Blast from my Past: 2013 365 Challenge #233

My hiking buddy for the Tongariro Crossing

I was looking through an old travelling journal this evening, hoping to find something on the Tongariro Crossing that Claire will undertake today.

Unfortunately I appear to have lost my journal from the North Island. However, I did find my South Island diary, and found it interesting to read bits of it for pretty much the first time in a decade.

I always assumed it would be dull or full of angst (as most of my diaries are), particularly as I was suffering the side effects of coming off antidepressants when I travelled round NZ, leading to panic attacks and low periods.

I did some crazy things, though, and generally I have fond memories of the three months I spent travelling. If I had come straight home, rather than screwing up my head living with a Kiwi for nine months, I might have been saner and richer. But such is the twenty-twenty power of hindsight. And actually I don’t much regret that either. It all adds to life’s tapestry.

Anyway, this was the excerpt I found at random, written just after undertaking the Inland Pack Track on the West Coast. (I write it verbatim, including punctuation!)

The Inland Pack Track

27th March 2002

“Have taken to checking my phone for the date – I at least know it is Wednesday – 2 weeks since I arrived in the South Island and maybe 8 or 9 since arriving in NZ. I don’t know why that’s important – time has really ceased to have much meaning – especially out in the ‘sticks’ without internet & phone!

“Well, I completed my first overnight hike, footsore but triumphant. Actually if I had read a little more about the track itself I wouldn’t have touched it with a barge pole. But 40km in 2 days with a full pack, on a track I would grade medium, has proved to me that I can do it. I was going to write about the track now, but I want to do it justice so I guess it will probably wait until tomorrow, as I am heading off to an ‘all you can eat’ $3 bbq – and as I am going with a human being of the opposite sex, have inexplicably (or perhaps not) decided to ‘make a bit of an effort’ – despite said male seeing me sleeping in an orange survival bag, wearing a wooly hat and no shoes! Weird.”

I hope I can dig out the other journal. I find it hard reading too much of my naval-gazing words, but it is fascinating to pop in from time to time and visit the me from eleven years ago. I haven’t changed much!

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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 stretched out her stride and quickly left behind the others from her group. The early morning air that stung her face was welcome, after a pre-6 a.m. start and an hour and more on the bus with other sleepy hikers.

The bus driver had cautioned them about the mountain weather, especially in the autumn, and Claire reluctantly had her full pack, albeit without most of its usual contents.

If I’m going to do any more hiking here I might have to get a day sack.

The weather gods had decided to be kind; holding off the predicted snowfall. Claire gazed up at the empty blue sky and prayed the snow would stay away for at least another day. Getting stuck up on the mountain was not a welcome prospect, hut or no hut.

The forecast for the whole week was indifferent and Claire had faced the prospect of missing the ‘Greatest one-day hike’ in New Zealand or staying in Taupo an extra day or two, time she could ill afford.

Getting back on the bus with Neal today was not an option. Thank you, weather gods, for giving me the perfect excuse.

Chaffing at the slow pace of the hikers in front of her, who had come clad only in shorts and t-shirts and wearing trainers, Claire wondered whether to push past or stop to take pictures. According to the guide sheet, the hike should take at least six hours, and she didn’t want to be running for the bus.

Her dilemma resolved itself as the slow walkers stopped to take their own snaps. Claire wondered if she would see them at the finish.

They’re more likely to end up in hospital if that’s all the clothing they’ve got.

Claire resisted the urge to lecture them in mountain savvy: after all, she was still a novice and had made her own mistakes. Instead she pushed on, keen to stretch her calf muscles in a decent climb. It had been too long.

Tongariro Crossing looking back

Half way up the Devil’s Stair, Claire regretted her impetuosity. More of a scramble than a hike, the path up the cliff face was beyond steep, and littered with rock. Sweat dripped off her forehead, trickled down her back, pooled in her bra. Every muscle in her legs burned in agony as she forced herself to keep moving, however slowly. Stopping would only increase the pain.

At last, exhausted but triumphant, she reached the top of the evil climb and paused to admire the view. The desolate plains stretched out beneath her and it was easy to see why it had been the perfect place to film Tolkien’s masterpiece.

Mount Ngauruhoe loomed behind her, looking every inch the mountain of doom from the movie. A chirpy green sign invited her to climb to the summit but it took less than a second to decline the offer.

I might miss the bus, she thought with a smile. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it.

During the climb it had seemed that Devil’s Stair might be the worst of the ascent. It wasn’t. Claire groaned silently as she followed the path with her eyes, as it rose higher and higher. It was one thing knowing it was a high-altitude alpine route and another to see it stretched out before her.

With nothing to detain her, Claire pushed on, enjoying the solitude amidst the groups of people strung out in front and behind. It was comforting to see them. Despite the white markers and poles, she felt it would be easy to get lost.

After what felt like hours Claire reached the red crater. It was hard to absorb the sheer scale of the volcanic gash in the mountainside, full of rubble and undulating rock formations. Snapping a few pictures to appreciate later, over a strong coffee or a gin and tonic, Claire pushed onwards, wanting to crest the worst of the climb before lunch.

With a last push, Claire hauled herself out of the red crater and then reeled at the wall of stink. Beneath her, the emerald lakes twinkled prettily in the midday sun. The stench from their sulphurous content tingled in her nostrils and seared her throat. Panting heavily from the climb, Claire was forced to cover her face and take shallow breaths. She dropped back down into the crater and pulled out the picnic provided by the hostel.

It should have been lonely, sat alone in the land of Mordor as giggling groups walked by. Claire looked out over the endless panoramic view and felt her soul take flight. After all the nonsense with Neal, and the turmoil at home, there was a freedom to being somewhere no one could find her.

Replenished, Claire took a deep breath and tackled the descent past the lakes. She stared at her feet as she walked; partly to ensure a safe footing on the loose shingle and partly to avoid focussing on the steep drop beneath her. The descent was worse than the ascent. One false step and she would land at the bottom in a jumble of broken bones.

Gradually the scenery became softer and more welcoming, as green vegetation replaced the relentless red and grey rock. Entering the humid forest, Claire marvelled at the extremes of terrain covered in such a short time. The forest deadened the sound of the thousands of other hikers, allowing her a sense of seclusion. Despite the aching limbs, Claire felt energised.

You can keep your zorbing, bungy jumping and swooping. Give me a day pitting myself against nature and every cell comes alive.

The walk out to the car park was too long. Around her, smiles diminished and laughter disappeared. Weary walkers trudged the last few kilometres to their bus, longing for a hot bath or at least somewhere to sit. Claire barely noticed the lake or the hills framed by the setting sun. Dark clouds gathered behind her, promising the bad weather. At last the bus came in sight. Claire felt she might kiss it, but settled instead for a small cheer.

