Harvest: 2013 365 Challenge #225

Tractors on the road (wasn’t driving when took this!)

It’s harvest time here in the UK. I love the harvest. Despite the late nights, the noise, the dust, the traffic, the “mummy, a tractor, look!” a hundred times a day, it’s a wonderful time of year.

I followed a tractor and trailer home this afternoon, driving at 30mph. Normally travelling at that speed would have me cursing, dithering as to whether I should try and overtake, especially on a nursery day, when time is precious. But because it was a harvest tractor I sat back, listened to the radio, and enjoyed the rest. Every half a mile we pulled over to let another tractor through – our country lanes not being wide enough for two cars in places, never mind two tractors.

The drivers smile, even though they’ve probably had five hours’ sleep a night this week. They drive into the dark; their wide headlights lighting the hillside.

You can spot a combine harvester by the dust. Even though it’s a common sight, it still makes me smile. There’s something so essential, so powerful, about watching the beast of a machine sweeping up the fields, leaving bareness behind and disappearing in a cloud of dust like a camel running through the desert (not that I’ve ever seen a camel in the desert. That’s how I imagine it might look, anyway.)

Fields with a haircut

Soon the fields will be ploughed in; changing from wheat-yellow to dark brown. The dog will come home filthy and some paths will be impassable. It looks like a better harvest this year. Last year’s wheat, especially, was devastated by the floods. Farmers lost half their yield and the price of bread shot sky-high.

As the land is managed on a three-field crop rotation, we’ve had some set-aside and some oil seed rape in the local fields this year. Maybe next year it will be potatoes. My favourite crop is barley. As Sting famously sang, the fields come alive in the sunlight and wind, rippling like a bran-coloured ocean.

I can’t imagine living somewhere with no harvest. It marks the turning of the season like no other event. My step-father used to work on a farm and harvest time we never saw him. He would be driving until 2am and – in the days before mobile phones – my mum would go out armed with a field map and lunch box to take him his dinner.

It’s an energetic time. Activity everywhere. On the roads, in the fields, round the farms and the storage barns. Scurrying mammals bringing in the food before the winter. We’re all squirrels at heart.

Harvest means the end of summer, too. The end of the school holidays in sight. The year running away like sand in an hour glass. This year is particularly poignant as it’s the end of preschool life for us. Harvest reminds us that the seasons change, the year ebbs and flows, life goes on. Hopefully I’ll feel like that once school starts in September!

P.S. I used pictures from my NZ honeymoon to write today’s Claire installment so had to include them below. There might be other NZ pictures in Claire posts for the next few weeks! Any excuse. 🙂

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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 leant her head against the window in what was becoming her preferred position. A night spent back in Auckland had restored her equilibrium after the sand-boarding experience, although she had bruises on her bruises, and muscles she didn’t previously know existed still burned.

Amazing views, Coromandel

Outside the window rolling, undulating, forest views sped past too fast as the driver negotiated hairpin bends and steep drops. Claire was glad she’d slept rather than followed the others out drinking the night before. She suspected it might have otherwise been hard to keep food in her tummy with the swaying of the bus and the changes of scenery from green to blue, dark to light, forest to sea.

They arrived at the hostel all too soon and Claire reluctantly left her window seat to go and check in. Some of the group were leaving immediately to kayak round to a place called Cathedral Cove.

Deciding her muscles had received enough of a pounding for a few days, Claire had opted out. Gazing now at the blue skies still smiling above, she wondered it if was too late to change her mind.

“Any folks wanting a lift round to the Cathedral Cove, I’ll be leaving in a while. Come and meet me back at the bus after you’ve checked in, and bring your walking shoes.”

Claire gave the driver a smile and he grinned back, flicking his eyelid in a flirtatious wink. It had been a huge relief to get on the bus that morning and discover a new driver would be taking them down the east coast. Whatever had sparked the previous driver’s antagonism towards her, she obviously hadn’t made the same mistake this time. If anything, this one was too charming though she wasn’t going to complain about that. Not yet, anyway.

The view from the car park made Claire stare in wonder. Even though she’d watched the views out the window all day, nothing had prepared her for the brilliance of seeing it without glass. At first glance it was only sea and trees; but the depth of the colours brought out by the afternoon sun made the whole panorama shimmer.

They followed the narrow footpath down towards the cove. Every turn, every few minutes’ walk, revealed a new view. The sea changed colour continuously, from navy blue to steel grey and back to aquamarine. Islands lay scattered across the bay like Russian dolls.

