Basil Fawlty, a Cameo and Bugs: 2013 Challenge Day #13

Basil Fawlty from Fawlty Towers. A Classic moment in TV History.

Still germ-infested here. I only made it out of bed yesterday because my son tripped over and fell into a door and the adrenalin kicked in as I went to retrieve Mr Bump from the fridge. Today it was husband’s turn for a lie-in so managed to drag myself out of bed to watch TV with the kids. We only survived the day by taking them to town and wandering round until they were tired enough to sleep!

This is quite a long post because it’s mostly narrative rather than dialogue. I am finding it a challenge to keep the instalments interesting when sometimes things just have to happen to build the story and move Claire around. Hopefully I’ll get better at it! It’s teaching me about ‘conflict in every scene’ if nothing else…

I’m trying to work out how to set up a Pinterest Board so my followers can pin to it if they want. If anyone knows how to do it, please let me know! I’m also open to suggestions as to what I can call my novel (currently just called the YHA Novel. My titles are usually pretty unimaginative, considering I used to work in marketing.)

See if you can guess who the (posthumous) cameo is based on my previous posts…. 😉

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“Just start, you stupid stinking heap of junk!” Claire smacked her hand against the steering wheel, then winced as pins and needles shot up her arm. It felt like the wheel was made of iron rather than the cushioned leather she was used to.

“Don’t cry, don’t cry.” Claire inhaled deeply and stared out of the chipped windscreen. She was still parked outside her flat. No one had towed the car away in the 24 hours since the Skoda had arrived to replace her company Audi and so she had no choice but to use it to drive to her parents before heading up to Berwick to start her assignment.

Claire dropped her head back against the seat, wincing again at the hardness of the headrest. She had never been in a car with fewer comforts. She tried to recall what the man in blue overalls had told her. The words manual choke floated into her head, although she had no idea what they meant. Claire fished out her iPad and typed the words into Google. She scanned through the information on ehow and began searching around the steering wheel for something that looked like a lever she could pull. She found it eventually near the handbrake and yanked it out. When she turned the key this time, the engine spluttered into life with a throaty roar more suited to a tractor than a tiny tin-pot car.

Claire looked out the window, hoping none of the neighbours were watching. Even though she wouldn’t be back to the street for a year she didn’t really want anyone to question why her shiny company car had been traded for this East European relic.

Claire managed to find first gear, after a quick tour of third and fifth. The gear stick was a giant baton, like a cheerleader might twirl, and the distance between the gears could be measured in inches. It had been months since Claire had driven a manual and that had been a hire car. Bunny-hopping down the street nearly gave her whiplash as she tried to find the bite on the spongy clutch.

Claire headed out of town to the motorway, weaving through morning rush-hour. What possessed me to leave this early? Idiot. The truth was Claire didn’t know any other way than to get up at 5am.

Traffic ground to a halt as they approached a roundabout and Claire could hear the engine growling at her. Looking around helplessly she realised she hadn’t pushed the choke thing back in. She was sure ehow had said something about it only being needed for a few minutes and she’d been driving for twenty.

Damn this car.

She inched forward in the traffic wishing that she could get anything other than Commercial on the ancient radio. After the third advert for PPI Claims she turned it off and tried not to worry about the sounds coming from the engine behind her. She glanced in the rear mirror and saw something fogging her view even though the way was clear in front.

What…? Is that mist?

Claire turned to look over her shoulder. There was steam pouring from the boot. That can’t be good. She looked down at the dash and saw that the temperature needle was thrusting at the red. Bugger. Claire searched around to see if there was a way out to the hard shoulder, or better still a service station, but there was just stationary traffic all the way to the roundabout. Double Bugger.

Claire coaxed the car onto the roundabout and down to the motorway, praying they would make it to Knutsford services before it conked out entirely. The cars around her hemmed her in like a pack of lions surrounding a sickly calf. The horns started as she crept down the slip-road, not daring to go above twenty.

She was practically sobbing with relief by the time the Skoda crawled into the petrol station. Climbing out of the car Claire resisted the urge to kick it. If there had been a tree branch handy she could quite happily have bashed the bonnet like Basil Fawlty.

“Problem love?”

Claire looked up to see a kind face twinkling at her from beneath a motorbike visor. An elderly gentleman in a black leather jacket with a red scarf around his neck was just putting the petrol cap back on what looked like an old police bike. He pulled the disposable gloves off his hands and walked over to where she was slumped against the car.

“Overheated?” The man looked to where steam was still pouring out the back of the car.

“I guess.” Claire shrugged. “It’s not my car; I normally drive a 2011 Audi.”

“Ah, I imagine you’ve been having fun with this then.” She looked up to see if the man was being sarcastic but it seemed he genuinely meant it. Maybe if you ride a motorbike then even a Skoda seems comfortable. Claire never understood the appeal of being out in the cold and rain when you could be nestled in a heated leather seat.

“Did you turn the fan on?”

“The what?” Claire watched as the man reached into the driver’s seat and pulled a lever. The boot popped open and he went round to inspect the engine. His voice was muffled as he spoke from the depths of the car. “These old things often have a bodge for the fan. A manual switch under the dash.”

Claire walked closer so she could hear him better. She had learnt her lesson about paying attention. “You need to flick it on in traffic but remember to turn it off when you’re parked otherwise you’ll flatten your battery.”

He looked around the forecourt and located a bucket of water, then pulled on his large leather gloves and twisted off some part of the engine. A plume of steam whooshed out and the man leant away before turning back to pour some water into the hole.

“You’ll need to take it steady but I don’t think you busted anything. Are you a member of the AA?”

Claire looked puzzled. What did Alcoholics Anonymous have to do with her car overheating? Unless he was worried she might turn to drink in her anger and shame.

“The AA? Breakdown cover? I recommend it if you’re not used to driving an old car. Temperamental things. Need love and care.” He stood up and slammed the boot shut. “Bought my daughter one of these when she passed her test and she ended up taking the carburettor off when it broke.” He beamed with pride as if he could imagine nothing finer than a daughter who would get her hands dirty.

Claire looked down at her perfectly manicured nails and wondered if her father would be proud of her if she turned up at home covered in oil. Her mother would freak.

“How do I get AA?”

***

The Highs and Lows of a Daily Writing Habit – 2013 #11

My daughter having fun at her third birthday. Was it really a year ago?

It’s day 11 of my 2013 challenge to write an instalment of my novel every single day and I’m starting to notice some unexpected side effects of having a Daily Writing Habit. Last year I wrote only on the days the children were at nursery, 2 or 3 days a week. As I discussed in guest post Always Writing I usually have my novel in my head but know that I can’t sit down every day to actually write because it would result in me ignoring my husband and kids too much.

I thought I would do more or less the same with the daily challenge – write most of it on nursery days and just do the blog entries daily. I didn’t allow for how the idea would set my brain alight.

