A Foggy Nighttime Walk: 2013 365 Challenge #316

Colourful sunset

I’ve been forced to walk the dog after dark for the last few weeks, as the sun goes down at 4.30pm at the moment and hubbie doesn’t get home until six.

We don’t go across the fields because they’re treacherously slippery with mud and I’m scared of the dark. Not that it’s much lighter round the village since they disconnected half the street lights to save money. But I feel safer with the dog on the lead beside me and knowing I’m surrounded by people eating their tea.

I do feel bad for the dog, because she doesn’t get to run, and she loves so much to run. But her tail still wags all the way round as she catches up on the doggy gossip. (Am I the only one who thinks of sniffing wee as Facebook for dogs?)

Summer lightning

This evening it’s drizzling and slightly foggy. The air is full of the patter of water dripping from soggy autumn leaves and tapping on the ground in a staccato tempo. The ivy glistens brightly in the orange glow of a rare street light and other dog walkers loom out of the darkness.

The rattle of the dog’s harness is the only bright clean sound in a misty gloom as all other sounds are deadened by the fog. The smells, though; the smells are in Technicolour. I can smell someone’s mouth watering dinner, which definitely includes caramelised onions. The acrid yet heartening scent of wood smoke fills my nose, overlaid with the beery smell of the pub as I pass.

The fog has it’s own aroma; the scent of mystery stories and nefarious deeds. Wet leaves underfoot give up a smell of mulch and things beginning to rot. In the stories I’m reading at the moment they’re often in the swamp or in noisesome taverns and it’s easy to imagine both as I wander round the village.

Winter sunset in the village

There’s something rather strange about being outside, looking in at well-lit kitchens and TV rooms, or the cluttered music room I pass, where there is evidence of practice begun and abandoned.

Security lights blaze into life suddenly and drive away the darkness, while all the while making the shadows deeper and more black. Spreading puddles must be navigated and the uneven pavement trips me up and sends me lurching like a zombie.

With the jingling of the dog harness I feel a bit like Father Christmas on a recon mission before the big day. Strange to think it’s only the absence of the sun that creates this world. In the summer at 6pm the kids are still digging in the sandpit, not playing hide the toy indoors and driving Daddy nutty. I think if I ever decided to write murder mysteries, I would have to learn to tap on my phone without blinding myself in the dark!

I obviously couldn’t take pictures in the dark with my rubbish phone, so have included other ‘night time shots’ from the various villages I have lived in!

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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 watched the sun set over the sea from the window of the hostel and breathed out deeply in contentment. As the flaming orb slipped beneath the waves, the sky shone orange and deep, luminous, blue.

What a place for a hostel. Imagine living up here, gazing at that view every day.

Looking round, past the washing line of wetsuits drying in the late sun, she could see the endless sandy beach glistening silver in the dying light. White waves crept into the shore, shining brightly in the gloom.

Claire stretched out tight muscles and smiled as images from the day popped into her mind. After she’d checked in that morning, the hostel manager had mentioned the great surfing to be had down on the beach at the Perranporth surf school.

It had been much easier than her first lesson, and she’d got to her feet almost immediately. It really was like flying, to stand on the waxed board and balance atop the waves as the beach rushed up to meet her. Of all the daft adrenalin activities she’d done for the blog, it was the first one she’d felt remotely good at.

With a sigh, Claire turned away from the view and opened her laptop. She’d forced herself to leave the beach earlier, to try out some of the more family friendly tourist activities, and her notes needed to be written up while they were still fresh. She hoped some of the places would help to entertain the nephews, whose imminent arrival filled her with dread.

Although I’m not sure a cider farm is the place to take a couple of adolescent boys. I seem to remember cider was the first thing I got drunk on: I can’t imagine Robert approving of his ten year old son getting tipsy.

While the ancient laptop warmed up, Claire loaded her emails into her phone, checking to see if Robert had sent his flight details as promised. It still didn’t seem real that she would have two small people to look after in a couple of days. Scanning down the list of messages, her stomach plummeted as she saw an email from her boss.

Great, what does he want? And do I tell him about the boys’ visit? I guess I’d better, but he isn’t going to like it. I’ll be lucky if I don’t get sacked.

She ignored the trembling in her hands as she opened the message.

Claire

I hope you are making progress with the report. The Board are asking for reassurance that your work will provide value for money. I have assured them, but I will be sending through your latest rough draft for them to review. Can you send me a copy when you next have internet access?

I’ll be back in the West Country again this weekend, St. Austell this time. I think it would be worth catching up. Will you still be in the area on Saturday?

Let me know your plans

Conor

Crap. Claire stared at the message again, trying to read beneath the surface, as she always felt compelled to do with messages from Conor. Catching up to check up on me or renew his advances? Or maybe even say sorry?

She ran her fingers through her hair and glanced out the window at the darkening sky. Had she really believed she could keep her nephews’ visit a secret from her boss? But if she told him now, it would sound like she’d been concealing things. Not good.

Chewing at the inside of her cheek, Claire stared blankly at her phone, picking through words in her mind, trying to find the right ones. The she began to type, frowning at the tiny keys.

Hi Conor

I’m glad you emailed. I had a call from my brother yesterday and he needs me to take my nephews for a fortnight. I would have said no, but I saw an opportunity to add an extra layer to my research. Your visitors include children, so travelling with the boys will give me more opportunity to build detail into the report.

I also spoke to my brother about the Gift Aid idea I mentioned in my last update. He believes it wouldn’t be too complicated to set up, with the right interested parties. It’s possible you could spearhead the campaign and bring business as well as consumer interest to the Purbeck area.

The boys are arriving on Saturday but my brother is bringing them down from Exeter, so I will be free to meet you.

Regards

Claire

She reread her words and hoped the Gift Aid sweetener would be enough for Conor to swallow the news that she was letting her nephews tag along on her research trip.

What’s the worst he can do? Fire me? Would I care all that much?

Looking out at the moon glistening on the water far below her, Claire thought that possibly she wouldn’t.

***

Two-thirds of councils turning street lights down, research finds (telegraph.co.uk)
The Street Light (barefootonrainydays.wordpress.com)
This Glow-in-the-dark Path Provides an Energy-Free Alternative to Street Lights (enpundit.com)

The Job you Can’t Quit: 2013 365 Challenge #311

Clean house, clean head?

I’ve had two major jobs in my life and I quit both of those as a result of stress. The first time the job was my first after graduating from university (aside from bar jobs and the like). I stayed for nearly two years until I had a nervous breakdown.

I’m the kind of person that likes to do everything to the best of my ability and I ended up working twelve hours a day, six days a week, without getting anywhere near on top of my work load. The more I did, the more they gave me. I was also working as a Guide leader and doing their accounts as well as some other stuff and in the end I imploded.

The company nurse (almost as her last act before they sacked her) signed me off sick with stress and the doctor diagnosed me for the first time with depression. So I quit, worked out around four months’ notice and went travelling.

The second job I quit was the last proper paid job I had. I had worked there for just shy of five years and it was feast or famine. I either had no work to do, because I didn’t fit into any department and they didn’t know what to do with me, or I was doing the work of three. I was ineffective and unstructured and pretty rubbish at my job towards the end, but they still rehired me as a contractor after I quit, because no one else knew how to do my job and they thought I was the bee’s knees.

Kitchen always the last to do

There’s a pattern to my life: I like to get praise. I like to feel like I’m good at what I do. I like to feel valued. If there’s work to do, I will do it to the best of my ability. I hate missing deadlines, I hate letting people down, I hate saying no. I hate conflict or being told off or not making the grade. I was so busy trying to be perfect that I didn’t realise I was working hard rather than smart, and making myself sick in the meantime.