Gemstone Bay

A few minutes further and the scene changed again: this time, white cliffs could be seen between lime-green ferns. The water in the bay below shone turquoise, whilst further out to sea jet skis carved brilliant white crescents against the pthalo blue. Throaty engines echoed in the silence, but the roar of the machines couldn’t break her peace. Her heart sang.

Following sign posts, Claire took a detour to find gemstone bay. She came through the trees to discover a pebble-strewn beach lurking beneath a rocky bluff. The stones shimmered red and green in the water like the precious gems the bay was named for. Snapping some pictures, Claire returned up the path, groaning at the pain in her calf muscles.

Right. No more unnecessary detours.

Eventually they reached sea level. All along the beach, tourists stood with cameras ready, trying to capture the perfect image. The cathedral itself was a hole in the rock, like Durdle Door – on Claire’s list of things to visit in Dorset, before she’d decided to run away to the other side of the world.

Why do I keep comparing things to Dorset? As if anything that county has to offer can come close to the Coromandel scenery I’ve witnessed today.

Cathedral Cove, Coromandel

Claire waited by the natural stone archway, trying to take a photograph with no people in sight. It took too long and eventually she settled for figures in the distance. Sometimes trying to take shots she could use for the blog tried her patience.

Ahead she heard the sound of laughing and splashing and she strolled through the tunnel to investigate. On the next beach, a group from her bus were paddling in the sea. One person had stripped off and was swimming out to a distant rock.

Claire kicked off her shoes and dipped an experimental toe in the water. It was freezing. She joined the others to discover who the crazy swimmer was. As he waved from the rock and dived back into the water, she watched his progress with a sinking certainty.

Neal. Of course, I might have known.

Not wanting him to catch her watching, Claire hurried back through the cathedral and made her way to the bus. Halfway up the walk, she paused to catch her breath. A strange impulse caught hold of her, like a shift in the weather. She took out her phone and tapped a text message, hitting send before she could change her mind.

Conor, it’s Claire. Just wanted to say hi and thanks for the text. I’ve just been to see a place that reminded me of Dorset. You’d love it. There will be pictures on the blog tomorrow. Sorry if this wakes you. Claire.

Without stopping to analyse her actions, Claire stuffed the phone back in her bag and continued her walk to the bus.

***

Delayed Gratification: 2013 365 Challenge #224

Thankfully it’s not all screen time

I love technology.

I love that my kids are both watching the TV show they want to watch before bedtime, one on each ipad, downloaded from cbeebies (although I’ve just realised one of them is about to stop working because we don’t have the internet bandwidth to stream two programmes simultaneously. Poor hubbie, glad I’m walking the dog.)

I love that I listened to cricket on my ipad today whilst also reading a free copy of Pride and Prejudice. (Though I also have a paper copy for when the kids are using my tablet.)

I love that my children don’t watch adverts very often so, until they start school and see what their friends have, they’re not bombarding me with requests for toys, gadgets or trips out to expensive theme parks. I love that I can play Swashbuckle in the car and it’s the same length as the time it takes me to get to the supermarket, and I can bribe them back into the car with promises of more on the way home.

iPad art by Amber Martin

I love having access to blogs and emails wherever there’s wifi, often writing my post in a coffee shop or service station. It amazes me that I can Skype my sister in America and see her house, her kids, her office (though I rarely do, I’m ashamed to say, because I hate Skype. It’s almost impossible to have a conversation without sounding like a bad news report on a delayed satellite link.)

But I do worry about it all. I worry about my children’s need for instant gratification. They rarely have to wait to see their favourite TV show because if it isn’t on the sky plus box or iplayer it’s on YouTube. They don’t have to wait weeks for photographs to be developed and arrive in the post – often pictures are on Facebook within seconds of being taken. They don’t have the anticipation of waiting to see a movie or saving to buy a song on vinyl, it’s all iTunes and DVDs (or it’ll be on the TV in a month).

The same is true for publishing. My holy grail has always been a traditional publishing deal. It still is. I would feel I had ‘made it’ if I even got an agent never mind selling a book to a publisher.

Except you don’t get whopping advances any more, you still have to do all your own social media and marketing, you’re expected to have a near-perfect manuscript before you approach an agent, and – worst of all – you have to wait TWO YEARS sometimes to see your book on the shelves.