Side Effects of a Daily Writing Habit:

Sleep (or lack thereof): I haven’t slept properly since 1st Jan. My mind is racing all the time with things to do: either things to write at the top of the next blog post, pictures to include, bits of dialogue for Claire’s next chapter, or things that haven’t been done around the house, like laundry, ironing, boot washing, dog feeding, dinner cooking, hovering, physiotherapy exercises, birthday party prep… The list is endless. The result is that I sleep for two hours at a time, wake up exhausted, and so it goes on.

Effervescence: I’m constantly fizzing with a need to sit down & write. Although, due to the previous point, it’s actually more like the buzzing of a dozy fly against a window than the sparkle of bubbly champagne. The short instalments are addictive: writing 500-1000 words and then editing it is very different to a normal first-draft-stream-of-consciousness-write-10,000-words-in-a-go experience. I find I like the finished nature of each post, it is very satisfying, like publishing a short story every day.

Enthusiastic Fear: People are reading my blog, liking posts, following me. I’ve had more visits and likes this year so far than in the whole of the last quarter. I’m scared and excited at the same time. I feel a responsibility to do Claire and the story justice.

Self-Doubt: When I first pitched my idea to my husband on 30th December he was concerned that a daily blog would put too much pressure on my already strained resources of patience, energy and sleep. Now he’s enjoying the novel he thinks it’s a great idea and I’m the one with doubts. I’m worried it’s taking over my life and putting Writer above Mummy. That isn’t acceptable.

Hopefully it will all settle down soon and I’ll find a balance. I have to: I have a Jungle-themed birthday party to organise for an amazing little girl who has talked about her next party every day since she turned three, 354 days ago. Now that’s a consistent daily blog…

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Claire looked round the empty apartment and fought a wave of self-pity. The YHA / Coca Cola assignment had been hard enough to swallow when she thought it was intended to help her get on the Board of AJC. Now she knew, or at least suspected, that it was a ploy to get her to resign the whole thing made her miserable.

I’m good at my job. I landed that Vodafone account, and the Birds Eye one. Not to mention the twenty other clients I’ve acquired since the beginning of last year. How dare Carl do this to me?

Feeling the fire of anger burn away the pity, Claire got up from where she had been curled into the leather sofa and went to the kitchen to make an espresso.

Drat, of course, the espresso machine was mine. I’ve boxed the darn thing up.

The removals men had been put-out to discover Claire didn’t have Tetley tea or milk or anything useful to make them a ‘brew’. They’d hauled her boxes down the flights of stairs to the street, paying no attention to Claire’s yelps of concern as they man-handled her shoe collection and the box containing her precious espresso machine.

Claire looked at her watch. 11.30am on a Monday morning. I should be at work. This is just wrong Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Carl had told her to take the week off before starting her assignment, to give her a chance to sort out her affairs, empty the flat, give back the company car. It felt like she’d been put on Gardening Leave.

Or maybe it takes most people more than a drunken Sunday evening to box up their whole life? Perhaps with hindsight it was stupid to agree to the removals men coming on Monday. What am I going to do in an empty apartment with no espresso machine for a whole week? There’s only so much Earl Grey a girl can drink.

Claire grabbed her bag and headed for the door. I need coffee. She walked the five minutes to her nearest Starbucks and gratefully ordered a skinny latte, realising she’d missed breakfast. Before long she was encased in her favourite chair, looking out the window at the people rushing by. Claire sipped her coffee and tried to formulate a plan to survive until Friday, when she would be checking into the Berwick YHA. Thinking beyond that point gave her a headache.

God forbid but I might just have to go see my parents.

The coffee cup was empty too soon and Claire looked around for something to fill another hour. Failing to find anything she decided to head to Deansgate for some retail therapy.

Claire wandered aimlessly along the street for an hour before she realised there was no fun shopping when you knew you weren’t going to be able to wear or carry your purchases for weeks. What was the point in giving in to the allure of the strappy heels that had called from one shop, or the beautiful dress that had yelled from another, when her trip to the Maldives was so far away? Still, a need to spend burned deep in Claire’s throat and she walked back and forth trying to find somewhere to wield her plastic.

She stopped outside a shop that had never registered on her radar before, due largely to the window display of hiking boots, camping gear and anoraks. The mere sight of all that healthy outdoor stuff made her want to head for the nearest Spa. Now, though, it seemed the only place where she could shop with a clear conscience. Shrugging her shoulders Claire thought what the hell and pushed open the door.

The interior was more crowded than Canal Street on a Saturday night. Racks of blue and grey clothing crowded round her while rucksacks that could eat hers for breakfast climbed the walls and loomed ominously. Along the back, row upon row of aggressive boots marched up in formation. Claire was about to back out when a young voice hailed her from the depths of the store.

It wasn’t immediately clear where the voice had come from until a man emerged from between the rows of clothes. Claire looked up into a tanned and handsome face. Gleaming white teeth shone from smooth, snoggable lips. Wavy blonde hair bounced above an attractive face while sea-blue eyes twinkled at her in welcome.

“You alright there?”

His voice did disturbing things to Claire’s tummy.

“Er, Um.” Claire looked at him helplessly, fighting the urges his proximity was raising in her midriff. He grinned, whether at her discomfort or out of friendliness Claire couldn’t tell. She looked around vaguely, trying to find a purpose for being there.

“Er, I’m er, going hostelling.”

The man gave her a glance that suggested he’d heard more believable urban myths but his smile didn’t falter. “That’s awesome. Where are you off to? Going Walkabout? To The East? Over the Pond?”

Claire looked confused. As far as she knew The Walkabout was a bar on Quay Street, The East a Chinese Takeaway over on Faulkner Street and she didn’t think she knew any ponds, although wasn’t there another Takeaway over in Salford called Pond something?

“No, not eating out. Hostelling.” Claire wondered if maybe hostelling was actually some kind of student slang for getting pissed and eating take-out. “You know, travelling?”

They stared at each other in mutual confusion before the shop assistant gave in first. “What country will you be traveling in?”

“The UK. I have to visit every YHA in England and Wales as part of my job.”

“Ah, you won’t want much camping kit then. Pretty tame country and the hostels are all mod-con, not much need for a Billy or an Esky.”

Again Claire looked at the man as if he were speaking a different language. She guessed from his accent that he was from Australia or New Zealand and wondered if he was talking Maori or Aborigine. She nodded, hoping that was the right response, and gave him a smile. Feeling something more was required she added, “I have a rucksack and a Maglite.”

“Well that’s a good start. What about a soft-fibre towel, washing line, travel wash bag, ear plugs, sleep mask, sleeping bag, waterproof coat, hiking shoes or winter boots?” As he said the last items he glanced down at what she had thought of as her sensible shoes – her black leather Gucci pumps with the 1 inch heel – with a slight raise of an eyebrow.

Half an hour later Claire left the shop with a smile as large as the shopping bag bashing her hip. On her feet were her favourite purchase, although the man had said they weren’t really necessary in England. Still, the Helly Hansen Eir Boots had been a bargain at £130 and they really were very comfortable.