***

The Tongariro Alpine Crossing (theprofessionalhobo.com)

Running on Empty: 2013 365 Challenge #232

I want to do more of this …

I read a great parenting post this morning, on the inspirational Orange Rhino blog, about Parenting on Empty. Not run down or depleted reserves but down deep, nothing left, red light empty. The author described the effects of running on empty:

Running on empty means I am shorter, snappier, moodier, grumpier, everything “-er” except calmer, friendlier, and happier.

It struck a chord. I’m not there yet (well, actually, looking at the above list of adjectives, I probably am!) but my fuel warning light is on.

With the extra work of editing Baby Blues, on top of the daily blog and social media (not to mention childcare and household duties!), I’m feeling stretched to my limits. I go to bed exhausted, I wake up exhausted, I cry over the smallest things (like getting locked out of my iTunes account and losing an hour’s editing time trying to fix it) and my children have stared using, “I’m just tired,” as their excuse for everything, I wonder where they learned that?

I can’t take a complete break, because of the daily blog challenge, but I think I can cut it down a bit. I’m forty pages from finishing this draft of Baby Blues and, even though the proofread has forced me to line edit at a level I haven’t done before and has revealed weaknesses in the novel I would dearly love to fix, I’m going to let it go. If I don’t I’ll either burn out or I will never finish it. Come what may, when I reach page 230 I will format for kindle and Create Space and hit approve.

… and less of this

So, I’ve marked September as my month off. With my daughter starting school oh so gradually and my son on a new schedule at preschool I won’t get much writing time.

I intend to continue with Claire, but I suspect the top half of my blog might diminish. I’m thinking of opening it to short (500-700 words), relevant, guest posts: if anyone is interested drop me a line.

I may also dig out some old poems and stories, maybe even some paintings, and give them an airing, get some feedback. It might work. It might not. All I know is I need to spend my dog walking time on Claire. So, this is a head’s up.

Hopefully October will be business as usual, although my sister is over from the States for two weeks, so maybe not! I ask for your patience! I’m off to the petrol station to fill up.

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Claire looked at the man opposite her, and searched her brain for a topic of conversation. A week’s travelling had told her precisely nothing about him apart from his name. She couldn’t guess his age or occupation and only assumed London was his city of origin by his accent.

She glanced down at the menu, then turned her gaze across the road to the lake. The water had shone like blue silk when they first reached the restaurant, but storm clouds had piled overhead since their arrival, and now the surface was as leaden as the sky above. Claire shivered and pulled on her cardigan, glad of the activity.

The menu might as well have been written in Greek for all she could focus on it. Neal’s proximity pulled at her gut and set her nerves tingling. She’d never met someone with so much animal magnetism. If asked, she would have said the phrase was only for romance novels of a certain ilk.

Topics of conversation drifted into her head only to be dismissed. Opening lines such as, “So, how do you like New Zealand,” or “Where do you call home,” or even, “What activity are you doing tomorrow?” sounded too lame to be uttered. Opting to leave the opener to him, given that he had driven forward all their other encounters, Claire turned her attention back to the menu and searched for something easy to eat in public.

At last their meals were ordered – Neal had chosen the most expensive dishes on the menu – and they were left with the task of making small talk. Claire sipped at her gin and tonic and watched Neal with an indifferent expression. This was his bet, let him earn his dinner.

“So, Claire, how do you like New Zealand?”

Claire sniggered at Neal’s question and he frowned.

“What’s so funny?”

“That was going to be my opening gambit but I assumed you’d have some sarcastic response at its lack of originality.”

“It’s as good a place to start as any.” His face glowered darker than the storm clouds and Claire worried she had offended him. His reaction seemed out of character compared with the Neal she thought she knew.

“I like New Zealand very much,” she responded with as much sincerity as she could manage. “It’s a beautiful country, the weather is mostly gorgeous and the locals friendly.”

“Why, thank you.”

His response made her choke on her drink. After coughing for several moments, she furrowed her brow. “You’re a local?”

“That’s right. I’m on a VIP. Didn’t you know?”

“Well, no. From the accent I assumed you were a fellow Brit on holiday.”

“Well, one out of two ’aint bad. I am a Brit, as you put it, but I’ve been over here for four or five years now. I used to work for Magic.”

The waiter brought their starters; goats cheese for her, some form of seafood chowder for him. It was the most expensive starter. Now she knew he was a bus driver, rather than a GP or a City Trader, it made more sense.

“And now you work for Kiwi? Isn’t a bit of a busman’s holiday – literally – to come round on the tour?”

“Officially I’m here to learn the new route, although I know it already. I get to travel for free and I know people at every stop. It’s more like an extended family trip.” He forked a steaming heap of fish into his mouth and Claire looked away while he devoured it.

Before his mouth was entirely empty, he continued. “And there’s usually something to add a piquancy to the trip.” He raised his eyebrows in the way that normally sent her heart jumping. It didn’t have its usual effect.

A memory drifted into Claire’s mind from her conversation with Mitch, back in the UK. As well as having a rude name for the ‘other’ bus tour, he’d mentioned an acronym to watch out for, something to make sure she didn’t become. It had been a friendly warning and she had laughed it off. He’d said “Don’t be a DAF”. When she’d asked what it meant, he’d responded, “Driver’s Available …” and had winked suggestively. No need to ask what the F stood for.

She watched Neal, as he finished his starter with a look of smug self-satisfaction on his face, and she understood. Her appeal, over that of the youngsters, was presumably an ability to buy dinner. He must have seen her iPad, phone, clothing, and figured she was loaded.

That would be nice.

Just buying her flights and bus pass had maxed-out her credit card. Paying for extras like the expensive tours, the pricey meals, was eating into her current account faster than she felt comfortable with. Mitch’s throwaway remark that she could get work in a backpacker’s bar was looking like less and less of a joke.

Something clicked as the thoughts ran through her mind, one after another.

I don’t want to be a DAF. I don’t even want to finish dinner.

Coming to a sudden decision, Claire stood up and dropped her napkin on the table.

“Thank you for your company, Neal, and for the compliment, but I don’t want to be your DAF or your little piquancy on this freebie jolly. Nice to have met you.”

Taking a bundle of dollars from her purse, Claire dropped them on the table and left the restaurant, taking the wonderful image of Neal, slack-jawed and lost for words, with her.

***

Running out of Words: 2013 365 Challenge #222

Shooting hoops in a makeshift basket

The challenge part of my daily blogging adventure is now starting to bite. Finding something new and interesting to write about every single day, then finding something new and interesting for Claire to experience, is proving tricky.

When my life is a monotony of childcare, writing, editing, housework and dog walking, it’s tough to find the new. I’m re-reading old familiar books (Pride and Prejudice at the moment) because I don’t have the time, energy or mental space to start any of the dozens of new books on my ipad. Between editing Baby Blues and staying on top off Two-Hundred Steps Home, I’m full.

