of smug victory on Carl’s face, if she were to resign; Giving up her salary, her career, for a short-term opportunity to earn peanuts; Another stretch of time sleeping in bunk beds. The appeal quickly tarnished.

“Roger, I am flattered by your offer. I’m glad that you believe my writing would appeal to your readers. Unfortunately, I’m not in a position to travel overseas at present, unless my expenses were covered.”

There was a slight hesitation and Claire imagined Roger steepling his fingers, trying to decide how to respond. Would he shrug and tell her she was making a mistake, or would he be graceful. She heard him suck air in through his teeth, and prepared herself for rejection.

“Well,” he stretched out the word, as if it were being pulled from him. “I suppose we could advance you a week or two’s salary, if that would help?”

Claire didn’t need solutions, she was already too tempted. Her mind crowded with all the reasons to stay. Ruth, Sky, Kim, they all needed her here. A thought popped into her head unbidden. Josh lived in Australia. With his wife and children.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course, I understand. I’ll email you our terms. We’d want to get started as soon as possible.”

Claire hung up the phone and dropped it into her lap. Looking round the raised beds and red brick walls of the hostel garden, she tried to imagine temperate rainforest and endless desert. Ayers Rock and the Sydney Opera House. Her lips twitched and she felt a smile light her face.

***

Friends: 2013 365 Challenge #177

Tranquility

I caught up with two good friends today and nattered for five hours in total, not including my normal interaction with the children. Needless to say, I’m a bit low on words. (Like yesterday’s Claire installment. That rubbish 400 words took me all evening to write!)

I think my brain is in full-on edit mode, too, which makes it hard for the ideas to come. Unfortunately I have a double deadline of Sunday to finish my first pass on Baby Blues and write my Two Hundred Steps Home month-end cliff hanger (and work out what it’s going to be, as I haven’t decided yet, although I have done the front cover!)

I realised, though, that it’s nice to be out of words, instead of having them crowd my head. It was nice, too, to be with friends that require no masks. I don’t have to wonder if I’ve said the right thing, or wonder what they’re really thinking, because they wear no mask with me. It’s like getting out of a stuffy car and feeling the cool breeze, smelling the cut grass and wrapping your hand around a hot cup of tea. In other words, like coming home. Glorious

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Claire gazed around Ludlow Castle with jaded eyes. She’d visited three castles in Wales, and now this one over the border. They were all starting to merge in her mind. Any novelty, if there had been any two months before, had long since worn thin. With Sky as a companion it had been just about bearable, but coming along, merely to say she’d been and take a picture, felt utterly futile. She could learn as much on the internet without leaving a hostel.

For that matter, I could talk about the hostels without visiting them. A few web pictures, a few visitor reviews, and I could write a convincing story in my sleep. The hostels were all pretty much the same, anyway. All that varied was the colour of the decor, and the quality of the food. And they don’t change much. I guess it’s like any convenience product, chain store or restaurant- the predictability is the selling point. Makes for a boring trip, though, if that’s the sole purpose.

She thought about the rest of her assignment. Of course, there’s that. Even that had become a bit predictable. Once you’ve climbed up a few things, jumped off a load more, what was so exciting about it? I’d rather read a book, at least the character’s names change, even if the plot doesn’t.

With a gusty sigh, Claire pushed away the heaviness and trudged further into the castle complex. Her target was the tower, where she hoped it might be possible to climb up for an aerial photograph without scaring herself stupid.

When she reached the tower, she noticed a buggy at the bottom, by itself. Her heart picked up tempo as she approached it, searching all about for the parents.

Oh, God, someone’s abandoned their baby. Crap.

She didn’t know what to do. A closer inspection revealed a sleeping infant about the age of Sky’s half-sister. The gnawing sensation in Claire’s tummy grew stronger, until it dragged bile to the back of her throat. Her hands itched to hold the child and offer comfort, but it was sleeping.

Claire searched around again, expecting to see, what? She wasn’t sure. Maybe a young mother, watching to be certain her baby would be cared for. Claire reached forward, about to grab the handle, when a sound intruded at the edge of hearing. Giggling. The sound got louder, nearer. And then she was no longer alone.