***

Turn your goals into daily habits (onewildword.com)
Inspiration is a habit (rmbenson.wordpress.com)
A Daily Blog? (springingtiger.wordpress.com)
Blogging Basic – You Must Write! (dadblunders.com)
“I Don’t Want To Write Today!” How to Dump the Writing Blues (freelancewriter1020.wordpress.com)

Driving down memory lane – 2013 365 Challenge #10

This is what my darling car looked like: Photo courtesy of GoldScotland71 on Flickr

Had fun driving down memory lane today, quite literally, as I’ve cast my first car in the 365 novel (The novel really needs a name – suggestions welcome!).

My first car was a ‘Dove Grey’ Skoda Estelle. Dad bought it for me when I graduated and sold it to me with the information “It has five gears and five doors!” which, for a car of that age and budget, was pretty rare. I knew immediately it was a Skoda, my greatest fear. I worked in a bar and I guess I’ve heard every Skoda joke going.

Still, I loved that car despite having to undertake wacky things like removing the carburetor to take home in a carrier bag or having to bleed the clutch with a broom in a service station off the M6. Expect some of these experiences to appear in future Claire posts… I’m a firm believer in writing what you know.

This one’s for you, Dad:

P.S. Don’t forget to follow the blog if you want to hear more of Claire’s exploits!

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The buzzer echoed through the apartment, dragging Claire from a horrible dream. She had been standing alone in a room of twenty beds, her hair lank and unwashed, her clothes creased and dirty. Shaking away the awful image, Claire looked at the clock and swore.

9.30am? What the…?

Claire carefully sat upright, fighting against the spinning room, and realised she was already dressed. A thumping in her head reminded her of the empty champagne bottle sitting alone on the kitchen counter. The buzzer rang again, more urgently. Damn it, the removals guys aren’t meant to get here until 10am. She walked to the door without fully opening her eyes, then pushed her mane of chestnut hair away from her face so she could locate the intercom button.

“Yes?”

“Here to swap the car love, haven’t got all day, I’m parked on a yellow.”

Claire had forgotten Carl’s comment about her being provided with a more appropriate car. Oh well, best go and get it over with, see what they’ve decided is fitting. She grabbed her keys and let herself out of the apartment, determined not to be upset by this latest ploy of Carl’s to make her quit.

She shouldered open the heavy front door and was immediately faced with a man in blue overalls leaning against the lamppost outside her apartment.

“Miss Carleton?”

“That’s me.”

“Here to collect your company car and drop you a replacement.” The man looked around, trying to work out which car was hers.

Reluctantly Claire gestured at her charcoal-grey Audi, parked several cars down from her front door. The man whistled when he saw it and pushed himself away from the lamppost, revealing a tatty old car behind him.

“Blimey love whose front porch did you piss on? That’s a spanking motor to be swapping for this heap of crap. Think you’ll find this baby handles a bit differently. It’s got gears for a start, and a manual choke.”

Claire looked at the rusty box on the road in front of her and wondered what she had done to make Carl hate her so much. The courier’s words washed over her as phrases like “brake horse power” and “pisses out oil” made no sense and were therefore dismissed. The phrase “alloy wheels” permeated the fog of her hangover and she turned to face the man, a spark of interest in her eyes.

“Alloy wheels? That’s good right? My Audi has alloy wheels.” She looked again at the car parked outside her flat, as if hoping to discover it had transformed into something she might be seen dead in.

The man gave her the kind of smile he’d give an eager toddler. “Yes, love, generally alloys are nice to have. Not great on a Skoda though, especially one this old. Just makes the tyres leak. You’ll spend a chunk of time and cash getting them resealed and refilled every time you get a flat.”

Hope died in Claire’s heart. She wouldn’t even know where to take a car to have the tyres sealed and filled, whatever that meant. If something went wrong with the company car she told Julia and a man collected it, leaving her an equivalent courtesy car.

Claire watched mutely as the man walked to the rear of the car and gestured that he wanted to show her something in the boot. Puzzled, Claire went to stand by him and saw what she guessed was the engine. Thank god he showed me that, I’d have looked like an idiot trying to put my bag in there. She tried to follow the rest of what the man was saying as it seemed important but, as she’d always had her cars serviced, Claire had no idea why she would need to know where the oil and water went or what a dipstick was. It sounded rude in any case.

At last the man was gone, driving away in her beloved Audi and leaving her with – Claire consulted the piece of paper hanging from her nerveless hand – a Dove Grey Manual 5-gear Skoda Estelle. Looks like a poo-coloured box on wheels to me. Claire fought the urge to sob as she crumpled the piece of paper and stalked back into her flat. With any luck someone would notice it was parked on a yellow and tow it away.

A sudden desire to open her laptop and search for flights to the Maldives was interrupted by the shrill call of the buzzer. Damn thing’s rung more this morning than it has since New Year Claire thought as she pressed the intercom.

“Did you make a mistake, are you taking that pile of shit away?” Claire’s voice rang like struck steel.

“Well Miss, if that’s how you see your possessions it’s not for us to comment. Removals, Miss, come to collect your boxes.”

Claire leant her head against the cool of the front door and prayed for the day to be over.

***

Project Life 365 Days 1-8 (fromtheinsideoutblog.com)

Venice, Bologna, Family and 2013 365 Challenge #8

Venice from the Grand Canal on our flying visit

Hurrah we’re home. We had a fantastic weekend away in Italy catching up with my husband’s Italian family, meeting the newest member at his Baptism, and eating far too much gorgeous cheese.

We called in at Venice on the way back to the airport (having flown into Veneza Treviso because it was cheaper than flying straight to Bologna) and, as you can see from the photo, we got to see some great bits of the amazing city in our (very) short visit.

Chasing Pigeons in San Marco

We only had an hour so we caught a boat along the Grand Canal, then followed the advice of a local and took a wander through the narrow streets to the San Marco Piazza. It’s not a pushchair friendly city but we coped and the kids had great fun running around chasing pigeons. Thankfully that also meant they slept most of the way home. They were amazing the whole trip and it was a delight to travel with them.

It was a challenge to get up and write my installment this morning. My gorgeous husband is watching Mary Poppins with the kids while I’m in the kitchen tapping away. We’re meant to be at a coffee morning with my daughter’s baby group so today’s post might be a little rough around the edges! More tomorrow.

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Claire peered through the gloom, trying to distinguish bodies from furniture. They were in the Kaz Bar in Tiger Tiger for her leaving drinks. Molly, Polly and Sally were huddled together in a booth, giggling. One or other of them occasionally glanced in Claire’s direction and giggled louder.

I bet they’re laughing about the stupid gift Julia bought with my farewell collection. A 75-litre rucksack and a Maglite torch. Honestly, it’s not like I’m going hiking in the Andes. Actually it’s not like I’m really leaving at all.