Two years? When Baby Blues is finished, it’ll take me two weeks to have a print and ebook version. Two days if I find the time. I’ve sussed the formatting so I only need to tweak it for any change in pagination after the final edit. I’ve had a print proof delivered already so I know what changes I want to make to the front cover. My marketing won’t be ready, but that’s because I’m spinning too many plates and probably shouldn’t be releasing Baby Blues until next year.

Shooting hoops

But there’s the rub. Like my children I’m used to instant gratification. I buy things when I want them, most of the time, second-hand where possible, thanks to eBay. I eat what I want when I want, mostly, thanks to supermarkets being open 24-7. I listen to music where and when I want, I check email anywhere there’s phone signal and I log on to Facebook anytime I want to catch up with my friends.

But there’s a downside, and I can explain it with chocolate. Chocolate used to be a treat. Now I can buy it when I like – and I refuse to diet so I eat it when I like – it’s lost its magic. It just doesn’t taste as good. Birthday’s too, aren’t that exciting because I don’t want for anything (I don’t generally, anyway, except the things money can’t buy, like time and sleep). The children also aren’t that excited because they don’t want big toys and they buy little ones with their pocket money.

Is anything exciting anymore? We have to search harder and harder for that sense of gratification that used to come after a long wait. I often eat chocolate and feel only disappointment. What about my children? Will there be anything left to thrill them by the time they’re ten?

By self-publishing, am I missing out on the excitement of reaching the end of that two-year wait and having a big launch? Maybe one day I’ll find out. For now the only delayed gratification I have is the wait to 9pm, when the kids are asleep and I can have a glass of wine, or 12am, when I’ve written my daily post and can finally have some guilt-free time reading my book before gratefully hitting the sack. Or the wait for the next nursery day, so I can get some editing done in peace. That’ll do for now!

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Claire stood at the top of the dune and laughed; a bitter, snorting, you have to be kidding I’m going back to the bus, laugh that masked fathomless fear. One by one, her fellow travellers grabbed their three-foot boards of foam and launched themselves down the hill, leaving a trailing screaming sound in their wake. It did look fun. And insane.

“You going?”

Claire looked over at the guide, then down at the boogie board in her hands. No. Not in a gazillion years. It was hard enough climbing up this damn hill. Her thighs still ached from the ascent, with every step forward taking twice the effort as her feet slipped in the loose sand.

A thought popped into Claire’s brain: If I don’t slide down I’m going to have to walk. Bugger that.

She looked speculatively at the board in her hands and wondered if it was possible to sit on it. Amanda, Janet and Emily had talked of toboggans. That would be better. Sitting upright and holding onto a rope, with the illusion of being in control.

“Can I go down on my bottom, rather than my tummy?” Her face flushed as she waited for the guide answer.

As expected, he guffawed. “No, sweetheart, not on a shark biscuit. You need to do as the others are doing. Don’t be a coward.”

Claire bristled. I thought Kiwis were lovely and friendly? Trust me to get the arsehole. Glaring at the back of his head, as he turned to banter with the people climbing up for a second go, Claire wished she’d gone with the other bus company. Or hired a car. Or stayed in the UK.

While she stood watching, most of the group clambered up the slippery yellow dune and threw themselves down again. Laughter, swearing and panting echoed round her as she remained frozen by her thoughts.

Bugger it, why not?

Without allowing the thought to settle, Claire crouched down, placed the board beneath her and took a deep breath. With the guide’s advice to “keep yer bloody mouth shut” echoing in her mind, she pushed herself forwards and closed her eyes.

The sand whipped at her face as she plummeted down the slope. She could feel it scratching her knuckles where they gripped tightly to the front of the board. Risking a quick glance, Claire realised she was hurtling up behind someone else who had slowed down. With a roll of her shoulders, Claire avoided a collision but came off her board. Sand filled her nose and mouth as she continued down the slope with the board bumping along behind her.

At last the momentum ran out, and Claire ended in a crumpled heap, sobbing with adrenalin and relief. Everything ached and she felt like she’d swallowed a beach.

“Well, that was one way to do it.”

Claire looked up into the black eyes of the man she was starting to see as her nemesis. He held out a hand and, after a moment of hesitation, Claire reached up to take it. His grip was firm and he hauled her to her feet as if she were a child.

“Thanks.” Claire brushed the sand off her shorts, hoping the man would be gone before she looked up.

“Name’s Neal, by the way.” Forced to face him, Claire saw his hand held out in greeting. She shook it reluctantly. “Claire.”

“Well, Claire. Are you coming?”

Claire furrowed her brow. “Coming where?”