A couple, she guessed in their thirties, skipped out of the tower towards her. They looked surprised to see her. The man smiled in greeting, but the woman’s forehead wrinkled in a suspicious frown. It took a moment for Claire to realise what it must look like. Not that she was rescuing an abandoned child, but that she was about to abduct their daughter.

Claire took a swift step back and raised her hands, as if to reassure them of her good intentions. For a moment she had an urge to berate them for leaving their infant unattended in a public place. The words hung hot in her mouth, but she swallowed them. It was none of her business. Instead she smiled as sincerely as she could.

“She’s adorable. Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

She took another step back, relieved to see the frown ease on the woman’s face. The couple closed in on either side of the buggy, both focussed on the child inside. Claire felt their bubble of exclusion as her presence was forgotten.

***

Learning to Fail: 2013 365 Challenge #176

Me in sixth form (it was fancy dress, btw)

I stumbled across a great post in my reader today, about how hard it is for perfectionists to succeed. I used to think I was a perfectionist. I grew in a household of high expectations, particularly with regards to academic achievement.

I was the Straight A girl. When I got caught smoking by the dinner ladies, the first time I dared take a drag on school property, they threatened to suspend me for two weeks (or maybe it was two days, I can’t remember. With a single working mother, it wouldn’t have mattered if it was two hours, she still would have killed me). It took tears and form tutor intervention for the head of year to relent.

People got caught smoking all the time. A different head of year once told me to caution my bad-boy boyfriend (another story!) to stop smoking or he’d have to give him detention. Detention! Why was I threatened with suspension? Because I was one of the top pupils, who won all the awards and aced all the exams. Apparently I was setting a bad example to the younger kids I was caught with. (Never mind it was their cigarettes I was smoking and I was only there in a supportive role to a friend who had received some bad news).

Anyway, I digress. Being the best was important. But at least at school perfectionism is quantifiable. You get the grades, pass the exams, win the awards. You don’t make many friends or learn any hobbies, but that doesn’t seem important. What’s worse is, you never learn to fail.

Parkinson Building, University of Leeds by David Martin (no relation)

Parkinson Building, Leeds Uni by David Martin (no relation)

My first failure was not being accepted into the youth orchestra. (Apart from losing at sport, I did a lot of that, but sport is softly uncompetitive in state schools, so it rarely hurt.) It hurt not to get into the youth orchestra but I knew I was rubbish at violin and, besides, my Mum would have hated driving me an hour each way on a Saturday.

Then I failed to get into Cambridge University. But I was able to blame my tutors for lack of preparation (and I didn’t really want to go and was happy to get into the redbrick that was my first choice). The only thing that hurt was the snotty rejection letter, which I wish I still had! I even passed my driving test first time, goodness knows how.

There’s a theme, can you see? Until I graduated from university, I never failed at anything I cared about. Aside from relationships, and that’s a whole different endless anecdote.

Then I didn’t get a job I really, truly wanted. I was devastated. Crushed. I was a failure. I’d gone for something important to me, and I had not got it. Life over. Then, when I did finally get a job, I had a nervous breakdown before two years were out. Why? Because I couldn’t accept not being able to do everything that was thrown at me to the best of my ability. I couldn’t accept less than perfection. I was helping run a Guide unit, doing their accounts, training to be a leader and doing the Queen’s Guide award, working twelve hour days more often than not, and trying to keep up with new friends.

Making Pancakes

And I’d never learned how to fail, how to say no, how to say help! It took another twelve years for me to discover what my husband has always known: sometimes 65% is enough.

Now, with parenting, with friends, with housework, with my writing, I have learned that accepting good enough doesn’t mean I’m lazy, doesn’t mean I’m a bad person and certainly doesn’t mean I’ve failed. Too many times the kids have heard me say to my husband I’ve failed because I couldn’t find a school jumper, we ran out of nappies or the kids only ate pancakes for dinner.

The children had pancakes for dinner today. Cupboards are bare because the shopping doesn’t come until tomorrow. I haven’t failed. They’re fed. They had strawberries with them. They’ll eat veg tomorrow.