Free from the work place I was a new person. I enjoyed life. I painted and wrote and mostly managed my own time. I had low periods of loneliness away from the work place, and feelings of low self worth because I wasn’t earning anything. But I wasn’t depressed.

Then I became a parent. Oh shit. If ever there was a job where the work was never done, the hours were lousy and the thanks rarely forthcoming it’s being a mum. And I mostly feel that I suck at it. On a good day I’m about average. I can just about praise the kids more than I yell at them, I can feed them more healthy food than rubbish, and I can put the laptop down long enough to read a story. That’s on a good day. On a bad day, like today, when I have PMT, I’ve had a cold for a fortnight, and the house looks like some scavenging bears used it for their party cave, I’m not a good parent.

I try. I try to keep my cool. But there’s a raging beast in me that escapes over trivial things. This morning it was the forty minutes it took to get the kids dressed, the fights with both of them that summer clothing is no longer appropriate, the lack of clean and ironed clothes because I haven’t stayed on top of it over the last two weeks, the twenty minutes of not-eating-breakfast-but-blowing-bubbles-in-our-milk-instead, and – the final straw – the taking everything out of my school bag instead of putting my shoes on, even though we’re all late for school.

Tidy bedrooms for five minutes

I yelled. I screamed. I was angry. Then I calmed down and I hugged and I talked about the monster mummy that escapes. And my kids told me they loved me and it was mostly okay.

Only then we were really late, and I kept up a running commentary in the car about how late we were and how much trouble we’d get in if my daughter missed the school bell, and how we were now snarled up in the school-run traffic. Even when my kids tried to laugh me out of it, I told them it wasn’t funny. I was more mummy monster then than when I was yelling.

I left my son at nursery sobbing hysterically. He was still crying when I rang back fifteen minutes later to see how he was. I left my daughter clinging to the classroom assistant. I went home and sobbed. It took twenty minutes and some nice emails from hubby to get me out the car. Then I sobbed for at least an hour, when I was meant to be writing my post. My head aches. So I wrote some random Claire installment and I’ve spent the last two hours cleaning, trying to get some control back. But the dark monster still lurks.

I want to quit this job, where someone dirties my house as soon as my back is turned, and puts every item of clothing in the wash as soon as it’s ironed, and empties the fridge quicker than I can get to the supermarket, and takes away my smile and my love of life and leaves me yelling and crying. I want to quit. But I can’t. There’s no where to go. So, still crying, I will write my post, iron some more clothes, finish the vacuum cleaning, walk the dog in the rain, run to the supermarket and pick the kids up from school. I will give them a huge hug and tell them Mummy is sorry, even though they’ve heard it before. And, like I say to them sometimes, they’ll probably think, “Sorry isn’t good enough, Mummy. You have to not do the bad thing in the first place.”

Easier said than done.

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“Hello, Mrs Jenkins, it’s Claire.”

“Hello, Claire, how are you? Still travelling round the West Country? Kim reads your blog, although she says it’s been a while since you’ve updated it. I hope everything’s okay.”

As Claire listened to Mrs Jenkins’ enthusiastic greeting she wondered how many other people had noticed her absence of posts and thought briefly how nice it would have been if someone had bothered to check she was okay.

“Yes, I’m still here. I’m staying at the Tintagel hostel tonight; just spent the day at the castle, so hopefully I’ll be able to write about that. I’ve been busy with work is all.” She hesitated, wondering if the lie sounded as obvious to her friend’s mum as it did to her.

“And how’s Kim?”

Mrs Jenkins sighed and the sound twisted Claire’s stomach with fear and guilt.

“Much the same, I’m afraid, still sunk in her melancholy. I understand, I really do. I’m as devastated that there won’t be any grandkids for me to spoil – I can’t see her sister ever settling down. But it doesn’t do to dwell. I’d tell her to get back to work, but she doesn’t have what you’d call a regular job.”

Her voice trailed off, and Claire felt her disappointment. As a parent you wanted your children to be happy and hopefully settled nearby. Kim’s mother must wonder what went wrong.

“Can I talk to her?”

“Of course, Claire. Sorry, here I am wittering on and you didn’t call to talk to me. Maybe you can snap her out of her misery.”

I doubt it, Claire thought privately, but merely said, “I’ll try.”

She waited while Mrs Jenkins went to find her daughter, and tried to decide how much she would tell Kim about recent events.

“Hello?” Kim’s voice, when it came on the line, contained none of its usual vivacity. Claire stifled a groan and, with as much enthusiasm as she could muster, greeted her oldest friend.

“Kim, hi, how are you? Is your mum taking good care of you? I hope you’ve been out enjoying the sunshine.” She winced at her tone, and waited for Kim to complain she wasn’t a five-year-old. Instead her friend snorted with derision.

“Mum’s driving me mad, Jeff hasn’t been down once and the theatre company refuses to give me another role until I’m better, whatever that means.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Maybe you could do something else for a while. Work in a coffee shop, you know, just to get you out the house.” She injected a laugh she didn’t feel and added, “Isn’t that what unemployed actresses do?”

“This isn’t Hollywood. No big tips here. I didn’t go through drama school to earn the minimum wage making lattes for yummy mummies.”

Claire swallowed a genuine laugh. “You should start a blog, you’ve definitely got a way with words.” She regretted it instantly – the last thing Kim needed was someone making fun of her. But all her friend said was, “What, so I can just stop writing it one day, like you have?”

Claire took a deep breath. “It’s only been a week or so. I have been rather busy.” Running round after you for a start, she added silently. Sheesh, no wonder Jeff hasn’t been round. Then she reminded herself of everything Kim had been through and admonished herself.

“Conor tried to snog me,” she blurted out, to fill the uncomfortable silence. She waited, wondering if that would be shocking enough to rouse Kim from her darkness.

“Your boss? Why?”

Claire reeled. Of all the responses, she hadn’t expected that. It was a good question, one she hadn’t really thought of before.

“He was drunk, I guess.” That sounded lame. “He said he’d been wanting to do it since we met.”

“Did you snog him back? You might get a promotion. Isn’t that how it works in your world?”

The bitter, cynical words cut Claire. Then she remembered gossiping with her friend about a promotion in the office that could only have made sense if those involved were sleeping together. Even so, it was a hard accusation to throw at her best friend.

“I can’t believe you’d think me capable of that.”

“Oh, keep your hair on. You said he was cute, so what’s the harm?”

“He’s my boss! Besides, I don’t think of him like that.”

“Liar. You described him down to the green eyes and sexy bum. You don’t notice details like that unless you want to bed someone.”

Trust Kim to remember that when she’s heard nothing else. Claire wanted to defend herself, but the new edge to her friend left her unsure and vulnerable.

“Whether I like him or not is irrelevant; shagging the boss can only lead to trouble.” She tried to think of a way to change the subject, but couldn’t think of a safe topic.

“Look, my battery’s about to go. I’ll call you again tomorrow, okay? I’m going to write a blog post. You should think seriously about starting one, you might find it helps.”

“Right,” was the only response Claire heard before she hung up the phone.

***

Peaceful Plateau: 2013 365 Challenge #309

Not quite a mountain

In response to a comment on the blog a few days ago, I wrote about the contentment of sitting on a mountain top and letting yourself just ‘be’, because the journey to get there was enough.

At the end of a difficult climb, when you’ve challenged your fears and pushed your body, it’s enough to stand, hands on hips, sun on face, and take in the view. It’s a time to congratulate yourself on effort and determination, to say, “I did that and I’m proud and this is my reward”. A moment of tranquility.