“Back up the hill.” He nodded past her at the people climbing back to the summit only to dive down again. Claire looked longingly back at the line of footprints in the sand, marking their route from the bus. Then she saw the glint of amusement in Neal’s eyes, and her hackles rose.

“Sure. Bring it on.”

***

To My Children: 2013 365 Challenge #223

My growing up too fast girl

The idea for this post was ~~stolen from~~ inspired by Scary Mommy’s blog post and, like her, I have ensured that both sections have the same amount of words!

To my favourite daughter

You struggled into the world and stole my heart. I love your pixie face, your glowing eyes that change colour with the light and your mood, from grey to the amber you were named after. I love your creativity, how you can make things from pipe-cleaners and tissue paper; a cow, a motorbike, a swing. You are the most caring person I know; you share willingly and your empathy is endless.

I love how easily you make friends, how you adapt to the games they want to play and how you are always smiling. I love your mischievous face, your singing, the way you sit and play beautiful music on the piano. I love the way you throw yourself fearlessly into the swimming pool or do forward rolls on the lawn. I love the way you say, “Bring it on!”

First born, precious moment

My baby girl, you have grown so fast; I am so proud of you. My little cherub, you helped me learn to be a mother and you are still teaching me, every day. Your wisdom exceeds mine often, yet you are still my little girl, running to me for cuddles.

I love your interest in the world; your deep questions about evolution and the living planet. I love how you care for babies even though you say you don’t want any of your own. How you sing “You’re a pink toothbrush” to yourself at night when you can’t sleep, and how you make up stories for your brother. I love that he is the first person you want to see in the morning and the last person you want to hug at night. Seeing the two of you play together so beautifully makes me the happiest Mummy on Earth. I love how you tell me you love me out of the blue. You are my favourite.

My laughing boy

To my favourite son

You rushed into the world, into my arms and into my heart. Your smile lights my day and your hugs warm me to the very centre: There is no happier place than inside your cuddle.

Your sense of fun is endless and you teach me to be silly and how to laugh. Your changing faces, your changing moods, mean I don’t know who you will be next, but I love all the people you can be.

You are charming and cheeky and disarm the grumpiest Mummy with a glint of your chocolate brown eyes. The world comes alight with your happiness and you share your joy willingly.

A day old and already making me smile

You can kick a football better than I ever will and you run and climb and jump like a goat. When you fall, you get back up again and grin.

You paint in beautiful colours, especially yourself. Your piano playing make me smile, as you loudly sing Baa Baa Black Sheep. I love how you dance while you play the harmonica and how much you adore Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It makes me proud that you love reading and stories almost as much as I do.

I love how you do everything at a hundred miles an hour and how your grumpy moods can change like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

I love your kisses and the way you stroke my arm when you’re tired. I love how you giggle when you watch Peppa Pig. I love how you play with your big sister and declare that she is your best friend. I love that she is the only person you want to play with in the morning and the main one you want to hug goodnight.

I love the way you say “I love you” and throw your arms around me. You are my favourite.

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Claire sat in the dust on the side of the road and wept. How could I be so stupid. The driver said we were only there for half an hour and he wouldn’t wait for stragglers. I should have realised he wasn’t joking.

Her first reaction had been to call someone. That was when she realised she’d left her bag on her seat on the coach. All she had was her camera and a headache.

The sound of wheels crunching on the unsealed road dragged Claire back from the abyss. She leapt to her feet, ready to welcome the returning bus with open arms. It seemed to take forever for the sound to turn into a vehicle. Claire watched the road until her eyes watered. At last a cloud of dust announced its arrival. As she glimpsed red, instead of the green she hoped to see, Claire slumped back down and dropped her head into her hands.

The sound of wheels slowed, then stopped. Looking up, Claire saw a small red car parked next to her on the road. There were three people inside and the driver – a blonde girl around Claire’s age – was winding down the window.

“Are you okay?”

The sound of an English accent lifted Claire’s spirit. She gave a shrug and shook her head.

“What happened?”

“I missed the bus.” Saying it out loud made Claire realise how stupid she was. How do you miss your bus when you’re in the middle of nowhere? What an idiot.

“Tour bus? Green one? We just passed it, it can’t be far behind us. Do you want a lift?”

Claire’s heart leapt and she jumped to her feet. “Would you? That would be amazing. But you’ve only just got here. I don’t want to ruin your day too.”

“Don’t be silly, we can’t just leave you here, can we girls?” She turned and faced her passengers. Claire heard a chorus of negatives as the other people in the car agreed with the driver.