Claire thought back to her farewell presentation that afternoon. She had been quite shocked to look up from her desk to see the entire office gathered outside her glass door. Carl had pushed through the crowd and beckoned her out into the centre, like the sacrifice in some ancient ritual. He’d signalled for quiet before launching into a speech about how Claire would be missed, how they wished her well and looked forward to her blog posts and Facebook status updates. When Julia had dragged out the gift and dumped it at Claire’s feet Carl’s grin couldn’t have been wider if he’d been a hyena.

“It won’t be wise to turn up in a hostel with Louis Vuitton luggage my dear. They’ll have you down as a snob before you can ask the way to the bidet. That’s if they don’t just steal it and sell it on eBay. The whole point is to blend.” And he’d grinned again, like it was all a big joke.

Well it isn’t a joke. Claire looked around the bar at all the people who had come to say goodbye. They will miss me, even if they don’t know it yet. And I will have the last laugh when I’m sitting on a beach in the Maldives while they’re doing Year End and worrying about the next mobile phone ad campaign.

“Get you a drink Claire?”

Claire looked up to see Steve lounging against a pillar near to where she was standing. She realised her hands were empty and was mortified to be caught standing alone and without a drink at her own leaving do.

“That’s fine Steve, someone’s getting me one. I’m just heading to the ladies.” She shone him her widest grin and tried not to run, which wasn’t advisable anyway in her towering heels. I guess I should be glad they didn’t buy me hiking boots or something similarly awful, Claire thought as she tip-tapped to the toilets and shuffled into a cubicle. There was a conversation going on in the next stall and Claire couldn’t help but listen to the slurred words.

“I give her two weeks. She has no idea what they’ve set her up to. I went travelling in Australia and alright the hostels here are probably cleaner and less crowded – I mean, who wants to travel around England for Pete’s sake – but it’s still going to be messy, noisy and Common. Miss La-di-dah will last a day before she’s booking a private room and I know the budget they’ve given her. Private rooms aren’t an option. Couldn’t happen to a nicer person in my view.”

Claire felt her face grow hot. It wasn’t hard to distinguish Julia’s drunken voice booming through the wall. Well, that’s just Julia, I know she hates me. When the next voice spoke Claire felt herself go completely still.

“You’re so right, Jules. Silly cow. Thinks she’s better than all of us because she went to some posh school and her family are loaded. Her sister can’t keep a fella and her brother’s a stuck up dick. No wonder she has nothing to do with them. Good riddance I say, I hope she doesn’t come back.”

Claire recognised the voice. It was Susannah, her best friend from Repro. Claire felt tears itch at the corners of her eyes, causing eye-liner to leak in and make them sting. She sat motionless while she heard the toilet flush. The two girls staggered out of the cubicle, laughing and shushing each other. As the room fell silent, apart from the throbbing bass of music coming through the wall, Claire leant her head against the partition and fought the tears. It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to floated into her head, causing a wry smile to twist her lips.

At least I know what they really think, silly bitches.

She pulled herself to her feet, pushed her shoulders back, and strode from the room. Out of the corner of her eye she was aware of Julia and Susannah watching her leave the ladies shortly after them. She sensed rather than saw the consternation on their faces and gained some pleasure from it. Once she had reached the bar Claire ordered a triple gin and diet tonic and turned to face the room. She spotted Mike from Accounts sitting on a Moroccan pouf by himself in the corner and headed over to take a seat next to him. He looked up as she approached and a mixture of confusion and delight crossed his face.

“So, Mike, how are things in Accounts?” Claire settled in and turned on her best charm offensive, determined to enjoy her party if it cost her everything she had.

***

Venice – the city of gondolas, love and pigeons! – Venice, Italy (travelpod.com)
Wandering the streets of Venice – Venice, Italy (travelpod.com)
Venice Canal 5 (wizard-systems.typepad.com)

A Baptism and the 2013 365 Challenge #6

The character matrix I use to keep track of my creations

Today I am at a Baptism in Bologna, Italy, with all my husband’s family, so this post was scheduled on Friday when I was meant to be packing (thank you husband!). As you’re reading this I am mostly wishing I had worked harder at learning Italian (I’m the only family member apart from the kids who doesn’t speak Italian. I can just about manage hello, how are you in Italian, despite many purchases of teach-yourself-Italian CDs).

My picture today is of my character matrix. (I borrowed the template from a blog but my WordPress reader is playing up so I’m afraid I can’t say who just now.) Usually I fill one of these out about halfway through a first draft, once I have a good idea of all my main characters and some interesting facts about them.

Because I need to ensure consistency in my blog posts for this 365 Challenge, I decided to figure some of it out upfront (like names, ages, physical appearance). I find it hard to imagine details about characters until I have written in their voice for a while. Characters don’t come to me fully formed. It’s more like meeting people in real life: when you first come across them you have a bunch of preconceived ideas about who they are based on past experience or stereotypes. As you spend time with them those ideas are either proved or disproved. That’s part of the fun of writing for me – finding out who my characters are. They always shock me.

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“Auntie Claire! Mummy said you were coming to stay but I didn’t believe it.” A whirl of blonde hair and beads threw itself at Claire’s legs and hugged tight, almost tilting her to the ground. Claire resisted the urge to shake her off like an unwanted dog and waited for the shrieking to stop.

“Hello Claire,” Ruth greeted her sister as she came to the door. The two women air-kissed, leaning over the child still wrapped around Claire’s legs. “Is that a new perfume, it’s very exotic.” Ruth sniffed the air and Claire could tell she really wanted to say it was awful, but as Claire was there to do a huge favour she had no choice but to be nice.

“Yes, Michael bought it for me,” Claire said tightly, before gently removing Sky from her legs so she could walk down the corridor to the kitchen-diner.

“How is Michael?” Ruth asked over her shoulder. Claire wondered if her sister had been so caught up in her own misery she had missed the status updates on Facebook. Or is it that she just can’t keep the maliciousness at bay for five minutes?

“We broke up.”

“Oh, did you? I’m sorry to hear that. He was very charming. Not that we saw much of him.”

Oh, here we go.

As if sensing her sister’s reaction, Ruth didn’t continue. Instead she pulled Sky away from where she hung off Claire’s arm and smiled brightly at her sister. “Tea?”

“Earl Grey please, if you have it?”

“No, only Tetley I’m afraid. Or I have Nescafe?”

Claire shuddered then shook her head. “A glass of water would be lovely, thank you.”

Ruth ran water from the kitchen tap into a plastic Disney Princesses beaker and handed it to Claire, who had sat down at the table. Ruth then poured herself more treacle-coloured tea from a spotty-red teapot and sat opposite her.

“Mum will be here shortly. I’m not supposed to drive, so Mum’s taking me. They’ll do the tests, keep me in overnight for observations, then Mum will come and get me in the morning. I’ll be back by lunchtime tomorrow.”

“Where are you going exactly? Peterborough General?”

“No, I’m still covered by Mum and Dad’s health insurance so I’m going private. It was going to be weeks before they could get me an appointment with the NHS.”