As I survived my art presentation this morning and drove home in the sunshine I had a similar feeling. I treated myself to some stilton and cranberry bread, I read my book, I dozed on the sofa, (that bit was a mistake – I woke with my vision blurred in one eye that took an hour to shift. I don’t do daytime naps even after a night of no sleep).

I’m now walking the dog, breathing in the invigorating air and watching a kestrel fly by. I’m not flooded with quite the same euphoria I used to get climbing mountains, before parenthood and dodgy knees put paid to the activity. It’s hard to see how far you’ve come when the ground is flat and rocky.

But I know I survived a long week and I’m taking a moment to breathe in and say the journey was enough. Only a moment, mind, because there’s a post to be written, stew to prep and shirts to iron, before collecting the children from school: The climb back down the mountain is always harder work than the climb up!

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Claire’s mind whirled as she drove west. Conor’s message tugged at her thoughts like a puppy on a leash. She felt as if she’d received a bad report from her favourite teacher. Maybe not even a bad one, just a “Could do better”.

Determined to make sure it didn’t happen again, she spent the miles behind the wheel searching for some way to impress. She tried to think what Conor’s idea of tourism might be. It was clear that skulking around Dartmoor National Park hadn’t found favour.

What did you do in the West Country if you didn’t like to be alone? Bands, theatre, the Eden project, they all needed exploring. Claire wracked her brain for anything else she knew about the area. A book she’d picked up in a hostel came to mind. She remembered it because it was by that famous gardener her mother loved so much.

It was a novel about a lighthouse keeper, but one of the characters was a woman who loved painting in Cornwall, and moved there to set up an art gallery. She had talked about the special quality of the light. That sounded promising.

Of course I know as much about painting as I do pub bands. Namely bugger all. That artsy stuff is more Kim’s domain. Which reminds me, I must give her a call.

Claire told her phone to remind her to call her friend and investigate art courses, then went back to cudgelling her brain for inspiration.

What about writers’ retreats? Bound to be some of them; that could be fun. I might even learn something useful for the blog. Give it a touch of class.

Her thoughts drifted on to how much she’d neglected it since selling her iPad and she made another note to give it some attention.

If things don’t work out with Conor – as a boss that is – I might have to go crawling back to Carl. What a joyous prospect that is. Best to at least have something to offer.

Claire gave a sigh of relief as the SatNav directed her into town, along a narrow lane crowded with hills. The route to the hostel bypassed the town centre, coming in directly towards the shore where the hostel was located. She drove in past low slate-roofed buildings adorned with spectacular hanging baskets; the splashes of red and yellow lying vibrant against the grey stone.

As she approached her destination she began to see more people outside the window. It didn’t feel like a tourist destination, despite the large car park and throngs of visitors milling around. Claire turned her eyes towards the buildings, which grew in stature as she drove. The stone that had appeared merely grey now revealed a myriad of colours where the sun lit the surface. Browns and yellows mixed in with silver and gold.

As the road ran out, Claire remembered that she was meant to park in the large car pack she’d just passed. Suppressing a sigh, she turned the car and headed back, wincing as she saw the parking fees. With effort she pushed aside her irritation and pulled her bag from the boot.

Claire followed the path back down towards the harbour and her smile grew as she got nearer to the low stone buildings lurking at the water’s edge.

Around her rocky hills – partially covered in patches of luminous green grass and red gorse – climbed away from the water as if afraid to get their feet wet. White-washed buildings threw back the bright sunlight, dazzling her momentarily. She blinked away the spots in her vision and looked around. With a lungful of the salty air she felt her shoulders go back and her chin lift.

To her left a bridge crossed the small inlet that ran alongside the path, and up ahead she could see a slip sloping down into the water. The tide was out, showing the rocky bed, but she could imagine fishing boats being pushed into the water at high tide.

Then she caught her first glimpse of the hostel. The front shone white, interspersed with bright flowers, and people sat outside on metal chairs and tables. The roof looked as if a huge and heavy bottom had rested there once, leaving two deep dips in the slate. Claire pictured a giant taking a rest awhile, and grinned. As she got closer she realised the building was a café, tagged on the front of the hostel.

Handy for coffee in the morning.

Claire took some photos, determined to write a blog post that evening, and went round to check in.

I hate to admit Conor was right, but I’m glad he prompted me to get a wriggle on into Cornwall. I think I’m going to like this place.

***

Artistic Me? 2013 365 Challenge #306

One of my favourite pieces

Just when I thought I only had to struggle through a few more days until I can stop and be ill, when the children go back to school on Monday, I checked my calendar and discovered that I’m meant to be giving a talk on Monday to a local art group. Arrgghh. I vaguely remember the woman ringing me up weeks and weeks ago, and I agreed without really thinking how exhausted I would be after half term (even without the killer cold!)

Not that I don’t want to do it: I love talking about my paintings and hopefully inspiring others to try painting acrylic abstracts. They are wonderfully liberating; a great way to pour emotion onto canvas and create something beautiful. It’s just I don’t know how to do an hour-long talk on the subject. Particularly as I haven’t painted anything for two years. Two years! I couldn’t believe it when I realised that’s how long it has been since my solo exhibition.

I thought I would start with digging out my Artist’s Statement, that I produced to go with my artwork at the local gallery Art in the Heart. I was mortified to discover several typos in said document. Me! A writer! I even put ‘site’ instead of ‘sight’ in one sentence.

Crawls under rock in shame.

My excuse is I seem to remember I was mad-busy when I put it all together, to the point where I broke down sobbing in the shop where I went to have it all printed because it didn’t print properly. Ah, the wonders of sleep-deprived stress.

Anyway, this is my artist’s statement (hopefully now without typos). Do you think it makes a good enough place to start a discussion on me and my paintings? What else would you want to know?

Purple Ghost

I paint because it makes me feel alive. I love creating something from nothing; starting with a blank canvas and building it up layer by layer without knowing what the final result will be.

My paintings grow the more you look at them. What seem at first only blocks of colour become intricate landscapes and strange dancing figures. I believe art is a collaboration between the artist and the viewer and my paintings are created anew each time they are viewed. If someone sees something within one of my pieces – a face, an animal, a landscape – then that will always be there. The painting is recreated and will always be personal to them.

I was originally inspired to begin painting abstracts by a fellow artist and it has now become my main passion. I work in acrylic because I love the vibrancy of the colour, combined with the speed with which it dries. This allows layers of texture and colour to be built up using different brush strokes. This texture means the paintings change with changing light through-out the day.

Tranquility

I am inspired by the colours of everyday items: a glass of wine or the vibrant orange of autumn leaves. Although I don’t seek to reproduce on canvas the things that inspire me, I search for the same sense of joy the items bring: The sight of a sun-drenched landscape fills me with elation and I feel the same emotion when I am painting my abstracts.

My favourite colours are Rose Madder and Pthalo Blue. They are both strong colours that can be made soft and magical when mixed with white. The Pthlalo colours (blue and green) create beautiful sea colours that I find very restful. Rose Madder is wild, like blood or poppies. I work mostly in primary colours, with a restricted palette of two or three colours per piece. I prefer to mix colours directly on canvas and it never ceases to amaze me how many colours can come from mixing magenta, yellow and Pthalo blue.

I thought I would start with something like this, and then maybe talk through some of the individual pieces. I don’t think they want a demonstration, which is a shame, as that kills loads of time! 🙂 Ah well. Wish me luck. (Oh and I must send an updated personal statement to the gallery. Mortified!)