“Hop in. You’ll have to climb in the back, it’s a bit of a squeeze.” The driver undid her belt and got out of the car, tipping her seat forward to let Claire in, before dropping the seat and returning to her position. Within moments she was executing a painful three-point turn, and they were on their way.

“You’ll have to excuse her driving,” the passenger in the back said conspiratorially, “she doesn’t much like the unsealed roads. We might just catch up with your bus before it gets to Auckland.”

“Oi, I heard that, Emily! Cheeky cow. You come up here and handle this tin can on these roads. Or better still, you ring and tell your parents how I drove you off a cliff two weeks after meeting you.”

“Chill, Mand. It’s fine.” The passenger in the front spoke.

Claire turned to face the girl, who sounded like she might be Irish. “Are you all travelling together?” The good-natured banter between the three women was infectious. She imagined they had a laugh, although the girl driving seemed more serious than the other two.

“We met in Auckland,” the driver called over her shoulder. “For some bizarre reason I asked these two lovely ladies if they fancied coming north with me.”

“And for some unknown reason we thought it’d be a good craic.”

The girls all laughed and Claire found herself joining in.

Progress was slow along the dirt track and Claire itched to get in the driver’s seat. When she peered out the window, and saw the long drop down to the sea, she changed her mind and was thankful she hadn’t seen how narrow the road was when they were on the bus.

“Do you know where the green machine is going next?” The driver called out.

Claire leaned forwards. “Er, I think we were going to a beach – Sorry, I didn’t catch your name. I’m Claire.”

The girl clucked her tongue. “I’m sorry, I’m rubbish at introductions. I’m Amanda, this is Janet,” she nodded to her left, “and you’ve met Emily there in the back. Don’t ask her what part of the States she’s from and you’ll be fine.”

Claire had already guessed that Emily was Canadian, but she laughed nonetheless.

“I think I might know the beach,” Amanda continued. “The woman at our hostel gave us some directions and mentioned a place where the buses stop to let the passengers go for a paddle. We’ll try there first. Otherwise we can take you up to the dunes, as apparently the buses all stop there too. We’ve got some toboggans.”

“What?” Claire was thrown by the apparent non-sequiter.

“Toboggans. For the sand dunes. Didn’t you know?” This was from Janet. “It’s meant to be a right laugh, tobogganing down. Though I think you guys use boogie boards.”

Claire thought about all the high-adrenalin activities that Julia had thought up to make her life miserable. Even Carl’s PA couldn’t have come up with diving headfirst down a sand dune.

“Bugger that. I’ll watch. Assuming we catch up with them.”

They drove for a while in silence, until Amanda pulled the car off the road and down to a secluded bay. Claire’s heart gave a skip of relief when she saw the familiar green bus parked up ahead of them.

“Oh, god, thank you so much. I really owe you. Wait here while I grab my bag and I’ll give you something for petrol money.”

Amanda parked the car. “Don’t be silly,” she said as she pulled her seat forward to let Claire climb through. “It was a pleasure to help a fellow Brit. Do you want to go and make sure that’s your bus.”

“Would there be more than one?”

Amanda shook her head as if to say, “no idea.” Claire strode towards the bus and tried to get on, but it was locked. Scanning the beach, she saw a group of people a short distance away, having a picnic. As she walked towards them, she recognised one or two faces from earlier.

“Ah, the missing lady returns. Well done.”

Claire turned to face the driver, ready to give him a piece of her mind; but the sardonic look on his face stopped her. What was the point. He clearly knew he’d left her behind and either didn’t care, or intended to teach her a lesson. Whatever the reason, there was little to be gained from antagonising him further.

As if interpreting her silence, the driver grinned and nodded at the food. “Grab some lunch.”

Grinding her teeth, Claire walked over and took some food. Getting on her high horse would only leave her hungry.

“Sorry, lady. I did try to tell him you’d been left behind, but he didn’t listen.”

Claire turned and saw the English man she had passed on the path earlier. “Thanks for trying. I’ll make sure I’m first on the bus in future.”

“Here’s your bag. You left it on the seat. I thought it might be safer with me.” He passed over her handbag. Claire resisted the urge to check the contents. Instead she nodded her thanks and headed back to her new friends. Suddenly, hiring or buying a car seemed a million times preferable to travelling round by bus.

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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.

***

Depression and Parenting Doubt: 2013 365 Challenge #221

Sometimes I want to hide under a blanket

I had a debate recently, in the comments of one of my favourite blogs, that forced me to reevaluate my parenting style. Again.