Silence filled the kitchen, broken only by the sound of Sky munching grapes. Claire cupped her hands around the bright pink cup and stared at the reflections in her untouched water. It was always like this with Ruth. Unless she was ranting about the latest injustice or gushing over some bloke she’d snogged they didn’t have much to say to each other.

“How’s work?”

Claire looked up, surprised at the question. “Fine. I have a new assignment.”

“Oh, something interesting?”

“Yes, it could be. I guess. It’s for Coca Cola.”

The spark of interest in Ruth’s eyes died. “Disgusting teeth-rotting stuff. I can’t believe you endorse evil brands like that.”

There didn’t seem any way to respond to the comment without starting a row. Sky was now slurping milk through a straw but she looked up and surveyed the two sisters. Catching her gaze, Claire was surprised at how much comprehension there was in her niece’s eyes. She realised she hadn’t seen her niece in over a year. Claire hadn’t joined her family for Christmas, which meant it was the Christmas before that she last saw Sky.

“Miss Hawkins says Coca Cola was invented by a chemist.”

Claire didn’t know what to say to the non sequitur. It no longer seemed possible to brush the girl off with That’s nice and a smile.

“What else have you learned at school?” She said instead.

“If two pieces of metal touch each other in space they get stuck together.”

Claire stared at Sky, bereft of words. Where did that come from? I remember learning completely useless facts in school, but that seems a bit technical for a six-year-old. She was still scrabbling for a response when the front door opened and she heard the familiar swish of her mother’s floor-length wool coat sweep the laminate flooring.

“You’re here then,” her mother said as she came into the kitchen. Claire turned to look at her, trying to read behind the words.

“Yes, the traffic was surprisingly light, I made good time.”

“Right. Well, we’d best be off Ruth. Have you told Claire where everything is, when Sky has her tea and when to put her to bed?”

“Won’t you stop for a cup of tea?” Ruth looked up at her mother, who was still wearing her winter coat. “We’re not due at the hospital for over an hour. Claire’s only just arrived.”

“We don’t want to be late.”

Ruth looked apologetically at her sister, as if their mother’s rudeness was somehow her fault. She handed her sister a handwritten sheet of paper. “I’ve written it all down, but if you have any problems you can ring Dad.”

“Much good that will do you. Your Father’s working this week, otherwise he would have taken Sky.”

“I thought Dad retired.” Claire smiled at her mother, to show that she was making a light-hearted comment. Her Dad had retired the year before, but he was finding it hard to let go. He had taken on various non-exec roles that seemed to take up more of his time than his full-time job as Chief Financial Officer.

“Your father works harder than all of you,” was all her Mum said, before turning to face the corridor. “Come on Ruth.”

Sky got down from the table and ran to give her Grandmother a cuddle. “Bye bye Nana, see you tomorrow. Auntie Claire and I are going to have so much fun.”

“Bye bye poppet. You be good for your Auntie Claire.”

Claire remained seated at the table as her sister bent to kiss her cheek, gave her daughter a huge hug, and scurried off down the corridor after their mother. Sky came over and leant against Claire, putting her arms around her neck. As the front door clicked shut Sky’s face widened into a broad grin.

“I’m so glad you’re here Auntie. I want you to show me how to paint my nails and my lips and all the things Mummy doesn’t let me do.” Her clear blue eyes sparkled in a way that promised trouble.

Claire was conscious of a strong desire to run down the corridor after her mother and sister, to tell them she would drive Ruth to the hospital. Instead she looked down into the face gazing mischievously up at her and forced out a smile.

“Okay, Sky. Let’s have some fun.”

***

Day #4 of the 2013 365 Challenge…

My refreshed website – still needs work but I was up til 1am getting it this far!

Okay so I am finding this challenge more challenging than I expected. I did my initial calculations on wordcount and figured I could easily write a thousand words a day and post them. I didn’t take into account needing to ensure each scene makes sense by itself, or the time required to tidy up spelling and punctuation. Nevermind how long it takes me to choose an image, upload it, add tags and categories and format the blog post!

This is only my second day without the children and my time seems to have been eaten up by buying birthday gifts for my little one’s 4th birthday (which is actually not until the end of January!), finding a Baptism card (it’s all Christening cards here, I found one in the fifth shop I tried) and updating my website so it ties in with my new business cards for the Art in the Heart Gallery (read about it here).

What’s keeping me going (apart from stubbornness, an unwillingness to humiliate myself in front of an audience and a desire to learn more about Claire) is a blog post I read from the lovely Kristen Lamb about taking yourself seriously as a writer. The blog was fabulously called Lies that Can Poison Your Dreams–Don’t Eat the Butt in 2013 It included a great quotation from Stephen King:

Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us get up and go to work. ~Stephen King

If I want to be a Writer and sell my novels I need to get on and write. So here is Day 4’s installment of my postaday novel. I’ll be scheduling Days 5, 6 and 7 today too (hopefully, although I have to go get the kids in under three hours) due to family commitments in Italy. I’ll be back in person next week!

_____________________________________________________________________

“Claire, it’s Ruth.” Claire held back a sigh and walked into the kitchen to put the coffee machine on. A phone call from her sister was never over quickly.

“Ruth, darling. How are you?” As she waited for her sister to start spilling forth her latest disaster, Claire mulled over how much to reveal about her new assignment. Her family would have to be told something, of course. Not that they ever came to visit, or called her home phone, or sent her letters. Still, it seemed only right to tell them she was moving out for twelve months. Tuning back in to the phonecall, Claire realised she had missed some key information and tried to catch up with what her sister was talking about.

“So the doctor said it was probably lack of sleep. You know Sky is a bad sleeper and her nightmares have been worse since she started Year Two.”

Claire worked out that someone was poorly, but was unsure whether it was her sister or her niece. Probably Sky. Silly, spoiled, overly-dramatic child. As if having her father run off with her ballet teacher gives her an open-ended excuse to be a brat forever. Surely they outgrow that nonsense once they start school?

Claire thought about her own schooling. Her parents had paid for the best, obviously, although Claire often wondered whether that was to ensure their three children didn’t hamper their lifestyle, rather than to give their off-spring a good start in life. The school had encouraged independence and character but had no time for tears and tantrums. Claire had learned quickly to work hard and stay out of trouble. More than could be said for Ruth. It had been a constant mortification to her parents that, while their first and third children both achieved academic success, Ruth only acquired notoriety.

Ruth’s next sentence cut through Claire’s reminiscing like a knife through brie.

“The tests are week after next. That’s why I’m calling. Is there any chance you could come and look after Sky? It’s half-term and most of her friends are going skiing. Of course we can’t afford that…”

Claire inhaled deeply and forced herself not to rise to the bait. Ruth was always poor and begrudged Claire her success. Claire accepted that looking after a child on your own probably hampered your career options, but look at J.K. Rowling, it hadn’t held her back. She was convinced Ruth could help herself if only she’d try harder. Claire’s irritation at the badly-veiled hint nearly overshadowed the first part of the sentence, but not quite.