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Claire looked around the hostel lounge, gave a deep sigh and smiled. Although the room was crowded it wasn’t noisy. In the corner a family played cards; their muted voices punctuated occasionally by a cry of “Uno!” One or two people curled up in the deep red armchairs, their faces intent as they absorbed themselves in the books cradled in their laps. Claire wondered what worlds they inhabited, far away from the prosaic room.

Her contentment surprised her. The whitewashed stone walls, utilitarian carpet and faded furniture were not exactly the height of luxury. It was no different in the kitchen, with the formica-topped school-like tables and plastic chairs, or in the bare bunkrooms.

If I’d come here a few months ago I would have stayed one night and run away to a refurbished city hostel with relief.

The beauty of the place was not inside the cool stone walls, but outside, where the sun shone endlessly on an expanse of never-ending verdant nature. Somehow the mundane accommodation complemented the experience, allowing a visitor’s attention to focus on what was important.

Stretching her legs out in front of her, Claire shifted the laptop to a more comfortable position and continued typing. She’d been trying to capture her thoughts on the subject all evening, but her mind frolicked away from it like the Dartmoor ponies who visited the building from time to time.

She tabbed away from her open document to reread the reports she’d discovered on the company laptop. It had helped direct her writing, but she still wasn’t entirely sure she knew what she was doing. Something had to be written, though: she’d been in the Dartmoor hostel for nearly a week and knew that Conor would be expecting an update.

Conor.

Just thinking his name gave her goosebumps. They hadn’t spoken since their last meeting; communicating instead via email and text message. Claire had refused to even charge her phone for the first twenty-four hours, convinced she would discover impassioned messages from him after her sudden departure. There had been nothing for a day or two, and then only a polite enquiry as to whether the laptop worked and contained everything she needed.

Even so, Claire had left Salcombe hostel at dawn, following their evening together, and had driven in blind panic to the most remote accommodation she could discover; her only intention to find somewhere to lick her wounds and consider her options.

Who knew I would end up somewhere so beautiful. And restful.

The dark grey hostel at Dartmoor sat contented amid the National Park, with all sorts of outdoor activities on the doorstep. Claire had spent the last few days pushing herself to exhaustion; hiking to the top of Bellever Tor, exploring the forest and petting the Dartmoor ponies. She’d climbed the boulders at Dewerstone and cycled the Plym Valley.

Each night she’d collapsed into her bunk with weary muscles and a full head. Despite the endless blue skies, fresh air and amazing scenery, her brain still roiled with unruly thoughts.

Try as she might, she couldn’t decide how she felt about her boss’s advances. Unlike the grazes from her fall on the South West Coastal Path, her memories of that night refused to fade and heal. Her sense of outrage at his betrayal of trust warred with a lingering feeling of loss at his curt business-like manner ever since.

With another sigh, Claire brought her attention back to the screen in front of her.

Only eleven more weeks and I can hand in my report, collect my pay cheque, and get the hell away from here.

Back in the beginning, when she’d taken her first step on the journey away from her former life, she and Kim had jokingly come up with the name Two-Hundred Steps Home for her blog. It was looking like home was a lot further away than that.

***

You Are The Source: 2013 365 Challenge #303

Sunny morning

One of the amazing things about being a writer, whether you pen children’s books or dark, creepy horror stories, is that you are the best source of information for your stories.

Lying in bed this morning, it was easy to imagine that I had been abducted by aliens. My body, heavy and unresponsive, sank deep into the bed as if I had been drugged or – like Leah, in Dragons Wraiths – as if I had no body at all, but was merely a collection of thoughts held together by habit. My head felt muffled and a whole section of my brain, somewhere above my aching eye sockets, felt as if it had been removed or filled with thought-numbing drugs.

I could imagine a powerful wizard suppressing my magical ability, ensuring I was incapable of drawing my will together to fight. The thoughts themselves ran scattered through my head, as if they were in the wrong brain and were seeking a way out. I couldn’t pull them into any kind of order: even thinking about writing this post became a feat too far. My throat burned, as if I had been yelling for days for someone to rescue me, or screaming into the darkness for salvation.

Watching the sun rise

And what’s wrong with me? I have a cold. I’ve spent a couple of days fighting with the kids, my throat is inflamed from the virus and from shouting. I went for drinks with friends last night because I organised it and therefore couldn’t wimp out and go to bed. Even with only imbibing water and coffee I feel like I drank through the entire contents of the bar. A few extra hours of talking and not falling asleep on the sofa at 8 pm and I’m a wreck. My body, which hurts like I’ve run the Boston Marathon or fled from zombies, is actually only aching from fighting off a teeny tiny germ.

Right now I could imagine any fight or flight scenario and write the physical implications of it with a little bit of imagination. Well, I could, if there was any hope of gathering my thoughts into coherent sentences. Even this post is only half as effective as the one I dragged into being in my beleaguered brain half an hour ago. By the time I had escaped the warm cocoon of my bed and rolled my broken body out into the cold room to stagger down the stairs the thoughts had evaporated like mist. The slightly hallucinogenic feeling remains, as if someone else is controlling my body and staring out through my bleary eyes. If only I could capture all these feelings and save them for later! I guess that’s what writer’s notebooks (or daily blogs!) are for.

So, next time you’re struggling to bring realism to your stories, listen to your body. Especially your sick, hungover, stressed, exhausted body. It can give you all the details you could want and more. If only you can write them down!

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Claire pushed the chocolate cake around her plate with the fork. It looked delicious, but she couldn’t face eating it. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d sat down to a three course meal and was surprised to find her ability to eat and eat had vanished.

“Not hungry?” Conor’s voice cut through her reverie. “I thought women had a separate stomach for dessert?”

Claire laughed. “Yes, normally. I guess I’m out of practice. There isn’t much call for fine dining when you travel by yourself.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Conor’s face became thoughtful. “I’ve never been anywhere by myself, unless for business, and then I usually eat with colleagues or clients.”

A memory trickled into the back of Claire’s mind. “Oh yes, didn’t you say you’d rather pull your teeth out than be alone?”

Conor’s eyebrows flew up into his sandy curls. “Impressive. I probably said it makes my teeth ache, but close enough. That’s why you’re so good, Miss Carleton, you’re as sharp as a tack.”

The look in Conor’s eye made Claire flush and she hid her reaction by taking a drink of her wine. The alcohol warmed her as it ran down into her body, and she had to remind herself she had a long and tricky drive back to the hostel. It wouldn’t do to be tipsy.

Conor maintained eye contact without speaking. Eventually Claire felt compelled to fill the silence. “So you’ve never been on holiday alone?”

Her boss shook his head. “No. I don’t really do holidays. Not since the family used to come to Dorset every year, when I was a kid. My job is one long holiday. I don’t really feel the need to sit on a beach to relax.”

“There are other kinds of holiday!” Claire thought about all the activities she’d done in the last few months. Then she recalled that, before beginning her assignment, beach holidays had been the only type of vacation for her, too. “What do you do when you’re not working?”

Conor took a long drink of wine, then wrapped his hands around the glass and looked contemplatively into the dark liquid. “There isn’t much time when I’m not working, to be honest. But I guess I like to go to bars and listen to the bands. Go to the cinema, that kind of thing. What did you do, in Manchester, before your boss banished you to the back of beyond?”

It was Claire’s turn to ponder. “Much the same as you.” She thought about her trips with Michael, and wondered if Conor ever dated. Back at the interview she had taken him for a ladies’ man, but the more time she spent with him, the more that didn’t wash.

“There’s no significant other, then?” she found herself saying, keeping her face on her plate and the patterns she had made with the ice cream.