It seems even I have a finite amount of words. Me! The girl whose mother still complains she talks too much, and now thinks the same of her children. Me, the girl who famously accompanied her father on a road trip from Sussex to Scotland (around twelve hours), talked non-stop and apparently didn’t repeat herself once. Until the day he died my father wouldn’t let me forget it. Ironic now that it’s my children’s incessant talking that drives me batty.

Football girl

It seems strange that it took me so long to realise my career needed to be built around words, rather than numbers. Thousands upon thousands of words are always in my head, jostling for space, clamouring to be heard. But it seems that, finally, the well is dry. Maybe not of words but certainly of ideas.

It’s a common piece of advice for writers that the well must be replenished. Rest, holidays, reading, getting out and experiencing new things, are all essential to a writer to keep them fresh. I long to take a break from blogging, a break from Claire. But with Baby Blues clogging up my free days (it has to be finished by the end of August or it won’t happen this year) I barely have time to research each daily post, never mind getting ahead.

So apologies if this blogging challenge is dragging for you, too. I’ve reached the soggy middle, with 143 posts left to reach the end. I don’t regret starting it for a moment, anymore than I regret getting married or having children. That doesn’t mean that, sometimes, a break (or a full night’s sleep) wouldn’t be welcome.

Maybe it’s time to take a leaf out of Claire’s book and run away to a hostel for a bit. Call it research. Ah, if only! Still at least I can write about it and re-live the time I did just that.

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The alarm rang through Claire’s pillow and she let out a groan. The barbeque had gone on until late the night before and, although she’d observed the shenanigans over the top of her iPad, it had been entertaining after a fashion; watching the bronzed and beautiful people from the bus slowly drink themselves out of their clothes and into the hot-tub.

She’d torn herself away when the spectacle threatened to become x-rated. Despite only drinking one or two stubbies, as the Kiwi’s called their small cans of lager, her head still felt like it was wrapped in bungee-cord.

Beneath her and across the room two more alarms set up their caterwauling. One a thumping beat of a pop song, the other a clanging bell. More groaning and fumbling around to silence the evil machines followed, and Claire smiled.

If my head hurts this morning, that’s going to be nothing to what those guys are going through.

Trying to remind herself why she’d opted for such an early start, Claire crawled out from beneath her covers and made her slow way down the bunk bed ladder.

Thank goodness I thought to pack last night.

She pulled on the clothes laid on top of her rucksack and stuffed her night things into a pocket. Within five minutes of her alarm waking her, she was outside the room and ready to search for coffee.

The queue for the bus was the sorriest sight Claire had ever seen. A dozen ashen faced, subdued, teenagers stood with heads low and earphones in. As she’d already consumed one coffee and was on her second, Claire was able to smile indulgently at their suffering. She was looking forward to the day trip: twelve hours of doing exactly as she was told sounded perfect after a night of little sleep.

Claire climbed on the bus and sat near the window, ready to be wowed by the scenery she had read so much about. Caffeine kept her eyes open, even though the motion of the bus did its best to lull her to sleep. Looking around, she could see that most of her fellow passengers were already snoozing.

What a shame, to miss out on so much.

At the first stop some people didn’t even make it off the bus. Claire walked past them to visit the forest where they were going to “hug a tree”. It seemed a bit hippy, but she’d given herself permission to be a tourist sheep for the day.

Walking through the forest, Claire felt the muscles in her neck straining as she continually gazed up at the enormous kauri trees towering above her. Their trunks stretched smooth all the way to the sky, forming a canopy of leaves high above. Behind her, she heard the guide tell them that hugging a tree would bring good luck.

I’m not hugging a tree; I’ll look like an idiot.

Glancing round, Claire saw people wrapping their arms around the giant kauri trees, their hands not even reaching halfway round the circumference. Soon, she was the only person not embracing the rough bark.

Oh, what the hell. I could do with some luck.

Claire stretched her arms wide and inched her fingers across the ridges in the tree’s surface. Closing her eyes, she rested her face briefly against the bark and listened to the sounds of the woodland. Behind the chattering of the tour group, she heard the busy silence of a forest living a life separated from people. She could almost feel the sap rising under her fingers and the pulsing life of the soil beneath her feet.

Surprised to find tears under her eyelashes, Claire pushed herself away and hurried after the group, who were already heading back to the bus.

At last they reached the Cape at the top of the peninsular: the place where the Tasman Sea met the Pacific. Climbing up to the summit, Claire felt as if she were ascending right into the heavens. The sea stretched all around, only slightly darker than the sky. A tiny white lighthouse and a signpost showing how far away they were from the places of the world, were the only evidence of human life.

Beneath them, the two oceans crashed and fought, one light aquamarine, the other royal blue. A long line of white waves marked the clash of their meeting and Claire could feel the power from where she stood, high above the sea.

Leaving the group, she walked towards the point where the grass fell away into nothing. Near the edge, a narrow footpath wound down the cliff side. It reminded her of the tiny path above Old Harry, where she had seen the family gather to say their last farewells to a loved one.

Something drew Claire’s feet forward and she inched her way to the edge, swallowing hard at the sight of the steep drop. She was about to walk further when she heard the sound of someone coming up from below. As she waited the English man from the bus came into view, pulling himself up with his hands on the grass.

“I wouldn’t go too far, it gets pretty lethal down there.” He smiled and, before she could respond, was gone.

Claire sat on her bottom and scooted down the path far enough to be out of sight of the cliff top. The man was right; she could see the dust and rubble of the path below her. Settling herself on the grass, Claire made do with her little place of seclusion. She stared at the sea and allowed herself to get lost in her own thoughts.

It was the silence above that alerted her. With a fluttering heart, she turned round and scrambled back up to the top of the bluff. The lighthouse stood alone and proud with no people in sight. Her heartbeat picked up, and she ran to the other side of the building and all the way down to where the bus had been parked. She looked frantically left and right, and ran a little further down the road. But it was pointless.

The bus was gone.

***

Pretty Dog, Waggy Tail: 2013 365 Challenge #217

My beautiful girl

We’ve had a crazy weekend. Apologies if the Claire posts have been short: I should have done some writing prep last nursery day, instead of re-doing my website. Hindsight is a wonderful thing!

Saturday wasn’t meant to be so manic. (Can’t even remember what we did Friday, except we went swimming quite late!) Anyway, for Saturday I wanted something to fill the morning, to stop little man getting too excited about a birthday party at 3pm. So we took our dog, Kara, to our local Farm, for a kids’ dog show. A bit of a laugh, because she’s not trained and is quite scruffy. We didn’t even brush her, though she’d had a bath after rolling in fox poo!