“Have Sky? How long for? When?” Claire could hear panic in her voice and forced herself to breathe in through her nose. Once she was sure she was back in control of her emotions she said in a slow voice, “I start a new work assignment on 1st March, and I’ll … be on the road a lot. You know. Meeting clients.”

“Wining and dining on someone else’s credit card.” Ruth’s voice cut in.

“There’s more to it than that,” Claire responded quickly. Then, before Ruth could start the age-old argument, Claire inhaled through her nose again and consciously lowered her voice. “Tell me the day you need me to have Sky, I’ll check my diary.”

“Well, it’s two days, actually.” Ruth sounded embarrassed.

As well she might. I don’t want to look after her brat for two hours, never mind two days.

Claire had, thus far, avoided spending too much time with her niece, or with her two nephews Jack and Alex. Her brother and his wife lived in Geneva, so that was understandable. Ruth lived near their mother in Cambridgeshire, so her lack of involvement caused considerable friction. Kids just aren’t my thing.

Thinking about minding a six-year-old for two days made bile rise in Claire’s throat. She gulped down her coffee and wondered if she could use the new assignment as an excuse. There was something in Ruth’s voice, though, that made her pause.

“Can’t mum take her? I thought Mum and Dad were the perfect grandparents?” It seemed odd to Claire that two people who had no time for their own children could go dotty over someone else’s, even if they were their grandkids. Maybe they were going soft in their old age.

“Er, Mum’s coming with me, to the hospital.”

Ruth’s words slithered into Claire’s brain, freezing where they made contact. “Just what tests are you having exactly?”

“Weren’t you listening? I said you never listen to me, you and Robert, you’re both the same.”

Claire almost smiled at the petulant tone in Ruth’s voice. For a moment they were twelve and fourteen again.

“Sorry,” she admitted, saying nothing more.

“The headaches, the ones causing spots in my vision. The doctor thinks it’s tiredness but they want to be sure. I’m having a CAT scan or an MRI or something, I don’t remember the details. I’m not clever like you. That’s why Mum’s coming.”

Claire took the two steps from her kitchen to her lounge and sank into the white leather sofa. “CAT scan? Ruth, are you serious?”

“Of course I am. I wouldn’t joke about something like that. So, will you take Sky? I don’t think Dad could cope with her for two days on his own. You can stay at my place or at Home, whichever is easier.”

Claire rubbed a hand across her forehead, as if scrubbing away unwanted thoughts. “Of course I’ll come. Text me the dates. I should probably come home before I start my new assignment anyway, store some things in the attic…”

She thought Ruth might ask her about the assignment, but she didn’t. After another ten minutes elaborating on her headaches and trips to the doctors she said that Sky was calling for her and hung up the phone.

Claire slumped back into the sofa, cradling her iphone in her lap. Darkness seemed to engulf the room. A gloom that had nothing to do with the rain hammering against the window pane.

***

The Sort of Hope Who Has Time (allsortsofhope.com)
One word for 2013 (ishouldbewashingclothes.wordpress.com)
365 Challenge (tarawoodruff.wordpress.com)
New Year Challenges!? 365 Challenges and Goals (teejrants.wordpress.com)

2013 365 Challenge #3 and a Confession

The last time we went to Bologna (in 2007) it was our first wedding anniversary and we ended up visiting the Ferrari Museum. I am truly the best of wives...

The last time we went to Bologna (For a wedding in 2007) it was also our first wedding anniversary. We ended up visiting the Ferrari Museum. I am truly the best of wives…

Day three, still writing! Actually I have to fess-up that the weekend posts will mostly be written and scheduled tomorrow because we are heading to Italy on Saturday for a Baptism. The kids are so excited to be going on an aeroplane they haven’t stopped talking about it.

My husband and I are just wondering if we’re mad: we’re flying to Venice airport, driving the 40mins into Venice for lunch (I’ve never been!) before driving 2.5 hours to Bologna to check into our hotel. Thankfully the Baptism is on Sunday and we fly home on Monday so it should be a little calmer after that. I’ll be back to real-time writing next week. Please forgive my little cheat and rest assured I’ll still be writing while I’m away, just not posting.

Here is the third installment of my 2013 365 Challenge.

_______________________________________________________________________

Claire’s heart thumped beneath her gold heart pendant as she saw the email in her inbox. Carl had been quiet about her new assignment for a day or two and things had gone on as normal. Well, as normal as it got in AJC. Steve had filled her diary with meetings to discuss the accounts he was due to take over but, as he was away on a three-day conference, the meetings weren’t until the following week. Hoping the conversation in Carl’s office would go away like an unwelcome case of acne, Claire had continued with preparation for the Vodafone shoot and the Birds Eye’s Press Ads.

Claire looked at the email subject line and felt her hand quiver as it hovered over the track-pad on her laptop. Just click Open and find out the worst. Her hand shook for a moment more before she dragged the cursor over the email link and clicked.

The email was terse, as Carl’s often were.

Details of your assignment. Julia will sort the details. You start 1st March.

Good luck.

Carl.

She could imagine Carl sitting laughing at his desk as he wrote the words. Good Luck indeed. Bastard. She opened the attachment and was surprised to see it was only a single page with Coca Cola and YHA logos at the top. Scanning through the words quickly she saw that the brief had been prepared by Carl’s boss, the top man himself.

So Carl wasn’t talking complete crap when he said this came from the Board. Great.

It didn’t make Claire feel any better to know that her sudden move had been decreed by the powers-that-be. In some ways if it had been Carl’s vindictive move she could have handled that better, found some way to get her own back or turn it to her advantage. Knowing that she had come to the attention of the Board made her skin prickle.

Unable to avoid it any longer, Claire turned her attention to the actual brief.

Assignment: To travel to each of the Youth Hostelling Association’s 200 hostels, located throughout England and Wales.

Your assignment includes maintaining a blog to discuss reviews of the hostels, utilising social media platforms such as Facebook and Twitter to inform Fans of amusing stories and anecdotes, and generally promoting the brands of Coca Cola and YHA.

You will relinquish your company car and be given one more suited to your assignment. We will arrange for your apartment to be let and cover reasonable expenses, although you will be expected to stick within a backpacker’s budget (c. £20-£30 a day). You will continue to receive your normal salary and holiday entitlement.

Your accommodation for your first two nights’ stay has been booked in the Northernmost Hostel at Berwick-Upon-Tweed for 1st and 2nd March. From that point on you will be expected to plan your own route and manage your own bookings.

Your secondment is for one year, including your allotted holiday allowance. This means you will need to manage the length of your stay at each hostel, and your driving route from hostel to hostel, to ensure that you have visited each of the 200 hostels in that time.

Claire’s mind reeled as she read and re-read the brief. A car more suited to my assignment? She thought lovingly of the charcoal grey Audi parked in the street below. Take my Audi away? And her apartment. Okay, it wasn’t really hers. Mortgages were for people with kids and dogs. Hers was rented, furnished and serviced. Her sleek steel kitchen was kept clean by a firm who came once a week. Still, it was uncomfortable to think of someone else living there.