“Oh, plenty of those, darling, don’t you worry.” His voice took on the brash Irish lilt she remembered from before and she looked up at him in surprise. A flash of bitterness crossed his face, to be replaced with the cheeky charmer expression that he’d worn after the interview, when she’d vowed never to be one of his conquests.

Not that I need have bothered. He’s not made any effort to conquer me, that’s for certain. She swirled the wine in her glass. And that’s a good thing, of course. With him being my boss and all.

She watched as Conor drained his glass and refilled it from the bottle. His eyes had the sparkling glitter of someone heading towards half cut, and Claire became conscious of an urgent need to escape.

***

Downtime: 2013 365 Challenge #299

I get my downtime when I’m asleep

One of the things I’ve discovered through doing the daily blog challenge is the psychological and physical effect of having no downtime. For probably 98% of the 299 days of blogging and writing this year, I have put the children to bed at 8pm, gone downstairs, cooked dinner, eaten it while catching up on social media and blog comments, then opened my laptop.

At some point between that point and 11am the following morning, between normal household duties – dog walking, dishwasher stacking, cooking, ironing, child hugging, sleeping – I find the time and energy to write my 1000-1500 words.

Sometimes, like today, they were written in a supermarket café with free WiFi while placating a whining small child with crayons and cookies. Sometimes, like now, I stand at the computer at 11.38 p.m, having just been woken up from a three-hour sofa doze by hubbie going to bed. On very rare and wonderful days I’ve actually written some of it in the day time and I only have to format the post, add photos and tags and publish. Those are good days.

I’m not saying this for sympathy or to have a moan. Well, maybe a little bit. 😉 I’m saying it because a) it’s 11.40pm and I have to think of something to waffle on about and b) I’ve realised that the lack of downtime is starting to send me slightly doolally. It isn’t the work: I don’t mind working hard. Plus, I get whole chunks of my day when I’m sat cuddling a child on the sofa, or walking the dog, or driving to and from school, when I’m free to just think. What struck me was the lack of guilt-free downtime and the effect that has on the mind.

This is my downtime!

When you work a paid job, you get a lunch break. You might not get to actually take it (I ate at my desk pretty much every day of my ten-year marketing career) although I think you should always make a point to try. As a contractor I made sure I took my full thirty minutes or an hour, every day, to eat a proper lunch, get some fresh air, and switch off. It’s guilt-free time. You’re being paid to take a break.

Then you get home, sometimes late, granted, (I think 2 am was the latest I got home from work after a particularly challenging deadline), and then that time is yours, until the alarm goes off in the morning and it starts again. And then there are weekends. Well, if you’re not working of course!.

Of course all that goes out the window when you have children, although they do sort of sleep at least some of the time, theoretically giving you an element of guilt-free downtime. Maybe.

When you’re self-employed, though, that guilt-free time is so much harder because, if you’re not working, you’re not earning. I’m not earning anyway, but that’s beside the point. I am trying to make money, and to do so I have to keep on working. Some days I check my sales reports obsessively, as if hoping to see something to make the pain worthwhile (I rarely do.) But all work and no play makes me a grumpy, tired, stressed bunny.

David Eddings’ Belgariad

Last week I re-read David Eddings’ Belgariad series and it felt like being on holiday. Reading = work for an author (well, mostly! It helps if you’re reading something brilliant or within your genre).

Spending a few hours every day curled up around my favourite book was a way to escape without feeling (too) guilty. Unfortunately I came to the end of book five yesterday and the next five books (the Malloreon) are at my Mum’s house. She’s asked to have a week of peace, after my sister and her family went back to the states, so I can’t go and get them until tomorrow.

Probably just as well, as I need to catch up with the writing. Except I haven’t. Instead I’ve been falling asleep on the sofa and waking up at midnight, blurry eyed and numb-brained, trying to make up words for the blog and Claire, trying to think up deep and meaningful tweets or FB status updates, trying to choose front cover images for Two-Hundred Steps Home (October is proving particularly challenging as it hasn’t had a ‘theme’ in the way the other months have).

All the while, in the back of my mind, I know I want to do NaNoWriMo (Hahahahaha falls on floor laughing), it’s half term next week, and I just discovered in my diary that I agreed to give a talk on abstract art to a local college on the first Monday after half term. Eek! There goes any chance of guilt-free downtime in the near future!

Anyway, apologies, this has just turned into a bit of a whinge. It wasn’t meant to be. It was meant to be an insightful discussion of the effects of life in the twenty-first century where we are never off work, we’re never switched off, we’re never free. Hmmm. Maybe I’ll file that one away to write about another day!

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Claire smiled as the sun streaming in through the window gently woke her; warming her skin and sending sun fairies dancing across her eyelids. With a sense of impending adventure, she pushed back the covers and wondered what was causing the fluttering of anticipation in her stomach.

As she rose and walked to the window, Claire remembered where she was. The gorgeous hostel perched on the hillside with views to die for. It was still early and the other occupants of the room were sound asleep. Pulling on yesterday’s clothes, Claire crept from the room and headed for the kitchen.

The silence continued throughout the hostel, and Claire wondered just how early it was. The kitchen clock said 6 a.m. and Claire laughed, the sound echoing around the empty room.

When did I last wake at dawn without an alarm clock?

Her body felt alight with energy, and Claire thought she would burst if she didn’t do something with it. She wolfed down a quick breakfast, scalding her mouth on too-hot tea, then paced quietly back to her room to grab her boots and bag.

Her discussion with the manager the previous evening had revealed that the South West Coastal Path ran almost from the door of the hostel. The manager had raved so much about the spectacular views that Claire had decided to walk some of the route before driving to Plymouth to meet Conor.

Thinking about the meeting gave her butterflies, so she pushed the thought aside and stuffed snacks and a jumper into her bag. The manager had said a map wasn’t necessary, as the path followed the coast all the way round to Hope Cove. Having checked the map, she suspected she wouldn’t make it quite that far.

The hostel remained silent as she let herself out and into the tropical gardens of the National Trust property. With a deep breath Claire inhaled the scent of plant life soaked in dew, smiling as it sparked memories of the New Zealand bush. She shivered as the early morning air raised goosebumps across her skin, and set off towards the path.

The sun greeted her again as she left the trees and reached the path, and she soon settled into her stride. To one side lay the estuary, sparkling blue beneath her. That’s a long way down. Claire looked around, as if only just realising how high up the path was along the cliffs. I hope it isn’t too steep. She remembered being up near Old Harry Rocks and shuddered.

The path grew steadily steeper, until it was nothing more than a trail of rocks climbing vertically towards the azure sky. Forcing herself not to look back or down, Claire concentrated instead on keeping her footing on the uneven path.

It would be so much more convenient if I hadn’t discovered that I’m scared of heights.

She chanced a look at the view, and swallowed the bile that rose up her throat. Beneath her, crumbling rocks appeared to tumble in slow motion to the sea, as if frozen in the very act of falling. The sea itself rippled in a palette of blues and greens, darker and more foreboding than the sparkling strip of water seen in the distance from the hostel. On a sunny day it seemed merely stark. Claire couldn’t imagine what it would be like in a storm.

Encircled by the stunning vista, Claire wondered for a moment what had possessed her to fly half way round the world, bankrupting herself in the process, to admire the beauty of another country, when she’d barely scratched the surface of her own.

If I thought the Lake District was pretty in winter, that’s going to be nothing to what this place is going to be like in June.

As the sense of adventure built within her, Claire pushed on up the steep path towards the outcrop of rocks silhouetted against the sky above her. The change from light to dark left sunspots in her vision and she blinked to clear it.