When we arrived at the Farm, there were dogs everywhere. It was like taking Kara to a social. Lovely. We entered her for Prettiest Girl (Prettiest Bitch, but we reworded it for our under-fives!) and Waggiest Tail. Thanks to a marvellous body harness, the kids were able to walk her round, despite her weighing twice what they do. She was amazing! She didn’t jump or pull or try to play too much. Thankfully we’ve taken her to the Farm a couple of times before, so the goats and cows and bunnies didn’t distract her.

I held the lead with my daughter for the Prettiest Girl. And Kara won! I couldn’t believe it. We won a free grooming session with a mobile grooming parlour called Dapper Dogs. (I did wonder if she won because she’s the dog that most looked like she needed a free groom! Hehe). I got the impression that some of the more serious entrants were a bit put out by our victory. But it was a Kids’ Show. There were only a couple of child handlers there, so that many have helped too.

Isn’t she pretty? 🙂

Then we entered Waggiest Tail, and my husband let our son hold the lead by himself. Which of course produced tears from my daughter. So we entered her for Best Young Handler. Kara came second in Waggiest Tail (I’m not sure she had the waggiest, but she was certainly the happiest dog!) I was a bit embarrassed by that point.

Then we went on to Best Young Handler. I stayed in the ring, in case of emergencies, but my four-year-old daughter walked our 28kg Labradoodle round the ring by herself with ease. She had a piece of cheese in her hand and every time Kara got distracted, she waved it in front of her nose. I was the proudest Mummy/Dog Owner in the world! She came second (I thought she should have won!)

Of course then we had to stay for Best in Show (despite needing to leave because of the toddler party). I knew we wouldn’t win, because the judges were two of the people I talk to most when we visit the Farm. They couldn’t give us anything really. Just as well, because I think my daughter was starting to feel invincible and kept saying, “This is just too easy!”

It was a great experience. I felt bad, because our untrained scruffy dog shouldn’t have beaten the other beautifully trained, beautifully groomed pedigrees. That said, it wasn’t our dog that started a scrap in the Prettiest Girl competition, or growled at the other dogs. She was on her best behaviour and even remembering it makes my heart swell with pride. Well worth the exhaustion that had us like zombies yesterday! It just goes to show, you have to be in it to win it! 🙂

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Claire read the email and felt the blood seep from her face. The glimmer of light that she’d been following for four crazy days fizzled out and left her in darkness. She read the words again, hoping to see a different meaning the second time.

Claire

Many thanks for your email indicating that you would like to accept my proposal of writing a column on the hostels of New Zealand. Unfortunately we have had a rethink and now feel this is not the most appropriate time to run the story. Our readers are considering holidays in hot countries and, as it is winter in New Zealand, it is unlikely to appeal to them.

Please do feel free to submit to us any articles that you produce and we will, of course, consider them alongside our other freelance writers.

I’m sorry I cannot be of more assistance in this case. Enjoy your stay in New Zealand, I understand it to be a beautiful country.

Regards

Roger

“Bastard.”

Claire felt the blood rush back to her face in anger, and then in mortification as she realised several people had turned round at her outburst. She ducked her head and fought the tears welling up her throat.

It’s only been a fortnight since I told him I couldn’t do it. How can he have changed his mind in a fortnight? And now what the hell am I going to do.

She thought about the price of her airfare, about the opportunities she’d given up by leaving the country without talking to Carl or Conor. I could be sitting on a beach in the Maldives, instead of stuck in this stupid hostel spending even more cash on food.

That was the big surprise. Claire had thought it would be cheap, travelling in New Zealand. But it was just as expensive as the UK, except now Carl wasn’t paying her bills.

So far she’d only left the supersized hostel to buy tea and milk. There wasn’t much need to go anywhere else, with the lounge and the bar on site.

I’m getting over my jet lag. That’s all.

When she had ventured outside, she’d felt like a child visiting New York for the first time, gazing up at the skyscrapers and blocking her ears against the noise. She knew Auckland was the largest city in New Zealand, but somehow she hadn’t expected it to feel like a city. The hostel was full of posters of things to see and do, like jump off the Sky Tower, or visit the harbour. Just seeing the posters made her want to hide under her duvet.

I need a hut on a beach and some peace and quiet. The sooner I get out of here the better. But how to do that, with no car? She felt immobilised by her lack of transport. I never thought I’d miss my little Skoda.

Her trip to the visitor information had been even more overwhelming: So many young people who knew what they wanted to do, from hitch-hiking or biking round the country to catching a lift with a stranger going in their direction. There was information on getting a job, on jumping off high places and swimming with large animals. Nothing that says, ‘Hey, new scared person, this option’s for you.’

Claire thought about her words. Am I scared? Really. After everything that’s happened this year. She sat up straighter in her seat, and looked again at the people around her. Seems like I have two choices. Make some friends or make a plan.

A thought tugged at Claire’s memory. Something she felt she had been told, or read about. Something important. Closing her eyes, Claire inhaled deeply and tried not to concentrate on the memory. At last it bubbled to the surface. A bar. A Kiwi. A driver. Of course! The Magic Bus.

Claire shut her iPad case and got to her feet. Friends, that was tough. She didn’t have a good record with friends. But now, at least, she had a plan.

***

Time and Taglines: 2013 365 Challenge #214

My new website (again!)

I recently wrote out the list of outstanding projects I want to finish RIGHT NOW and there were fifteen items, ranging from ‘send bookmark artwork to the printers’ to ‘finish Class Act and Finding Lucy‘.

Hmmm. It might be time for some realism and perspective.

The problem is I love my job. Not a problem, you might think, except I only work two days a week. You know how, when you don’t like your job, the weekend flies by and the week draaaaags? Well it’s like that for me, in reverse. Not that I hate spending time with my family. But I do love working on my writing projects, and two (separate) days a week just isn’t enough.

I mourn the days I was self-employed BK (before kids). All that time I spent and wasted, taking things easy, going on photo shoots, painting abstracts. Why didn’t I know, then, that I wanted to be a writer? How much more might I have accomplished? Except probably I wouldn’t have done.

There’s nothing like not having something to make you yearn for it, and that’s true for time too. The fewer hours available, the more we cram into the time we have. Mostly. Some days, actually, there’s so much to do I am overwhelmed by it, and I waste the day on a project that doesn’t need doing. Or I faff.

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

My website before the redesign

Today threatened to be one of those days. It was 33C and humid. I had my novel back from the proofreaders, but it was too hot to think (and there was cricket on the radio).

So I decided to try and be productive, and tackle something else off my to-do list. I opted to start on the marketing for Baby Blues, but I gave up writing press releases after twenty painful minutes, and decided to rebuild my website instead.

Perfect.

Or, it would have been, if technology had been on my side. Apparently my computer doesn’t like 33C heat either and was running sooooooo slooooow.

I don’t know how I didn’t chuck it out the window (except I didn’t have the energy.) Also I couldn’t find a template I liked through my service provider (MrSite) and, as I don’t write HTML, had to make do with what I had. I couldn’t fit a decent sized name and the images I wanted in the header, so it isn’t the best website redesign in the world. But it’s done!