There was a hard knot in the centre of Claire’s brain and she knew the worries about her car and flat were skirting around the real issue. £20-£30 a day? That wasn’t going to buy more than an M&S sandwich, a couple of Starbucks and a takeaway noodles for dinner. Was she meant to pay for her hostel room and petrol out of that too? I’m not paying for it out of my salary, that’s for sure. If they’re going to make me do this I at least want to come out of it with something.

Claire’s mind drifted to pictures of a fortnight’s holiday in the Maldives when the ordeal was over. She’d never had enough money left before, after maintaining her shoe-and-handbag habit, but a year living on expenses would leave her nicely in the black. Claire sat back in her chair and smiled suddenly. The brief didn’t say when she could take her holiday. There was nothing stopping her dossing around the country for a few weeks and then jetting off for white sandy beaches and bath-water-warm seas.

Maybe things were looking up after all.

***

4 Thing Thursday: 365 Days In 2013 (streetmeetsstyle.wordpress.com)

A New Challenge

My new project will be based on a travel-journal

An email landed in my inbox from WordPress last week, looking at the best daily and weekly blogs of 2012.

It got me thinking whether I could do something like that. I have struggled to even write a blog post every week since I started my WriterMummy blog back in March 2012. Maybe I need a challenge to keep me motivated next year. Something like NaNoWriMo, to force me to write and post daily.

Except I don’t blog unless I have something to say and some weeks nothing much happens, particularly when I’m writing a new novel. Then I thought, why not use a first draft of a novel for my blog?

I originally came up with the idea of 365-365 – writing a book in instalments with each daily entry being 365 words long. That would challenge my daily writing and my need to be more concise. But I suspect the second 365 might be more than I can manage so I’m going to stick with trying to post something every day, starting with a new project.

The story needs to lend itself to short episodes so I came up with the concept of travelling. Ten or twelve years ago I travelled around New Zealand and kept a diary. Recently I helped my sister self-publish her travel journals from America to New Zealand.

I don’t want to do New Zealand though, as that feels a bit close to home (and a bit like cheating, as I’d probably reuse chunks of my diary.) So then I thought what about someone travelling around the UK staying in hostels? The next thought was Why? And how would I integrate a story arc (or even a character arc)?

I came up with the idea of a main character who is a bit smug with her own life. Maybe she has a sister who is a single mother or a brother facing divorce and she’s happy with her middle-class existence, with her designer shoes and handbags and pristine flat. How would she cope staying in youth hostels? Then I had to figure why she would choose to visit youth hostels, which made me decide it would be part of her job. Maybe she’s an advertising executive and her client has asked her to visit the hostels to improve the advertising campaign. Maybe she will write some of her posts on Facebook and Twitter. I’m sure I’ll figure some more out before I write my first post tomorrow!

As you can see, I hope my posts will cover how my writing ideas develop (I’m a pantser mostly, so plot as I go) and how I go about research. As I haven’t visited many hostels in the UK I think the YHA site and Google Maps will be my friends.

Fingers crossed I’ll manage to keep up with my challenge, but if not at least I’ve given it a go! See you in 2013 for episode one.

Happy New Year!

The Long Silence Explained

It occurred to me after I posted my essay on guilt yesterday that I forgot entirely to explain the long silence, despite putting that in my title. Making it a separate post possibly gives it too much weight, as if anything more than normal life has been going on in the last four weeks. It hasn’t. That said, there has been a convergence of events since the beginning of November, creating something like a maelstrom in my life. Some I’ve mentioned already – my husband being made redundant for example – but others happened amidst the whirlwind of NaNoWriMo and beyond.

NaNoWriMo in itself was a struggle this year. I learned a lot about myself as a writer and about the life of a Writer (with the capital letter firmly in place.) I didn’t start NaNo until several days into November because my brain was frozen after weeks of editing. Ideas don’t exactly spill out from my tired mind on the best of days but I had truly exhausted my imagination writing and editing Dragon Wraiths in nine months (ready for the Mslexia competition – more on that later). So in the end I opted to write up a story idea I had for NaNo back in 2010 (abandoned for something easier due to having a tiny baby to care for).

The idea excited me because it combined my favourite things – love stories and Georgette Heyer. The basic concept is a girl auditions to be an extra in a Georgette Heyer movie (based on the book Sylvester) but ends up being cast as the lead role despite having no acting experience. Various plots and dramas ensue and it ends with a love story.

But oh the writing was hard. I know next to nothing about making movies – not something that would normally daunt me, that’s what Google is for. But researching during NaNo is difficult as it breaks the flow. Then I realised I had no story arc, only character arcs, so I was writing into the dark. Again not something that normally bothers me, but this time (whether due to sleep deprivation, mental depletion or just a rubbish story idea) I drove into the dark to find only more dark.

I managed to limp over the 50k mark with two hours to go, but it was the greatest struggle and I was happy to abandon my half-written novel for Christmas Shopping on 1st December. Will I pick it up again? Hopefully one day. I began to understand my characters and get interested in the intrigue, but it is a draft that requires a complete rewrite so it’s likely to languish for a while. What did I learn? That maybe I’m not a Pantser writer after all. Perhaps, now and then, I need a better idea of where my story is going, other than that it will end with a happy ever after. I learned, too, about sitting down and just getting the words out. I had a week of no writing towards the end, leaving myself a 20k target for the last couple of days. I know I can write that much, but only when the ideas are flowing. This time I dragged myself along, like someone finishing a marathon long after the wall has been hit. And it was good. Good to know that I can write even when the ideas aren’t flowing, when the sleeping isn’t coming, and when I’m praying every day for my last novel to fly. Maybe I could make a career out of writing if I ever find an agent.

That brings me on to another event – Mslexia. My novel didn’t get shortlisted for the Children’s Novel competition but I did receive a very encouraging (group) response to suggest why. I was told that there were many strong novels written in the first person (like mine), many covering contemporary issues such as climate change (like mine), many with strong individual voices (hopefully like mine) and where there were two books covering the same topics only one was shortlisted. So maybe mine was just nearly good enough, rather than way off mark. Either way I believe in it, which is a first, and happily started sending query letters to agents the next day. The month before Christmas is probably not the time to be querying but I shall start again in the new year after reading through my newly acquired Writers’ and Artists’ Yearbook.

The other things that have been happening are that I have had some paintings accepted into the gallery Art in the Heart, despite my view that they would think them insufficiently arty (see earlier post). It was fun getting all my paintings out of the loft and choosing four to be displayed in January, alongside my miniatures and cards. It was nervewracking too, trying to narrow twenty paintings down to four, and writing an Artist’s Statement that was both interesting and honest. I still have much to do – getting new business cards and flyers and promoting the gallery through social media, as indicated in my contract, – but it was great to temper the disappointment of the Mslexia competition with a success.

I might have to expand my website – Author/Artist/Photographer/Mummy isn’t covering it all any more!