It doesn’t take much for me to sink into doubt that I’m doing the right thing when it comes to motherhood. Do I have in place sufficient boundaries? Do I give freedom to grow and chances for my children to make their own choices but still give them the security of knowing I’m ultimately in charge?

I’m a peacemaker. I learned to apologise for the world and my place in it so that people wouldn’t be mad at me. I’m not great at being in charge.

Interestingly I read a masterful post of what it feels like to have depression over on The Belle Jar this afternoon and I could relate to every word, even though I feel I have my depression under control. So maybe I don’t.

Another blog post that came my way is this one by Becoming Supermommy, about the impossibility of ever being the perfect parent, called Dear Less Than Perfect Mom. (Read it, it’s brilliant). I know I’m not a perfect mother, I know I never will be, but just when I think I’ve wrestled my demons into submission I read something, or am told something, or something happens, that causes me to believe I’m doing it all wrong. That my depression, my tears, my indecision, my laissez faire parenting, means I’m not a safe harbour for my kids. That maybe my daughter’s insecurities are caused by too many choices and too few boundaries.

My children at nursery

It makes me want to go back to work full time and leave the child-raising to the professionals. After all, my kids don’t have tantrums or breakdowns at nursery. As the school era approaches, I review the last five years with fear, much as New Year’s Eve makes you relive the preceding twelve months and realise you wasted them. That those pristine resolutions from the January before lie dead in the dust at your feet.

I was going to be the strong parent, the one with boundaries; the rock. Calm, patient, kind. I almost managed it when I just had one child. The second blew it all out the water.

I look back now and see parenting failure left and right. But I look back through a mind reasonably clear, in a body that actually had six hours of uninterrupted sleep at least once this month. I critically review the actions of a person I no longer am. Sleep deprived, hormonal, depressed. I judge her and find her wanting.

Even now, I evaluate my day with the hindsight of two sleeping children and a glass of wine, and judge who I was this morning with 8 hours work to fit into 3 and two hyper children to entertain. As the pain of childbirth can never be understood after the event (or you’d never have more than one baby) the body lives in the now, when the mind does not.

So I need to stop evaluating and second guessing my parenting because it leaves me confused, like the centipede that’s been asked which order it places its feet and as a result forgets how to walk. Is my daughter’s insecurity caused by my depression and lack of authority? Possibly. Do I need to be firmer and offer my kids fewer choices? Probably. Do I think I can do that every day when it’s not in my nature? Doubtful. Does it matter? Only time will tell for sure.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire turned her face to the window and allowed the sea breeze to caress her skin. Around her, people filled the tiny ferry; everyone eager to visit the nineteenth century sea port on the other side of the bay. She recognised one or two faces from the bus and nodded in greeting before swivelling her eyes back to the water.

Outside, the same tree-covered hills she could see from the hostel crowded round protectively. In some ways it felt like Swanage bay, although those cliffs were of grass and rock, worn away by years of weather.

Unsure what to expect, Claire searched eagerly ahead for a glimpse of the town, reputed to be the first European settlement, and once known as ‘The Hell-hole of the Pacific’. She couldn’t imagine anywhere in New Zealand earning that epitaph.

The town nestled into the hillside, buildings dotted through the trees like a herd of deer trying to conceal themselves, with only their antlers visible through the green.

The ferry pulled up alongside the pier and Claire joined the queue of people waiting to disembark. To either side, a long beach stretched in a line of copper sand, while boats bobbed about on the water like excited children wanting to play.

Armed with a map and some instructions she’d picked up at the hostel, Claire opted to walk up to Flagstaff Hill and take in the views of the islands. It felt good to be walking away from the crowd.

Within twenty minutes, Claire was glad it was autumn in New Zealand. Even the cool sun drew sweat and cursing from her, as she toiled up the hill towards the flagstaff. Maybe I should have taken the bus. If I was here in my Skoda, I could just have driven up. Who knew what freedom a clapped out car could bring?

By the time she reached the top, her face and throat burned. Claire stared up at the tall white flagpole and wondered what was so special. She reached into her bag for her water bottle and turned to take in the view for the first time. The water bottle fell, forgotten, back into the depths of her handbag.

“Wow!”

The view stretched all around: flat patches of sparkling aqua water surrounded by undulating hills, receding in shades of blue to the distant horizon. Beneath her, the pier bisected the bay she had walked along, prodding into the water; the only straight line in a scene of curves. Even the clouds served to enhance the vista, as their flat bottoms emphasised the horizon and marked the many miles visible from her standpoint.