I also tried to come up with a tagline for my writing. Another thing probably best left to a different day. I’ve been putting it off, because I write in a saturated market and many of the best taglines are taken or sound too clichéd (like ‘Let Love Take You Home’ or ‘For Love, Life and Friendships’ which were two of my ideas).

In the end I came up with ‘Seize Life, Trust Love, Cherish Dreams.’ I’m not sure I like it. It doesn’t exactly trip off the tongue and isn’t that memorable, although it has all the elements I believe are in my novels: they’re not just about love and Happily Ever After, they’re also about finding your place in the world, choosing the right path, fulfilling dreams. I’m not sure if that applies to Dragon Wraiths, but it doesn’t exclude it at any rate. Like the header, it will do for now.

A productive day? I’m not sure. But a day survived, which sometimes is enough.

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Claire stepped out into the roof-top garden and gasped as the air hit her like a wet flannel. After thirteen hours on an air-conditioned plane, followed by a long trek through the freezing, sterile airport, she had yearned for some fresh air to sooth her dehydrated skin and clear her lungs of stale air. Walking outside was as refreshing as putting her head in an oven.

At least it will put the moisture back in my skin: you could ring the air like a dishcloth.

Even though she’d visited hot and humid countries before, there was something about being in transit from a country in the early grips of summer to a country in deep winter that had left her unprepared for a tropical stopover.

Claire picked a spot beneath the sunflowers, dancing in the warm evening breeze, and pulled out her iPad to take notes. Writing posts for her blog might keep her mind off the craziness of her current actions. Is it still my blog? Who owns it, exactly? I suppose Carl will take all the credit, and all my followers too. Not yet, though, not until I decide whether to turn down his counter offer.

Trying to fathom out her work situation was one of the many things she didn’t want to think about, so Claire took some photos for the blog and began writing.

The sun was beginning to fall below the horizon and Claire prayed for a release from the humidity. A roll of thunder resonated around her and the wind began to blast like a hairdryer, stirring the sunflower leaves and setting the heads bobbing. Rain drops began to fall, hot and heavy, landing on the exposed parts of the ground with a splash. Despite the thunderstorm, the air still had the density of soup. Giving up on her post, Claire lay back on the concrete bench and closed her eyes.

Claire sat up with a start and reached for her bag. Relief flooded through her as she realised it was still under her hand, and still contained her tablet and phone. After a long, shuddering breath, a second quiver of alarm ran through her, setting her nerves jangling.

Did I fall asleep? How long for? Oh crap, don’t let me have missed my connection.

With shaking hands she pulled out her phone to check the time. Her heart thumped as she saw it was 2pm. I can’t have slept that long! She swung her feet round and stood up, grasping the railing nearby for support as a wave of dizziness swept through her. She inhaled deeply, the muggy air sluggish and heavy in her chest.

Wait a minute. It’s still dark. It can’t be afternoon.

With a groan at her own stupidity, Claire realised her phone was still set to UK time. What’s the time difference? Six or seven hours? It’s only around 9pm and my flight doesn’t leave until midnight.

She wondered how Darren was getting on. He’d opted to spend the stopover time going for a tour of Singapore. He’d tried to persuade her to join him but she couldn’t stomach sharing a tiny space with him for a second more than necessary. Just thinking about another twelve hours wedged between him and Mr Grumpy made her shiver, despite the heat.

Next time I fly long-haul, I’m booking early and getting a window seat.

***

Window | Daily Prompt: Tagline (kyladanica.wordpress.com)
My tagline (servicelearningx.wordpress.com)
Why My Blog Needed a New Title (aprilyamasaki.com)
Don’t let a great idea leave your grasp; write it down! (laurakforeman.com)

School Clothes and Climbing Frames: 2013 365 Challenge #178

In the boat with Iggle Piggle

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

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

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

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

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

Fabulous new climbing frame

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

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

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

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

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

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“Good afternoon, is that Ms Carleton?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll have to think about it.”

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

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

***

Love, Spelled T.I.M.E: 2013 365 Challenge #171

Running through the Mirror Maze

I recently came across an article / blog post on Linkedin, by someone called Dave Kerpen, about the importance of balancing career progression with spending time with the children. It’s aimed at fathers but I think it’s relevant to any parent, working or not.

The article presents, in a lovely balanced way, the constant battle between spending time with our children and providing for them. As he so eloquently put it:

It’s all too easy to skip the family dinner in the name of helping to put dinner on the table.

Gardens of Surprise: keeping cool

It’s something we’ve had to deal with in the past, when hubbie’s work has taken him away at short notice, resulting in missed parents evenings or carol concerts, or when he travelled overseas regularly, leaving me to be a single parent for a week at a time.

It’s one of the reasons I didn’t go back to work after my first child was born. I worked as a contractor and my day could start at 6am and finish with me getting home at 9pm.

You can’t easily have two people working those hours and raise children, although I’m sure some people manage it.

Mummy, why does the lady have a big tummy?

When he worked from home, hubbie had the opposite dilemma: the kids got used to him being around for lunch and struggled with the idea that he was in the house but unavailable.

Then came the six months following the redundancy, when hubbie was home but desperately looking for work. And now it looks like he might have to commute further to get a new contract: missing bedtime most nights unless we keep the children up late.

I feel it too, when I’m buried in drafting or editing and it’s tough to raise my head above the parapet. Or I’m running a promotion and check Twitter far too often, until my son tells me to put the phone away.

Whatever job you do, or even if you don’t work but still have housework, laundry, cooking and all that jazz to deal with, finding a balance is hard.

Ready, steady, run!

The article had two particular lines that resonated with me. One was the article title: Your Career Highlights won’t be on Your Tombstone: your kids’ names will be. A bit black and white in a world of hues of grey (funny how I shy away from writing Shades of Grey these days!) but a useful reminder of what’s important.

The other line was a quotation from John Crudele: “How do children spell LOVE? T-I-M-E.”

My children spend more than two-thirds of their time at home with me, but they don’t always get my time. So today, when I picked them up from preschool, I took them to the Gardens of Surprise, a local attraction with water fountains and a sculpture garden. It was 26 degrees and humid outside and hot equals cross for me, so it was a gift for all of us.

Kiddies and the Giant Rabbit

For three hours we stomped on fountains, splashed through water walls, climbed trees, explored the woods for sculptures, visited the ice house, met a giant bunny and ate ice cream. It was fab.

At the end of the day I asked my daughter if it was nice to spend some lovely time with Mummy, and whether she felt like she’d had my attention for a few hours.

Her answer? “Not really, Mummy.”

Ah well, back to work then.

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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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“Kim, it’s Claire, how are you?”

“Hello, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon. How’s the wrist?”

Claire looked at her bare arm, amazed that she had forgotten about it completely. It seemed months since her snowboarding incident, rather than just a week.