Finally I had a job interview last week for a Marketing Manager (although really a Marketing Director) role. I had to pull together a presentation with a day’s notice, and despite tears and tantrums (mine and the kids) I managed it. I was rather relieved not to get the job as it turned out I would be managing 8 staff – I find it hard enough managing two pre-schoolers – but it was wonderful to put my heels on again and remind myself that I used to be good once. It’s funny how, in this slash-slash generation, you can forget the lives you lived before. Funny, too, that Artist and Marketing Manager should both come back as Writer and Mummy were under pressure.

So, where next? I have decided I need to try harder to start my own business, to use those brain cells that have been long dormant. I rather-jokingly came up with 3AD Publishing when I prepared Pictures of Love for self-publishing, so that I would have a publisher’s logo on the spine.

My husband has started 3AD Solutions to promote some of his Product Management ideas. I think it might be time to combine forces.

The cover I designed for my sister’s book

I have enjoyed preparing texts to self-publish (I did one for my sister and her husband for Christmas, as well as several of my own) and I loved designing the front covers. There must be a market out there for those services!

Whatever happens, Writer/Mummy will continue, even if she morphs into Artist/Writer/Photographer/Mummy/Marketer/Designer/Editor.

Phew.

Bring on 2013!

The Long Silence and Giving up Guilt

Life, like Christmas, should be all about the children

I realised today that it’s been well over a month since my last blog post. That sounds a bit like “Father it’s been two months since my last confession”. Not that far wrong, really, as my blog often feels like the place where I confess my true self.

Well today I am going to confess to the crisis of Identity I had at 2am this morning, after my first night out in months. It wasn’t even a night out, just a meal with my baby group girls, who I’ve known for four years. They consist of a Paediatrician, two teachers, a psychiatric nurse and a self-employed business woman. That’s half the issue right there: Marketing Manager or Writer seems pretty weightless and meaningless next to those guys. I worry about not earning enough money while I fart around writing novels and they worry about whether one of their clients is going to kill themselves or if a child will die that week.

It’s always a humbling experience for me when we get together.

We always talk about parenting – we are a baby group after all, even if after four years our offspring aren’t really babies anymore. That leaves me feeling inadequate too. Two of the parents are from big families themselves and now have big families. They have parenting sussed. Their kids are gorgeous and lovely and polite and eat all their dinner and go to bed on time and their parents are fully in charge.

In our house we epitomise those t-shirts you see on babies, “Mum and Dad know that I’m in charge.” Hmmm

Needless to say I approach baby group dinners with a certain amount of trepidation, because I always come away feeling like I’m failing. I’m not funny enough (they all are), I’m not thin enough (they all are – or they’ve just had babies), I don’t work hard enough (they all do – long shifts, extra shifts, three hours marking homework every night. I fall asleep watching Strictly It Takes Two), I’m not a strong enough parent (my kids have no routine or consistent discipline) and most of all I’m a horrible parent (I shout at my kids way too much and tell them they’re being stupid or pathetic. I told myself I’d never use words like those. I know the power of words).

Goldie Hawn’s Great Book

So I lay in bed at 2am this morning, unable to sleep due to the thoughts whirling round my head. I picked up a book I bought months ago but lost (it was at the back of a drawer of clothes for some reason – one of my “tidy the room by chucking everything I a drawer” moments). It’s called Ten Mindful Minutes by Goldie Hawn and Wendy Holden. I bought it maybe even a year or two ago (tempus fugit) after hearing Goldie Hawn talking about her MindUP programme on the radio. I remember thinking at the time that it sounded like something I needed – reprogramming your brain so it doesn’t get hijacked by your emotions.

For some reason I stopped reading it after a couple of pages and that was the end of my attempt to be a better parent. Last night I started reading halfway through and got hooked. When I went back to the beginning I realised why I’d stopped reading. On the first or second page it says that British children are the unhappiest in the world. I didn’t want that guilt on top of all my exiting guilt so I obviously stuffed the book under the bed only to lose it in a the-family-are-coming drawer-stuffing tidy up.

It seems almost fate that I came across the book again yesterday in my rummage to find something -anything – that still fit that was suitable for a night out with the girls. After laying awake chastising myself about losing my temper with the kids so often and saying terrible things to them in my rage, it was wonderful to read that it’s possible to learn control. And learn it from a neutral person. I’ve been told it before but by some of the perfect parents I know, and so in the past I’ve been resistant. (Defensiveness = stubbornness).

After reading a chapter I got out of bed, went in to tell my daughter I love her and I’m sorry and then, when she came in twenty minutes later for a cuddle because I’d obviously woken her up, lay snuggled into my beautiful girl and thanked the universe for her and her brother and my general good fortune. Because despite my apparent failings as a parent I, too, have gorgeous and lovely and polite and caring children who go to bed when they’re told and 99% of the time are amazing (note I left out the eat-all-their-dinner bit: you can’t have everything).

I vowed to change.

I didn’t vow to be a better parent, or reading Goldie Hawn’s book cover to cover, or to lose weight, become organised, or anything that I’ve vowed and broken before.

I vowed to give up Guilt.

: Happy Smiley Children

Because during my hours of wakefulness I recalled something my husband said the other morning. “You could accomplish so much more if you stopped feeling guilty about everything.” I remember responding, “Great, one more thing to feel guilty about.”

Guilt is like that. It’s an addiction. It’s a habit. Feeling guilty for being a rubbish parent or a meaningless person or for eating too much cake is just a way to not have to do something about it. At dinner last night my psychiatric nurse friend was talking about someone with depression who wouldn’t get out of bed to talk to her. She said of her client, “She bloody well had to get up. If she isn’t trying to get better I’m not interested.”

It really got me thinking. By feeling guilty about everything, I’ve given myself the excuse not to get better. Every time I yell at the kids I feel guilty for being angry and aggressive like my Dad. Instead of thinking of all the great ways I’m like my Dad – how I’m creative and spontaneous and loving. I forget that Dad didn’t have the chance to be self-aware, so he didn’t have the chance to change. I am self-aware. So I have no excuse not to change. No excuse not to take a deep breath when my children have pushed me to the limit, to walk away, to swear at the plant in the kitchen rather than them, until I have my brain back under control.

When I feel guilty about writing novels instead of having a life-saving, world-saving job, I forget how many people’s lives are changed by reading books. Maybe not my books, maybe not yet. But one day one of my books might save a life. My own life has been saved or enriched or expanded by literature. I undersell myself and let the guilt box me in until I’m spending more time wringing my hands than I do writing my books.

When I feel guilty because my kids have had pasta shapes and toast for the third night in a row I let that guilt stop me from trying to give them something different. I feel guilty when they don’t like their dinner and don’t eat it, instead of being a proper parent and encouraging them to try new things and eat healthily.

So, although it’s a bit early, I’m making a New Year Resolution: No More Guilt.

What do you feel guilty about? Have you started thinking about New Year’s Resolutions yet?