Claire inhaled and spread her arms wide. She felt like she could swan-dive off the hill and swoop like a bird over the islands below.

Wandering away from the flagstaff, and the people snapping shots before getting back on their buses, Claire sought a peaceful spot to rest. As she settled on the grass, her phone trilled the arrival of a message.

Who can that be? It’s the middle of the night back home.

She only knew one person in the same time zone as her. Excitement fizzed along her veins. She quickly searched for her phone and opened the message. It was from an unknown number.

Hi, Claire. Hope you don’t mind me texting you. I checked it would be a good time. Your blog says you’re in NZ. I got your email, saying you were declining the job. I understand, but I hope you’ll reconsider. Have a great holiday and give me a call when you get back. Conor

Claire didn’t know whether to be irritated or flattered. She’d never been so actively and personally pursued for a position before. As the thudding in her chest subsided, a warm feeling spread through her. Annoying as he was, it was nice to know someone in the world cared if she ever went home again.

***

Talking with Children About a Parent’s Depression (alaksblog.wordpress.com)
Child Happiness (iamjadajackson.wordpress.com)
Brittany’s 7 Tips for Coping with Parent’s Diagnosis (brittanymoso.wordpress.com)
Strength, Respect and Parents. (writtenmad.com)
My Testimony – LOVE (bowmanphoto.wordpress.com)

Learning to be Brave: 2013 365 Challenge #220

Picking strawberries

One of the benefits of parenting is learning to be brave. Yesterday I touched a moth (ugh!) as I had to remove it from a trampoline and flick it into the grass. I hate moths. Ever since I left the light on and window open in my bedroom as a child, and went up at bedtime to find the ceiling plastered with giant moths (I grew up in the country) I have hated them. But, being brave for my children, I must deal with my fears.

This is especially appropriate after reading a post on Rinelle’s blog yesterday, about applying for an EIN number as an indie author.

This is probably only of interest to self-published writers, but there is a great article on Catherine, Caffeinated’s blog about how to get this holy-grail number (needed to stop Amazon.com withholding 30% of profits in tax).

Where are those juicy strawberries?

I haven’t made any money from my books yet. Certainly not enough to go through the pain of calling the US to get an EIN number. I’ve had Catherine’s helpful article flagged in my inbox FOR A YEAR. Making that call has been on my to-do list for 12 months!

I hate phoning people that much.

In the UK, the HMRC (Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs – in charge of tax etc in this country) have a phrase that says, “Tax doesn’t need to be taxing.” But it is. I always fill out my tax return at the 11th hour, even though, these days, there are no earnings and no tax to pay. The idea of calling the IRS and trying to get something out of them fills me with quiet horror.

After reading Rinelle’s post I decided to gird my loins, pluck up my courage, and make the call. I motivated myself by how great it would feel when I’d done it. How I could write a comment on Rinelle’s post thanking her for her encouragement. I could write a thank you comment on Catherine, Caffeinated’s post too. I could move forward and take this irritating thing off my perpetual to-do list.

Found one!

I wrote out all the information I would need. I set up Skype on my iPad and found my headphones, ready to make the call (apparently you can be on hold for ages!). I loaded up the world clock, to see what time it was in Philadelphia, where I would be calling.

6am.

Bugger. I have to get the kids from preschool in twenty minutes. So, I won’t be making that phone call today, even though the adrenalin is still pumping and the knots in my stomach are still clenched tight. But I was nearly brave. That counts for something, right?

________________________________________________________________________________

As the bus stopped at yet another hostel to pick up passengers, Claire looked at the pack of papers the driver had shoved into her hand when she boarded. They included a check-in form for the hostel that evening, extra activities to add on, travel dates and so on. Claire groaned.

I have no idea. I just want to go back to sleep. It seemed that travelling by tour bus was a different beast to meandering around in her clapped-out Skoda.

I’m not used to people telling me what to do. Except Carl and Julia, of course, and they were easily ignored.

Claire tried to decide how many nights she wanted to stay at the first stop, Paihia. It looked like a pretty town, but she had a feeling now was not the time for long periods of idleness and solitude.

Best keep moving.

Forms completed, Claire rested her head against the juddering glass of the window and tried to find sleep.

She awoke to the hiss of brakes and the lurch of the coach coming to a halt. She looked around, trying to decide if they were finally there. They’d stopped so many times, to pick people up, or to allow for toilet breaks or breakfast, she didn’t want to get her hopes up. From the shuffling and clamour, she decided they had actually arrived.