“It’s fine. I took the bandage off a couple of days ago. I haven’t exactly been straining it.”

“Where are you, then?”

“Kington, Herefordshire.”

“Where? Why? That’s practically Wales. I thought you were going to stay near the hostel for the wedding?”

Claire laughed. “I have to move hostel more or less every day, and there are only a handful round here. Besides, I can’t stay in Kington at the weekend, so I had to get to it and mark it off the list. Nice hostel, big red brick building, en-suite room.”

It was Kim’s turn to laugh. “You can take the girl out of the five-star resorts, but you can’t take a need for luxury out of the girl.”

“I’ll have you know I normally stay in a dorm.” She didn’t add that Carl and Julia challenged her expenses if she didn’t. “But this place is mostly small rooms and they happened to have a single free.” That was her excuse anyway.

“No need to defend yourself, I’d be staying en-suite every night if I could afford it.”

“Me too.” Claire heard the wistful tone in her voice. There was no romance sharing a bedroom with strangers. Not even Scottish ones. She flushed. That particular incident wouldn’t be shared with anyone.

“So, why are you calling? Mum has all the wedding planning under control. You just need to be there on the day, with whomever you manage to pick up as your plus-one.” She giggled.

Claire resisted the urge to tell her what happened when you shacked up with strangers in a hostel. An unwelcome image of the girl asleep on the floor flashed into her mind and she shoved it away.

“That’s why I’m phoning, actually.” She took a deep breath. “Michael called me yesterday.”

“Good God, what did he want? I thought you gave him the heave-ho months ago?” Kim kept her voice light, but Claire could hear the undercurrent of enquiry. They’d never discussed her break-up with Michael. It was too painful to revisit at the time, and other things had taken over since then.

“He wants to be my plus-one.”

“He what? The cheek of him! He hates me. And Jeff.”

“No, he doesn’t. You’re just very different, that’s all.” Claire winced at the memory of Michael meeting her best friend. They’d got on like dog and cat.

“You could say that. He’s an over-bearing, over-protective, old-fashioned, chauvinistic prig.”

Claire reeled at the litany of flaws. “Don’t hold back, Kim, you say what you really mean.” Her voice had a slight edge that was not lost on her friend.

“Are you defending him? Why did you dump him, if he’s so marvellous?”

“I had my reasons. He’s not as bad as you think, you know. You brought out the worst in him. You and Jeff, all over each other in the bar. He’s more reserved, that’s all.” Certain memories flickered in her mind. “Well, in public anyway.”

“You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?” The accusation stung for its veracity.

“No! No, but I don’t want to be the single bird at your wedding. He’d only come as a friend. It would be good. Give us closure.”

Kim snorted down the phone, but didn’t say anything. There was a strained pause, and then they both spoke at once.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be harsh–”

“I don’t have to bring him, it’s your wedding–”

They laughed and apologised. After a minute of, “After you,” “No, After you,” they resumed their conversation.

“Bring him, Claire. You don’t know many of my friends and if it allows you to move on, find someone more suited to you, then that’s a good thing.”

Claire smiled at the barely-hidden barb. “Okay, I will. He can make himself useful, pouring drinks or ushering people around.”

“Cleaning up vomit, looking after the drunks.”

“Kim!”

“Sorry.” She laughed, and changed to subject to the tricky question of red roses versus lilies.

As she hung up the phone, Claire replayed the conversation in her mind. She knew that Kim wasn’t Michael’s greatest fan, but the vehemence of her dislike surprised her.

Is Michael all those things? She didn’t remember him that way. He’d been a gentleman, in every sense of the word. Gentle, kind, thoughtful. Sure he opened doors and booked restaurants, but that didn’t make him old-fashioned, just unusual. Compared with her previous boyfriends it had been wonderful. And of course there were other things he excelled at. She blushed and forced the thought away.

That’s history now. He wants something I can’t give him. The weekend will be good; we can part as friends and move on.

Claire gazed unfocussed at the bright yellow walls of the hostel lounge and let her mind drift, ignoring the sense of anticipation building in her tummy.

***

The Wonder of Sleep: 2013 365 Challenge #166

Walking the dog

Life has been good recently.

With an extra half day of childcare to get on top of the housework, and lots of lovely feedback on my next book, I’ve been feeling unusual sensations: Confidence. Enjoyment.

The sun has been shining and it felt like summer in my heart, if not always outside the front door.

Then I started to struggle with sleep. And the school debate reared its head, so the sleep got worse. Now, for three nights in a row (at least, I’ve lost count) I’ve been woken every two hours, and everything’s gone to pot.

Spot the dog!

Last night I went to bed on a large glass of wine, hoping to sleep through. All it meant was the two-hour shifts of sleep left me groggy and unable to get up. I broke. Low and behold, my life reverted to what it was before. Crying before breakfast, shouting before morning snack. Unable to concentrate, unable to smile.

My family are amazing. Hubbie and kids were full of sympathy and cuddles. When I sobbed in Tesco because my Clubcard vouchers had expired, Amber said, “It’s alright Mummy,” before I’d even managed to apologise. I think maybe seeing the difference for themselves, seeing that it isn’t just words when I say, “Sorry, Mummy’s tired,” has made them take the tears and shouting less to heart.

Enjoying the evening sun

Doesn’t stop them being little monkeys of course but you can’t expect miracles from preschoolers.

So now I’m yawning and stumbling my way round the field with the dog, trying to smile at the sun but really praying for bedtime and a night where my lovely family don’t take it in turns to wake me.

On the plus side, I didn’t cry when I got back to the car this afternoon, with two tired and cranky kids, to find a scribbled note under the wiper that said, “You have a flat tyre.” I didn’t shout at hubbie when I rang him and he said, “Oh yes, that went flat when I borrowed your car last week, just pump it up, it’ll be fine.”

There’s something to be proud of on the darkest of days. Night night.

_______________________________________________________________________________

“This isn’t a trek; this is just taking the bloody thing for a walk.” Claire looked up at the creature trying to eat her hat. “Cut it out!” The llama smirked at her down its long nose, and chewed insolently.

Claire caught sight of Maggie, her expression somewhere between amusement and disapproval. She held her finger to her lips and Claire looked round guiltily, realising there were children in earshot.

She tugged on the lead and the animal trotted on behind her, like the twisted off-spring of a dog and a giraffe.

The children laughed and giggled, as they walked the llamas along the country lane. At the front, a guide chatted about the local plant and animal life, although the children paid little attention. Maggie paused to let Claire catch up.

“Not what you were expecting?”

“Well, no. I went pony trekking in the New Forest. I was on the pony, not pulling it along behind me.”

“This is for the children, not you! They’re only 8 and 9 years old. Grooming and walking a llama is just their level. Plus we don’t have to worry about the health and safety paperwork if one of them were to fall off! Anyway, the fun comes later.” She threw a cheeky glance at Claire, who felt a heavy feeling in her stomach.