Kristen Lamb’s blog teaches that writers need to Ship. Whether it’s blog posts or novels, the only way to get better is to finish, get it out there and, if need be, fail. Writing a daily blog has taught me to ship: There are days I know my prose is nearer 40% than 80% but, hey, no one is grading me anymore, and the best I can do is hope to write something better the following day. Consistency is better than perfection.

What I have learnt, from the post I read today, and Kristen Lamb and others, is that the key is to fail forwards. Learn, move on, don’t dwell. It’s okay to fail.

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Claire peered through the hatch, trying to ignore the stench of body odour coming from the man next to her. Breathing through her mouth, Claire focussed her gaze on the pewter sky and resisted the urge to tut. Red kites were impressive, granted, but they flew regularly over her parents’ house. She didn’t need to wait in a dim shed just to watch a bunch of them being fed. Her mum’s next door neighbour had a table at the bottom of the garden where she left meat for the kites. No big deal.

The numbers on her phone ticked over to 3 o’clock. Come on, come on. Claire tapped her foot impatiently, and then wondered what her hurry was. It wasn’t as if she had a more pressing engagement. The morning had been spent wandering around a thirteenth-century castle, including stumbling through a damp limestone cave in the bowels of the fortification, with a hired torch.

The views from atop the castle mound had been breathtaking and she’d collected a batch for the blog, including a few with cows standing in the foreground. It was an incongruous place, but she couldn’t face anything more strenuous, like canoeing or cycling. Kim’s wedding gave her the perfect excuse, if not one she could offer to Carl. In an attempt to avoid intervention from the dreadful duo, she had decided some more spectacular photographs were the answer.

The hostel manager had suggested this trip to the Red Kite Feeding Station, for more stunning photographs. So far all she had experienced was an olfactory attack from the other hide members and a desperate need to pee.

Three o’clock arrived, as did a man with a bucket. Two or three dozen birds had gathered in the area without Claire noticing. They flapped their wings in anticipation as the food arrived and circled above the feeding station.

Everything seemed to happen at once. The noise of beating wings was deafening, even inside the hide. The dull grey sky filled with birds, wing feathers pointing like splayed fingers. There were so many it felt as if someone had photo-shopped the sky, overlaying the same two or three birds over and over in different poses of plummeting motion.

The birds swooped down and rose at speed, talons full of food. Even with her smartphone, Claire was able to capture a few incredible images. No longer conscious of the smell emanating from the person next to her, she focussed her entire attention on the writhing mass of birds. Nature, red in tooth and claw.

And then they were gone.

Her heart still hammering from the adrenalin of it, Claire followed the others out of the hide and strolled to the café.

I’m sure when Carl insisted on high-adrenalin activities, he didn’t envisage they could happen without me breaking a sweat.

***

Proofreaders and Professors: 2013 365 Challenge #175

Another blog post written while walking the dog!

I’ve had an interesting day thinking about writing (to the point of brain ache!).

This morning I finished a book I got for free off Amazon (I won’t say which book, for reasons that will become obvious) and it was an interesting experience. I shall compare it to a G&T- enjoyable without it being clear why, because it had a taste both lovely and bitter. That bitterness was caused by editing, or lack of.

Followers of this blog will know my history with editing: the fact I can’t afford a proof-reader, never mind a copy-editor, and that it worries me.

Well, I finished this book, littered with missing words, random grammar, escapee-commas, poor structure (not starting a new line for each person speaking for example) and that’s saying nothing about the number of characters and points of view (though, to be fair, I never got lost). I had two immediate thoughts: My first thought was that I should drop the author a line to say I loved the book but found a bucket load of errors (obviously worded better than that). This was prompted by Kirsten Lamb’s recent posts about writing reviews when you’re an author (i.e. don’t, especially if it’s more a critique than a review). She suggests sending an email instead.

The Findaproofreader website

My second thought was, ‘I need a proofreader. I really don’t want to be that person who has that book littered with typos.’ So I did some research and came across a site called findaproofreader.com. They have a facility whereby you list your project and budget and people contact you with quotes if they’re interested.

I don’t have any budget, and I know even a proofread costs £500-£1000 for a book as long as mine, but I thought, why not? I put in my requirements and a budget of £100-£200, just to see if there were any takers.