Then the world went sideways. Slipping on loose shale, Claire lost her footing and began to slither back down the path towards the cliffs. Thrashing like a landed fish, Claire grabbed around at the grass in an attempt to slow her passage, as the rocks tore at her bare legs and arms.

At last her frantic attempts worked and she came to a halt at the very edge of the path. The rocks loosened by her passage continued on over the edge, falling away to the sea far below.

Claire lay panting, unable to process anything but the fact that she was still alive. Slowly, one piece at a time, her body began to yell out its grievances. Clawing her way back up to a flatter part of the path, Claire assessed the damage. Both shins and arms wept blood, and a tentative exploration of her face revealed a similar story.

Great. I look like the victim of a traffic accident.

She bit her lip against the pain and humiliation, glad no one had been there to witness her fall. Bad enough that she felt like a peeled plum and was going to be sore for days. Then another thought crept in unwelcome and she groaned.

Conor’s going to die laughing.

***

Getting Organised: 2013 365 Challenge #297

My beautifully organised boot box

The sun came out this morning, so I decided it was a day to get organised. I started with writing a long to-do list, then clearing emails (almost making the children late for school and nursery – thankfully the other school is on half term, so town is quiet). When I got home, even before writing the post that was already late, I got stuck into getting back some order and control.

I started with my car. My car is my mobile house. It replaces my pushchair and baby bag. Usually I can find anything I need in my car. Recently the only things I’ve found are new life forms. When my sister was over, I failed to find plasters, clean socks or snacks – all things I normally have plenty of. I felt wrong-footed by my inability to save the day.

Car seat crumbs

So, with grand plans of taking the car to the valet people, who clean it inside and out for a tenner, I stripped the car bare. I gingerly deposited mouldy things in the bin, recycled twenty plastic bottles and a ream of scrunched up kids’ drawings (shhh, don’t tell them!) I removed the car seats and tried not to flinch at the bucket of crumbs crushed into the seats. Thank God they’re leather. I carried everything in and sat to write my post.

As usual, moments after clicking publish, I had a ‘like’ from one of my favourite Bloggers, Miss Fanny P. I realised I hadn’t stopped by her blog in a while. Turns out it’s been weeks. I sat reading for two whole hours. Looking up, as I got to the end of the posts, I was horrified to discover it was no longer sunny but bucketing down. So much for getting the car washed, taking the dog on the long circuit, or any of the dozen other sunny-day chores.

Still, I sorted my boot box. Plasters (band-aids)? Check. Spare socks and pants? Check. Port-a-potty restocked? Check. I am, once more, calm and in control. It’s just a shame about the crumbs.

P.S. In a fit of super-organisation, above and beyond my usual energy levels, I vacuumed and cleaned the car myself AND walked the dog (though not the long circuit) in between rain showers. I give myself a gold star. 🙂

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Claire looked at the neat stack of printed paper in front of her and smiled. Stretching her neck left and right she wondered what the time was. Her tummy’s growling suggested it was a long time since lunch.

“Excuse me?”

Claire turned quickly and winced as her tight neck muscles protested. Rubbing her hand against the pain, Claire looked in mute enquiry at the librarian she recognised from the front desk.

“I’m afraid the library’s closing now.” The woman’s expression was apologetic, as if the worst thing in the world was interrupting a studious person.

“What time is it?” Claire blinked, her eyes tired from their unaccustomed labour.

“Six o’clock.”

Claire stifled a swear word and thanked the woman, who walked off to gently alert the other people still working around her. Claire quickly gathered together her papers, glad the library had allowed her to write and print her notes. It felt good to be more prepared for meeting her boss the following day. Then her calmness evaporated as she remembered the rest of Conor’s call.

Damn I didn’t call the hostel. He really will despair of me if I can’t even get that right.

Hurrying out the building, Claire searched for her phone and tried to remember the name of the hostel Conor had suggested she stay in for the night. Her breathing quickened as her brain refused to come up with the information. Forced to load the YHA website, Claire hoped there weren’t too many hostels around Plymouth.

In the end it was easy, and she had the number. Deciding to call as she walked, Claire looked around, frowning in the afternoon sun, and tried to remember where she’d parked her car. With a brief prayer to her travel gods that it hadn’t been stolen or towed away, she strode off in what she hoped was the right direction.

“Good evening.” The deep voice startled Claire, as the phone eventually connected.

“Yes, hello,” she said breathlessly, slowing her pace. “I know it’s short notice, but I wondered if you might have beds available for this evening?”

“Yes, we have several. How many did you need?

“You do? Marvellous. It’s just for me.”

“How long will you be staying.”

“Just one night. Will I be able to get dinner as well?”

“Yes, that shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Okay, thanks. I’m just leaving Torquay so I’ll be there in however much time that takes.”

“Follow signs for the National Trust Overbecks, the road is quite steep I’m afraid, but you won’t have any problem parking as it’s after 5 pm.”

Claire thanked the manager for the information and hung up the phone with a sense of relief. Maybe the fiasco could be averted after all.

The water stretching out ahead of her sparkled in the evening sun, and white boats bobbed on the waves. Claire felt her mind drawn back to the sandy beach she had driven past, wondering if there was time to stop and take in the view. Her tummy gurgled and she decided to press on to the hostel.

The narrow lane wound up the hillside and Claire had to drag her eyes away from the scenery in order to stay on the road. Conor wasn’t kidding about the view, it was spectacular, overlooking the estuary and surrounded by mature woodland. Negotiating another switch back in first gear, Claire gave her new car a pat on the dashboard.

“Come on, you can do it. I know it’s steep; you’re doing great.”

The car grumbled in reply and Claire eased it around the bend, relieved to see the car park up ahead. Her heart felt lighter than it had in weeks, as she pulled her bag from the boot and went in search of the hostel entrance. Wandering along the path, through exotic trees and down endless steps, Claire thought ruefully that it wouldn’t be somewhere to come with small children, and then wondered what had made her think that.

At last the building came into sight, but Claire turned instead to face away over the water. It was idyllic.

What a shame that they’re closing it. I wonder if they struggle to get visitors: it’s not everyone who would struggle up that lane, and it’s not the most family-friendly location.

She imagined what it would be like coming with Sky; constantly worrying that the girl might have disappeared into the gardens or fallen down the stairs.

I guess a baby would be okay, as long as you had a sling rather than a pushchair.

Puzzled by the odd direction of her thoughts, Claire soaked in the last of the view, then went to check in.

***

“Kobogeddon”

First WH Smith then all KOBO

A couple of days ago I wrote about online retailers censoring self-published and indie books, referring to WH Smith / Kobo in the UK. Despite including this picture of the BBC news headline, “Kobo pulls self-published books after abuse row”, I didn’t really appreciate that there were two distinct (though overlapping) aspects to the scandal.

The first part, to do with censorship of erotica, I covered in my previous post. I personally don’t have a problem with restricting books that might be considered inappropriate (or ‘sick’ as one commenter defined them. Although I think these days sick means good, yes? I’m over thirty, I don’t know.)

The other element, that had passed me by, was the fact that Kobo blamed self-published authors for the whole affair. I caught up when I stumbled across the hashtag Kobogeddon on Twitter last night. UK-based author Rayne Hall started the hashtag to bring attention to Kobo’s hypocrisy and back-stabbing actions. Her blog posts on Goodreads here and here explain the full story, for anyone who doesn’t know the details.

#Kobogeddon on Twitter

In summary, a UK newspaper pointed out to WH Smith that they had featured books on rape and incest alongside children’s books (I think we can all agree that something had to be done. Perhaps put an 18+ filter on all books containing erotica?). In reaction WH Smith took down their ebook website and their provider, Kobo, took down all UK books. (Not just UK authors, I believe US authors were affected, although their books are still available in the US).