“Why did I let you talk me into this?”

“Because you were bored and wanted some company, some fun? Admit it, you’re having fun?”

Claire shook her head, her lip stuck out in a pout.

“Now you look like a nine-year-old.” The women laughed. “So, where to next, Claire?”

“Ironbridge Coalport, wherever that is.”

“Ah, that’s over in Shropshire. Lovely. Visit the Blist Hill Victorian Village, it will give you something different to write about on that website of yours. You can go for a ride in the horse and cart, if you’re tired of walking!”

With a nod, Claire tugged the lead of her llama and followed the giggling children back for lunch, wishing that Maggie could come with her to her next hostel. There was something infectious about the woman, something warm, that made her happy.

“Come on, Miss Carleton!”

Claire looked over her shoulder at the girl behind her and resisted the urge to swear. She gripped the rubber handles tightly in sweaty hands and willed her creaking knees to try harder. I will not lose to a nine-year old. She glanced over at the blonde-haired girl to her right, who was giggling so hard she didn’t hear the instruction to go.

Pulling hard on the handles, Claire bounced the space hopper along the grass towards the marker. Behind her she could hear her other team mates yelling and urging her on. Her thighs burned. I’m going to kill you, Maggie. She couldn’t see the woman, but she knew she was grinning, just as she had been when she volunteered Claire to take her place in the races.

I’ve seen her tramp along the road quicker than I could run. Playing the old-age card, so that I have to endure sack races and space hoppers: That’s just low. She scowled, but somewhere deep inside a sensation bubbled. Claire didn’t need to analyse it, she didn’t want to. Maggie would be too smug.

The feeling bubbled up higher, until the words were in her mind.

This is fun.

***

Hanging On: 2013 365 Challenge #153

Birthday Boy

The last few days have been crazy busy. Thursday’s manic Smashwords frenzy had domestic repercussions, in terms of undone laundry and cleaning. Friday was hubbie’s birthday, so started with gifts and cake and tears as Daddy went to work. I took the kids to the Farm to keep them busy but exhausted myself more than them.

We stopped off at a friend’s house on the way home and the kids ran riot in their paddling pool for an hour before sitting down to an alfresco dinner of spag bol. I love my friend! Then we had a trip to Grandma’s house to take Daddy’s cake over and say hi.

Saturday started early, with hubbie leaving to collect his new crazy purchase. As it was the first of June I turned over our photo calendar only to realise it had run out. I should remember it runs June to May (the first photo calendar was a birthday gift for hubbie and they’ve run June-May ever since) but every year it comes as a surprise.

So, being me, I sat down to load photos to a new one on vistaprint, while the kids watched cartoons. Three hours later, when they’d moved on from cartoons to chaos, I was still waiting for the photos to load. For once the kids were saying, “Come on, Mummy, let’s go, let’s go to the Farm,” and I was whining, “Just five more minutes, please.” I’m not very good at walking away from a project.

Taking a trip in the van

In the end we got to the Farm for lunchtime (with the calendar unfinished) and had a lovely three hours running around (I would post pictures but the camera’s in the car and I’m too tired to move. Tomorrow. The Farm’s wisteria is definitely worth sharing.)

After the Farm we planned to go to grandma’s for a swim while Daddy was driving home, but he’d arrived when we got back. Thus began a long begging argument to have a turn in the van. How is it these discussions can be so exhausting? I hate giving in, but in the end I’m ashamed to say we did.

Then followed a swim at Grandma’s, a wander up the field to see Daddy’s new trailer, and another whining session from Littlest Martin who wanted to go home right up until the point we said it was time to leave. By 8,30pm they were finally both in bed, dinner was in the oven, and I sat down to start my post. I suspect I’ll be finishing in the morning as I have no idea what Claire’s up to. Thank goodness I have some more childcare next week, plus a couple of hours at a spa with my mum on Monday. Maybe I’ll finally catch up on some sleep!

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire looked at the bright green numbers on the dash and scrunched her eyes, as if to block out what they said. It’s nearly midnight. Kim is going to be livid. She’s pregnant, the last thing she needs is her mate turning up on the doorstep like Cinderella’s pumpkin.

Outside the window the streets became familiar, as the breakdown truck finally neared its destination. Rather than anticipation, Claire’s stomach knotted with tension and her eyes itched with unshed tears.

Despite the Customer Advisor’s assurances that the Skoda would be picked up within the hour, it had been over two before assistance arrived. Time enough for Claire to check out of the hostel, track down a security guard to retrieve her belongings from the Snow Dome lockers, and unstick the parking ticket from her windscreen.

Relief that the Skoda hadn’t been towed was short-lived as Claire watched the time tick past on her smartphone clock, like she was in some low-budget movie. She didn’t dare venture in search of coffee in case the breakdown driver arrived in her absence. As a result she greeted him with a tongue-lashing when he did arrive, to which he merely shrugged and said, by way of explanation, “Friday night, love.”

They were the last words spoken between them. The relatively short journey to Kim’s house had taken much longer in the breakdown truck and Claire had been torn between trying to make conversation and risking a nap that might result in her slumped, slack-jawed and drooling, against the driver’s shoulder. In the end she opted for silence.

Now, with Kim’s house around the corner, Claire wondered if she was doing the right thing. Do I want to be in a house of hormones and happy families? At least I won’t have to listen to them shagging endlessly, if Jeff’s away.

She tried to recall something from Ruth’s pregnancy with Sky, so she could offer support if required. With a start, Claire realised she didn’t even remember her sister being pregnant. I guess I was too busy climbing the career ladder to have time for babies. Poor Ruth, no wonder she feels Robert and I neglect her. Mind you, she was still with Chris then: she didn’t need me.

At last they were parked outside Kim’s house, and the silent driver climbed down to release the winch securing Claire’s Skoda to his lorry. With a, “Where do you want it, love?” he followed the gestured response, handed Claire some paperwork to sign, and left.

Poor bloke, I wonder if he’ll get it in the neck from the Missus, being out late on a Friday night? Tough job.

Claire shouldered her rucksack and headed for the porch, praying Kim wasn’t already asleep. Before she reached the door it was flung open and Kim bustled out, her face split in a wide grin.

“Claire, you’re here at last! Let’s see your wrist, you poor thing. Come in, come in, I’ve just been watching Graham Norton. How was the trip? Was Jeff useful? He was glad he managed to catch you before he had to leave. I saw the breakdown truck – did you have to disable the car, or did they take pity on your poorly arm?”

While the words spilled forth, Kim ushered Claire in and walked her to the spare room to dump her bag.

Waddled is probably more accurate. Claire watched her friend’s progress through the house and marvelled that she seemed to be so much more pregnant than when she’d seen her two weeks earlier. How is that possible? It’s like the baby has doubled in size in a fortnight.