The first response, almost immediately, told me I was being unrealistic and no one would proofread for under £2 per thousand words (and that’s with me saying Baby Blues is 112k words, which still leaves me 4,000 to cut out!) I might have been disheartened, but the next three messages all said, Yes, I’ll do it. I had two more people tell me my budget was too low, but I have ten people willing to take it on, provided my later chapters are as clean as my sample three (More work required there!) in the interests of building a relationship for future novels (when, presumably, the price will go up!)

Spot the dog!

My head is now whirring with thoughts on how to choose between them. I have a feel for ones I don’t think would fit, but I can’t really tell from a short email. (A few are unpublished authors, can’t decide if that’s good or bad). I think my plan is to pick a bad paragraph or two from Baby Blues and ask them to sample edit, to give me a feel for what their work is like.

The first respondent suggested if I pay peanuts I’ll get monkeys. Maybe. However, I’m encouraged by another person who said they’d normally charge £500 but the English in my sample chapters was so good they were happy to do it for less. Here’s hoping.

Oh, and the first thought? Sending the unnamed author an email? A little internet search revealed that his book has five star reviews and he’s a university professor, teaching fiction. I don’t think it’s my place to suggest he visit findaproofreader.com! Besides, I’m off to download book two. Sometimes (as someone said of Dragon Wraiths) a story can be great despite the typos. Whether I’d let him teach my children is another matter!

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Below is the next installment in my novel Two-Hundred Steps Home: written in daily posts since 1st January as part of my 2013 365 Challenge. Read about the challenge here.You can catch up by downloading the free ebook volumes on the right hand side of the blog:

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“Llwyn-y-celyn. Someone should introduce the Welsh to the vowel.”

Claire walked up from the car park to the hostel and looked at the latest whitewashed farmhouse on her Welsh adventure. Something told her this one might be less luxurious than her previous night’s accommodation.

Inside, sofas huddled round a blackened fireplace, where a wood-burner held centre stage, and long wooden tables crowded in the dining room. I hope it isn’t full. Could get a bit cosy.

She walked through the building to her dorm room, passing a tiny dorm that felt like a broom cupboard, with painted stone walls and a sink just inside the door. Her heart sank, and she hoped her dorm had a little bit more space.

When she reached her room, Claire felt her cheeks lift in a smile. A bed. A proper bed, with no-one asleep above me. Glorious.

The room had a sloping ceiling, with a dark beam across the heads of the two single beds. Curtains framed a small window that might otherwise have been mistaken for a photograph. Claire went to take in the view, and felt herself relax. Wooded hills lured her out to explore. Flexing her sore shoulders and conscious of the bruise on her thigh from her tumble, Claire laughed ruefully.

“Thanks for the invitation, but I think I need something more gentle today. Kim won’t forgive me if I turn up to her wedding covered in bruises or with a plaster cast on.”

Boots laced onto sore feet, Claire decided to follow the footpath from the hostel to the glaciated crag and the Cerrig y Glesiad Nature Reserve. A few hours watching buzzards and admiring the view and she could cosy up on the sofa with her book. She hoped they still lit the wood-burner, even though it was nearly May. Huddling into her coat, Claire thought it didn’t feel like spring, never mind halfway to summer.

Claire stopped, as the path turned from the horizontal and headed skywards. She looked up at the sharp climb and groaned. Time slowed, while she contemplated the path and tried to reach a decision.

After some time, her ears picked up a new noise in the near-silence. A scuff, followed by a cough. She turned her head, and saw a man walking up behind her. Trying to ignore the lump of ice that dropped into her stomach, Claire forced herself to breathe.

This is a footpath. There are bound to be other people walking. Not everyone is trying to mug you.

She made herself smile in greeting at the newcomer, and wondered if she could pretend she’d just come down from the hillside and was heading back to the hostel.

“Morning.”

The man smiled, revealing even, white teeth. “Well, hello. I didn’t expect to meet anyone along here. You coming or going?”

“Undecided.” The word was out before Claire had time to consider.

The stranger laughed. “Bit steeper than you expected?”

Claire bristled at the hint of sarcasm in the man’s rich voice, She took in his well-worn boots and hiking clothes and knew this man thought she was a tourist.