Fine. They had to do something. I’ve worked in PR, I get that. But they only took down self-published books (and ALL of them, not just erotica): any traditionally published erotica is still available for all to see.

That was five days ago. As of now my books are still not available on Kobo, although I understand that books published directly through Kobo are starting to reappear. Any of you who have read Dragon Wraiths, or Baby Blues & Wedding Shoes, or any one of the Claire installments on this blog that I collate into free books, will know there is nothing racier than a non-explicit sex scene or the occasional snog. Hardly risqué, Kobo.

Yet when I type in “School of” (as suggested by a comment on Rayne Hall’s blog) I get this selection of books (picture below): notice the erotic books School of Spank and School of Discipline alongside the children’s book The Clumsies Make a Mess of the School.

Kobo search results for “School of”

When I look down the list of categories on the left hand side there isn’t even an erotica category listed (although if you click in the book they are labelled as erotica, so the tagging is there).

I have restrictions enabled on my iPad to stop the children coming across things they shouldn’t (including books). Shame it doesn’t seem to work on any of the online retail sites. Smashwords at least has an adult filter, although it seems not all authors are using it. Self-published authors do need to take some responsibility for correctly tagging their books.

But Kobo has got it all wrong. Indie and Self-Published authors are not the only problem. Even if authors are not correctly labelling their books as ‘adult’, it still only represents a proportion of all books. By taking down everything, with no explanation (unless authors are published directly with them) they haven’t just chucked the baby out with the bath water, they’ve thrown the cash cow over a cliff.

Like it or not, self-publishing is part of the future of the book industry and pissing off authors is a really bad idea. I don’t need Kobo. According to my Smashwords stats I haven’t had a single book downloaded from Kobo since the beginning (although I might be in trouble if Barnes and Noble decide they don’t want to publish my books). I have other routes to market. Do they?

Please spread the word, whether you’re in the UK or not. If possible, buy your ebooks from another source. Direct from Smashwords is best. Support your Indie authors! We thank you for it.

School: Who is in charge? 2013 365 Challenge #292

Happy school

We had our first ‘learning conversation’ at school today (parents’ evening in the old language.) Our daughter has only been at school a few weeks, so there wasn’t much to discuss except is she making friends okay and how can we support her burgeoning desire to read? (She’s wanted to read for ages but wouldn’t let Mummy teach her! When she read out simple words like Pat and Mac this evening I wanted to burst with pride.)

It was the conversations in the playground that I found interesting though. We have a little book that is meant to be our means for communicating with the teachers, when it isn’t possible to catch them in the morning, and aside from the ten minute learning conversation slot every few months.

I happened to mention that I wrote something in the book about my daughter’s phonics and was disappointed that it wasn’t responded to – and that one of the assistants made the same point two rows below. (I confess, I scrawled in red pen “please refer!” and drew an arrow up to our comment. Okay, I’m a child!)

Some of my parent friends laughed at me, and I couldn’t understand why. Was it because I was pushing my child too hard, or that I had enough time to read through her homework diary (I know I’m extremely fortunate to have that extra time, that working parents sometimes don’t, and I was concerned that I was rubbing it in.) Hubbie was with me and I asked him what he thought I’d done wrong. His view surprised me: he thinks they laughed because I challenged the teacher with my comment. And it got me thinking – do some parents see it that the teachers are in charge and they have no role to play in their child’s education? Do I?

Playing after school

If you had asked me a few years ago, I would have said of course they are. They’re the professionals, what do I know? I would no more home-school than I would home-dentist. But now I have a slightly different view.

Of course teachers are better informed in how to get the best learning experience out of a child, and I intend to leave as much to them as possible. Particularly because my daughter doesn’t want to learn from me and I can’t help but get frustrated when she can sound a word out perfectly – say C.A.T. – and then read it as “dog”. I mean, really? 😉

However, am I prepared to leave it entirely to the teachers, and not want to know the details of what she’s learning, especially at this early stage? No. Not any more. Teachers are human just as I am. I made mistakes in my job, I took the wrong things seriously, I did my best and it wasn’t always perfect. I’m not saying teachers will make mistakes, but they are only human. Plus, even with the assistants, they’re still on a 12-1 ratio. And, ultimately, no one will understand or care for my child as I do.

It’s difficult to do things that get laughed at. I remember now laughing at one of my other parent friends because she checked her son’s merit chart every day to make sure he was getting merits (think gold stars). I felt she was a bit pushy. How wrong I was. She was just interested and keen that he did well. It’s so easy to judge from the outside, but none of us can know how we’ll react until it is our turn! So, yes, I’ll be the pushy parent, the pain, the one questioning and asking and not taking it all for granted. Up until now I’ve left the professionals to it. But not any more!

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“Hello?”

“Ruth, hi, it’s Claire.” She held her breath, waiting for the tirade. There was silence, and she imagined her sister’s mouth hanging open like a fish as she tried to decide how angry to be.

“Hi, sis, how are you? How was New Zealand? The pictures on the blog looked amazing.”

It was Claire’s turn to hesitate. The warmth in her sister’s voice and words momentarily froze her brain.

“Er, it was lovely. Bit cold, in the south. It’s good to be back in the UK. Um, sorry I didn’t stop by when I got home.”

“That’s okay, Mum said you had some problems with Kim or something. I hope she’s okay?”

Still the uncharacteristic mellow tone. Claire felt like she was talking to a stranger.

“Yes, Kim’s been, um, poorly. She was going to come travelling with me but we decided she needed to stay with her parents for a while.”

“I’m sure that’s for the best. Have you started your new job? Didn’t I read on the blog that you were working for Dorset tourism or something?”

“What? I mean, yes I started work this week. I’ve got three months to prove my worth.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage it; after four months on the road you must have a pretty good handle on what tourists want. And at least you’re not working for that silly man any more, or a faceless corporation like Happy Cola.”

Claire shivered. She’d never known her sister to show so much interest in her life before or to talk for so long without saying anything about how awful her own life was. She felt like she’d woken in an alternative reality.

“How’s Sky?” That would be safer territory.

“She’s great. She’s spending time with Chris at the weekends, so I’ve had a chance to get some rest, catch up on reading and housework, that kind of thing.”

“Huh? I thought you said she’d see Chris over your dead body?” Claire’s head reeled with the change of direction.

“Yes, well, it nearly came to that, didn’t it?”

Ruth’s matter-of-fact tone didn’t fool Claire, but she was glad of it. She wasn’t sure she could handle any more lachrymose languishing. Even so, the idea that her sister was willingly making contact with the ex-husband she swore she’d never see again was too much to take in.

“Blimey, I’ve only been away a month and the world’s on its head. What made you change your mind?”

“Sky. She kept asking to see her dad and her new sister. At first it made me cross, with her and you.”

Claire braced herself for the attack she knew was coming. “I’m so sorry about that. I didn’t mean to bump into him.”

“It’s fine. You’ve done me a favour. We’ve agreed that Sky will spend every other weekend with him, and Bryony and Eloise of course.”

That was too much for Claire. “Hang on. Sorry, I can’t get my head around this. Bryony? Not that woman? What the hell happened, Ruth?”

“It was time I forgave him. I didn’t make life easy for him, when Sky was born. I see that now. And family is important. Sky probably won’t have any other siblings through me; she should be allowed to know her sister.”

A suspicion crept into Claire’s brain, only to be dismissed. Something about the way Ruth spoke, her measured tone and air of calm forgiveness, made her sound like a missionary. As if hearing Claire’s thoughts, Ruth’s next words confirmed it.