Eventually, Kim paused to catch her breath, and Claire was able to speak. She wasn’t used to this garrulous version of her oldest friend, and keeping up was using the last of her energy. After the long silence of the last few hours, her throat felt dry and her mouth unable to form words. She swallowed, searching for something simple to say.

“You look well.”

“Do you think so? I feel completely haggard, but Jeff says I’ve reached the blooming stage – you know, with the flawless skin and glossy hair. Just about makes up for the swollen ankles and the weird dreams and the endless need to pee. Plus I’ve suddenly started to sway like an elephant when I walk. How embarrassing is that? It’s like I suddenly got super-pregnant overnight. So much for trying to get married without it being obvious. Mind you, I tried on a gorgeous dress this week that’s perfect and, with a bit of breathing in, I should be okay. The wedding’s only two weeks away, can you believe it?”

Claire’s brain drowned under the deluge of words. The last sentence shone through her murky mind like a ray of sunlight. Her face must have revealed her shock, because Kim suddenly clapped both hands to her mouth.

“Oh crap, I didn’t tell you yet, did I? One of the hostels we’ve been investigating had a last minute cancellation – seems the groom got cold feet and went to warm them in Barbados – so we’ve been able to book it. We’re begging friends and family to try and come, though we know it’s short notice. And it’s the bank holiday weekend. You’ll be able to come, thought, won’t you, Claire?”

Kim looked at her properly for the first time since her arrival, and Claire saw that her face did look smooth and radiant, although marred by a frown as she waited for her friend’s answer.

A wedding. Lovely. Just what I need to confirm my spinster status – to attend a wedding on my own and field a hundred questions about my love life and all I’ve achieved since school. It’ll be worse than a reunion.

Kim’s face became taut with tension and Claire realised she hadn’t responded to a question that should have elicited an immediate answer.

“Of course I will, Kim. You’re my best friend, of course I’ll be there.”

***

Postaday Lessons: 2013 365 Challenge #140

200 Posts!

With yesterday heralding my 200th post, it got me thinking about blogging and – more specifically – my daily blog challenge for 2013.

The daily blog challenge occurred to me mostly as a way of increasing the profile of my blog and as a way to sell some books. Self-publishing (or just being an author) is all about having the right social media platform, so the experts say, and building up your Author Brand.

In reality it has become an amazing personal challenge about writing every day, sharing part of myself, engaging in discussions about life, parenting, writing, reading and being me.

Which is just as well because the main thing I’ve learned is that blogging every day is not the way to increase your followers.

I read a quote recently on the blog Life is Good, that made me realise something I hadn’t fully appreciated out about blogging. In a post called A Little Blogiquette, Tina writes:

As I’ve said before, this isn’t, “If you write it, they will come.” NO. It’s, “If you visit, they will come.”

The art to attracting visitors and followers to a blog is to visit and comment on the sites of others (to prove a point, I came across Tina’s blog after she commented on an author interview I did on someone else’s blog!). So I know it’s true, I’ve seen it work.

It doesn’t have to be shameless, like some sites I see with no content and a zillion followers because they’ve gone out and randomly liked a thousand sites. I mean taking time to read and leave intelligent comments, to build up a relationship with other bloggers.

My books on Smashwords

Unfortunately, since starting my postaday challenge, that’s time I no longer have. It takes a large chunk of my day just to write my posts, and Claire installments, and respond to comments on them. Any extra time is spent promoting Dragon Wraiths or preparing my monthly ebooks for download (or doing housework).

I spend less time reading other blogs now than I did before I started the challenge, even though my reader is chock full of posts I want to read, from people who have visited my site.

I’m not sure what the answer is.

Hopefully when the children go to nursery from some extra days in June I’ll be able to catch up. It’s disheartening to see the visits and likes dwindle, when so much effort goes into the blog. Blogging is so transient – even though the content stays forever, people rarely read the archives – so if they don’t come, my words are wasted. My new mantra, therefore, is “Visit and They Will (Hopefully) Come”!

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Endless fields stretched to the horizon. Claire had a sense of déjà vu and searched her mind for the parallel. Oh yes, driving back to Mum’s house with Sky. Glad to have an explanation for the sense of oppression the interminable flatness pressed on her soul, Claire was nonetheless relieved when the satnav announced they had reached their destination.

Claire looked around for a hostel, but could see only a cottage partially hidden by high hedgerows and surrounded by trees. There was no sign to say if it was the YHA hostel or not, but Claire had an inkling it was somebody’s home.

Great.

She was trying to decide whether it would be better to turn round, call the hostel, or go and ask for directions at the house, when a loud beep behind her made her jump. Her gaze shot to the rear-view mirror and she swallowed as she saw the monster-sized tractor parked directly behind the Skoda.

With a wave of apology in her mirror, Claire pulled into the driveway and looked down as the tractor came past, not wanting to meet the gaze of an irate farmer. The tractor pulled onto the verge in front of her and stopped.

“Oh crap.”

With a dry mouth, Claire watched the driver climb down and walk over to the car. Without looking out the window, Claire wound down the glass and waited for the tirade. It didn’t come.

“Are you lost?”

Claire looked up at the sound of clipped southern vowels and was surprised to see the voice came from a tanned and wrinkled face, dressed in stained blue overalls.

“I’m looking for the youth hostel.”

The face split in a wide grin and the farmer nodded. “Ah, yes. Following your satnav? It always brings people here. It isn’t a problem of course, but maybe we should put up a small sign.”

When Claire didn’t respond, the smile lost some of its brilliance. Oh bugger, was that meant to be a joke? Claire gave a belated grin and was rewarded with a row of shiny teeth.

“The hostel is down the road behind you, about one hundred metres, on your left. I’m afraid there isn’t much there; I do hope you’ve brought some sandwiches.” He smiled again and this time Claire remembered to laugh on cue. She was rewarded with a conspiratorial wink.

The farmer leant forward, resting his hands on the car door. “I’m only having fun, young lady. There’s a charming public house in Tetford. The White Hart Inn. Tell them Andrew sent you, they’ll treat you well.”

I’ll do no such thing, Claire thought, relieved when the strange man pulled his head out the car and sauntered back to his vehicle. With the speed and precision of a racing driver, Claire slammed the Skoda into reverse and forward again, leaving a cloud of dust behind her as she wheel-span back onto the road.

Sure enough, the hostel was up on the left, tucked into a pocket of trees. No wonder I missed it. It’s not exactly a palace. Claire swung in through the narrow gateway and pulled up outside the building. It was single story, as far as she could tell, with a mixture of whitewashed walls and red brick. Fields stretched away behind; a blanket of unrelenting brown, as yet unadorned by spring crops.

A bit different to Thurlby. Never mind. All I’ve got planned is a hot shower, a decent meal, a glass of vino, and my bed.

***