“Just aching from my hike over at Talybont Reservoir yesterday. It turned into a bog-trot and I have bruises on my bruises.”

As she watched, his face shifted almost imperceptibly from disdain to respect. He gazed up at the climbing path and shrugged.

“View will be amazing. Why don’t you just climb to the top and take some pictures? They serve excellent local beer at the hostel, assuming you’re staying there? You can curl up with a bottle and ease your aches away.”

Without waiting for an answer, the man gave her a nod and continued on the path, reaching out to steady himself on the rock as he began to scramble up.

Oh, what the hell. Claire ignored the screaming protest from her back and her thighs, and followed the man upwards.

***

Glimpse of the Future: 2013 365 Challenge #174

My angels playing the piano

We had a glimpse of the future today, or hopefully what the future might be like. The weather was kind and, having decided to let the children have an entire day at home, they were out in the garden by 8am.

Days at home are rare, as I find the hours go quicker when we’re out and about. The children behave better too, and I’m not tempted to try and do anything but watch them and maybe check the odd email.

As a result they view a day to themselves as a high treat.

They’re at an age where they play together quite well, such as games of Mums and Dads, with one of the dolls as their baby. There are the usual sibling scuffles, particularly because my daughter has a bike but my son still only has a trike. We were intending to get his big boy’s bike for his birthday but, as that’s 3 months away, I’ve been scouring ebay for one. [And found one, hurrah for ebay!]

So they played and I did housework and got the cover ready for June’s installment of Two Hundred Steps Home. Four hours flew by. I made lunch and dinner while they played the piano (watch the video here).

Garden mayhem

After lunch I gave them a wee lesson in Mummy’s Quiet Time, reading my book while they read theirs. It sort of worked, without too much shouting and huffing from me! We filled the paddling pool and had the sun-cream screaming session (for followers of me on Twitter), and they painted the decking with rollers and brushes and chalk until five o’clock.

I even managed to do one of ‘those’ jobs. You know, the ones that nag and nag and get worse because you maintain you haven’t got time, until every time you look at it you feel sick? We have an oak worktop in the kitchen and it’s my job to keep it oiled. Has been since before my son was born.

Only I haven’t. I managed for two years and then it slipped. Now the bit round the sink is rotting. So it’s been easy to think ‘Ah, too late anyway’.

Well, today I took action. Spent an hour cleaning it, only to find the oil had set in the bottle. Not to be deterred, I poked it with a spoon and found liquid oil underneath. Hurrah! Kids managed to stay away long enough for me to spread the oil, (although daughter did rush in to say son had fallen off the slide and I may have replied, ‘If there’s no blood it can wait’… You have to know my son to realise this is not a callous response but one born from a boy with a tendency to cry wolf.)

Anyway, long may such wonderful independent behaviour continue (of course I’ve put the kibosh on it by writing about it! The first rule of good child behaviour is not to talk about good child behaviour).

Maybe the school holidays won’t be so scary after all.

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Claire gazed at the hostel nestled into the hillside, and smiled. The sprawling whitewashed farmhouse was much closer to her imagination of Welsh accommodation than the Victorian house she had stayed in the night before.

The sun shone overhead – a walk-on cameo role in an otherwise overcast morning – and its rays lit the white walls in sharp contrast to the backdrop of green. Eager to leave her bag and get her hiking boots on, Claire headed in to find her room. After her adventure at Llangorse, she intended to keep her feet on terra firma. The guidebook mentioned hill walks and waterfalls and, provided there was no abseiling involved in the latter, that sounded just fine.

Claire had decided to drive to the opposite end of the Talybont Reservoir from the Danywenallt hostel, to do a walk she’d found on the internet. It was only five miles and would hopefully be done by lunch, as she’d failed to pick up supplies when she left Brecon.

Looking at the trail now from the car park, Claire was wondering if she’d lost her mind. The path led steeply uphill, passing alongside a waterfall. She could see the path was wet and probably slippery. With her wrist only just healed, Claire wondered if she could blag a blog post from the online description, rather than risk the walk.