“I’ve started going to a new church on Sunday. They made me see that life’s too short for grudges. You should come, Claire, next time you’re home. They’re wonderful people.”

“Sure, I’ll do that,” Claire muttered. Part of her felt relieved that Ruth had found a new focus in life, but another part of her worried that Ruth had been brainwashed by some cult.

I watch too much TV. A church in the midlands isn’t going to be a brainwashing cult.

With a wry smile, she pushed the foolish thoughts aside. “I have to go, Ruth, but I’m so glad to hear that you’re getting on well. I’ll give you another call soon. You take care.”

As she hung up the phone, Claire’s mind whirled with new emotions.

***

The Life We Choose: 2013 365 Challenge #290

Laundry Mountain

Sometimes the choices we make for ourselves are the hardest ones to live with. Situations that life throws at us can be endured, but taking responsibility for our own actions, our own choices, takes more courage.

Six years ago I chose to leave a good job because it wasn’t for me and was making me miserable. Hubbie supported me in my decision, even though I had no job to go to. I had every intention of making money selling paintings, not realising what a daft dream that was, and ended up contracting instead. Hubbie had to put up with my grump as I commuted four hours a day, leaving at 6am and getting back at 8pm.

Then I got pregnant and knew I wanted to be at home with my children as much as possible. Not full time, I wasn’t capable of that. But we reordered our finances so I could have a day or two to write without feeling pressured to earn enough to pay for the childcare. My part of the deal was taking on all the household chores. It was a fair trade.

When hubbie was made redundant I accepted that most of those chores and childcare duties would remain mine as he sought work and undertook DIY projects. But it’s one thing doing all the house stuff when you’re the only adult in it and another still doing them when someone else is there, even if they’re busy working. Mostly I manage to keep perspective, with the odd request for hubbie to empty the dishwasher or cook dinner.

My amazing hubbie

During the daily blog nightmare, hubbie has been amazing, taking the kids, doing the school run, giving me time to write. And I love him for it. But on days like today, when time is precious, and more hours have been spent on housework and chores than writing, I find myself getting resentful and snappy, even when I know he is working too.

Hubbie and I had a row as I chucked the makings of stew in the pot before rushing out to collect the kids. I haven’t written a word today and it makes me crabby. But these were my choices. I don’t have to go to work on Monday. He does. I don’t have to worry about meeting new colleagues or still finding time for the kids. I appreciate everything he has given me and I try so hard not to complain.

So this is an apology to him. I know I made my choices, and they genuinely make me happy. Sorry I forgot for a moment.

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Claire looked around at the endless rows of cars and tried not to panic. Remembering her father’s advice, she pushed her shoulders back and pasted a smile on her face. Confidence, that was the key. That, and knowing he had agreed to lend her five hundred pounds to buy her first car. She felt eighteen years old.

Claire peered through the window of the nearest vehicle, despite the price tag hanging from the window. She wondered if there was anything in her price range.

Probably tucked at the back, out of sight.

She sighed. There was no denying that it hurt to be looking for a tatty rust bucket rather than a nice Audi or BMW.

I made my choices, I guess.

“Can I help you, madam?”

The voice greeting her was closer than she expected, and it made her jump. Turning to face the source of the voice, she had to suppress a giggle. He looked about ten years younger than her, in a shiny suit that didn’t seem to fit very well.

“I’m looking for a car.”

“Well you’ve come to the right place.” He laughed, then stopped as Claire raised an eyebrow at him. “What kind of car are you looking for?”

The salesman looked her up and down and she could imagine him taking in her stretch jeans and polo shirt, the sunglasses holding back her heavy brown hair, and trying to decide what would best suit her.

“How about a nice Range Rover, or the BMW X5?” He looked around, as if surprised to discover there weren’t any parked right by him.

Claire didn’t know whether to be flattered or horrified that he clearly took her for a yummy mummy. “I’d love one, but my budget doesn’t stretch I’m afraid. I just need a runabout that will take me around the West Country for a few weeks. When I return to the city I won’t need it.” She hoped her cover story – that she was on assignment from a City job – didn’t sound too forced. Then she wondered why it mattered what some lad in the sticks thought of her.

“Oh, right.” The salesman’s face fell dramatically and Claire half expected him to stick out his bottom lip. She guessed he was paid commission.

There’s not going to be much coming from me, I’m afraid. Better luck next time.

She followed the man through the sparkling sea of cars to the back of the lot where, as she suspected, the two or three cheap cars lurked unwanted and unloved.

Her Dad had explained they would be trade-ins and there wouldn’t be much choice, as the garages usually off-loaded them at auction. “I don’t need choice,” had been her response, “I need reliability.”

Her dad had sucked air in through his teeth and asked her if she had breakdown cover. It didn’t bode well.

The salesman started rambling on about low insurance groups and minimal tax. Claire let the words wash over her as she peered in the windows of the brown, beige and grey cars huddled together as if for protection.

Why do older cars look so furtive? As if they’re glad to have escaped the crusher?

Even with the fondness she had developed for the Skoda, Claire still shuddered as she opened creaking doors to be greeted by the stink of stale smoke and overpowering air fresheners.

She climbed inside the least awful car and flinched as her hands touched the sticky seats. Quickly climbing out, Claire smoothed the grimace off her face and turned back to the salesman.

“Is this all you’ve got?”

He nodded, all his exuberance gone as he realised he was unlikely to make a sale.

With a shrug, Claire looked them over again. “Which is likely to be the most reliable?”

The boy shook his head, to indicate he had no idea.

“Well, can I speak to your boss, then, please?” Claire stood with one hand on her hip. The salesman hesitated, then nodded again and strode across the parking lot.

It was several long minutes before an older man threaded his way through the cars towards her. Claire had had time to regret her request. It was easy to keep up a front with the inexperienced salesboy, but a manager was likely to prove tougher.

“Can I help you, madam?” The man asked, in a deep gravelly voice. His eyes twinkled and his face showed signs of habitual laughter.

Claire felt herself relax slightly. “I need a cheap runabout to get me round the West Country without breaking down. I’ve only got five hundred quid.” She gave a wry smile. “The Company doesn’t believe in exec cars, and I’ve never needed one before.” That was mostly the truth.

She half expected the man to rub his hands in glee and sell her the worst of the lot. Instead he smiled, and gave an understanding nod.

“It’s going to be tricky to find reliability for that kind of money. What you need is something that’ll be cheap to fix.”

It wasn’t what Claire wanted to hear. Maybe hiring a car would be a better option after all.

“We’ve got a nice Vauxhall Cavalier. You could probably fix that yourself if it broke down.” He gestured towards a boxy red car in the corner that Claire hadn’t noticed before. She walked over and peered through the window. She felt some of the tension leave her neck and shoulders as she saw a neat black interior. When she opened the door it smelled clean and cared for.

“Owner didn’t want to part with her, but the wife popped out a fourth and they had to get a seven-seater.” The manager walked up beside her. “It’s only done forty-thousand miles. Twelve months MOT, six months tax. It’s got a sunroof and electric windows, which is pretty good for a twenty-year-old car. It’ll get you forty to the gallon, which you’ll need if you’re putting in some miles. Petrol, too, so cheaper to run these days. Not like it used to be.”

Claire climbed into the car and let the man’s words flow around her like summer rain. It was bigger than the Skoda, more comfortable too.

“You’ll need to watch the oil and water,” the man continued, “they can get a bit thirsty. Should be cheap to insure though. Small engine.”

With her hands on the steering wheel, Claire sat back and let her body sink into the seat. A car. Her own car. To drive wherever she need to go. A smile spread across her face.

“I’ll take it.”

***