A blackbird hopped along the path, searching for grubs, its head tilted and its orange beak glistening against the dark ground. He seemed to be inviting Claire along on an adventure.

“Oh, go on then. But I’m blaming you if I fall and break something else. You have to go for help, can you manage that?”

The blackbird took off at the sound of her voice, and watched her from the safety of a tree branch.

“Great, now I’m talking to birds. I am losing my mind, it’s official.”

Claire followed the path along to a ridge apparently called Craig Fan Du, according to her map. It sounded like a kung fu master or a dish of melted cheese. As she reached the ridge, the path vanished and the sinking feeling returned to the pit of her stomach. I do not want to get lost today, not up here.

She followed the ridge, scanning left and right for a path. Her tummy grumbled, as if reminding her that she’d come out without any food or water. Idiot girl. I should know better by now.

Spotting the path, Claire headed to the right hand side of the ridge. The path ran along the edge of a cliff and she prayed the rain stayed put in the heavy clouds hanging above her head. It looked like it would be treacherous underfoot if wet. The path led along to a river, where a waterfall crashed into the water, filling the air with spray and noise. Claire looked round, trying to find a bridge over the river. There wasn’t one. Great, wet boots. Lovely.

The water wasn’t deep, so Claire unlaced her boots and slung them round her neck. Tip-toeing through the icy water, trying not to slip and wet more than her feet, Claire was relieved to make the opposite bank. Okay, note to self: read the walk notes before heading off.

She trudged on, unsure exactly where she was on the map. At last she reached the war memorial and plane wreckage which was listed as a highlight of the walk. Standing alone in an isolated valley, surrounded by debris, Claire suppressed a shiver. Ghost stories were exactly that as far as she was concerned, but out here, with only trees and sheep for company, it was easy to hear the cries of the dying airmen blowing on the wind.

The route gave her a choice now, as the path petered out into sheep tracks and patches of boggy ground. The rumbles in her tummy were getting louder and it was taking all Claire’s effort to pull her feet free of the bog with every step.

Half way across the valley, her boot stuck fast. Pulling hard, Claire left the boot behind and toppled facedown onto the muddy ground. She lay, panting, her face coated with more mud than a Japanese clay mask. I hope Welsh bog is as good for the skin. Tears pricked in her eyes but she realised a different sensation was bubbling alongside hunger in her tummy.

Gradually the feeling rose, and she realised it was laughter. Claire rolled over on her back, the bog squelching as it released her. For some reason an image of Michael came into her mind. She imagined his reaction if he could see her now. Michael, who went hiking and hostelling with Debbie, but had never taken her on anything but five-star experiences.

Did he think I wouldn’t enjoy it, or was it Debbie that dragged him into the great outdoors? Maybe he sees me differently; a china princess to be cherished. She contrasted the image with Josh, who would be doubled-up with laughter and most likely would take photographs before offering to help her up. Shaking both images aside, Claire shuffled back to her buried boot and pulled it free. So much for not getting wet. Trying not to wince, Claire stuffed her soggy foot back into the boot and pulled the laces tight.

The map notes said she was only half way. Determined not to be disheartened, Claire crawled to her feet and set off downstream towards the woodland. The woods closed protectively around her, as a group of waterfalls provided surround-sound entertainment. The path wound alongside the river, with the cascading water chuckling and chortling, keeping her company.

This time a footbridge crossed the river and led Claire further into the woods. The waterfalls took her breath away, not just the noise and immensity of the water, but the glinting rainbows caused by the occasional shard of sunlight brave enough to break through the clouds. There was something passionate and untameable about the cascades of water, all white with fury and rushing with deafening noise, that resonated in Claire’s gut. They possessed a freedom she was only now beginning to understand.

At last the end was in sight. Claire no longer cared about wet boots. She strode across the stream, following the barely visible path back to the car park. Stomping along the final yards, footsore and soaked to her underwear, Claire reached the car and wished she could give it a hug. She settled for sliding into the seat, resisting the urge to remove the sodden boots. That would have to wait until she was back at the hostel. All she wanted was a cup of tea and a hot shower.

Looking in the rear-view-mirror, Claire was surprised to see the grin beaming through the dried mud on her face. That was fun.

***