Stifling a yawn, Claire gathered her things and joined the slow procession off the bus. She looked at the place she would call home for the night. It was a low-level building surrounded by palm trees. Over to her right she could see tree-covered hills, framed against a blue sky dotted with clouds. After the air-conditioned bus the air felt warm and smelt of the sea.

It felt bizarre, checking in with two-dozen other travellers. Her journey in the UK had been mostly solo and, though occasionally she might meet someone else at the reception desk, her check in had been swift and painless. Waiting in line for her turn, Claire listened to the bubbling conversation around her – happy teenagers planning their afternoon – and felt like a rock in a river, standing proud and alone above the noise.

From the chatter she discovered that the hostel had a rocking bar full of locals, a pool and a hot tub. Two girls behind her were giggling, assessing their chances of pulling fit Kiwi blokes during the evening barbeque, which came as part of their accommodation. Claire decided to make sure she had her book with her.

At last she was at the front, and discovered she was sleeping in an eight-bed dorm.

Thank god I decided just to stay the one night.

Claire took her key and wandered through the hostel, past a group of lads playing cards, and a bank of red sofas full of people ignoring the TV. Although the facilities were no different to the hostels she’d staying in at home, everything felt alien. Not unfriendly, exactly. But something made her skin prickle.

As she retrieved the things she would need for the afternoon, before stuffing her rucksack onto her bunk, Claire tried to put her finger on what felt wrong.

They’re all too young. That’s what it is. It feels like Fresher’s Week at uni, surrounded by people just released from the confines of home, looking for their next drink, shag or adventure.

The hostels back home had been mostly full of families, school groups, or couples. She’d met as many retired people travelling, alone or in pairs, as she had under-twenties.

I guess the UK isn’t really where people go for their gap year of fun before becoming proper grown-ups.

Beginning to understand where Mitch’s uncouth nickname for the green bus had come from, and conscious of a growing sense of homesickness, it was with a heavy heart that Claire left the hostel to go in search of lunch.

***

My Left Brain Princess: 2013 365 Challenge #219

The movie I bought for my daughter (!)

I bought Enchanted on DVD for my children today. Well I say for them but, as it has Dr McDreamy (Patrick Dempsey) in it, it might have been a tinsy bit for me too. I have seen it before I think, certainly the end, but the DVD wasn’t expensive and I thought my daughter would love it. I was wrong.

She’s possibly too young for a movie with violence (my son didn’t seem to mind though we did skip bits featuring the evil mother) but I thought the singing and the dress and all the things I love, like the happily ever after, would appeal to her too. Hmmm. Not so much.

I’m beginning to realise why I don’t always connect with my little girl. She has too much of my left brain and not enough of my right brain. Actually, I don’t know if that’s true. She is very creative, loves telling stories and creating masterpieces out of pipe-cleaners. But she is also extremely analytical and cuts through illusions with her razor-sharp questions. Maybe she is actually too much like me in all ways!

I love a happy ending, although I know they don’t often happen. I believe in a good world full of good people, though I know it isn’t always that easy to find. I am creative, with writing and art and photography, but I used to work as a number-cruncher and write analytical essays. When you get those charts saying, Left Brain or Right Brain? I am both.

I used to describe myself as a pessimistic optimist, expecting the best and fearing the worst. (Like the herd of young deer currently in the field to my left, warily keeping pace with us, although the dog thankfully hasn’t yet seen or heard them, lord knows how. They think they’ll be spotted but they’re hedging their bets. They should have stayed put or legged it as they’re actually following us up the field. Anyway I digress).

Twenty-First Century Princess

My daughter it seems is realist all the way. I already suspect her of seeing through my fairly pathetic Father Christmas lies. She’s four. When we talked about going to Disneyland, we first had to explain what it is (because I try not to let her watch TV adverts!). Once she’d grasped it, she said, “Mummy I think they’re probably people in costumes.” Oh dear. No magic dream there then.

I’ve always wanted to go to Disneyland, but only with a wide-eyed child to vicariously experience their awe and wonder. I suspect she’d rather we spent the four thousand pounds on a swimming pool. And she might have something there. Magic is all well and good, and the memories might last a lifetime with the right supporting evidence, but a pool’s a pool. We currently choose childcare and Mummy’s writing over an annual family holiday. I might write happy endings but I chose my husband on the Internet and as much with my head as my heart (you need to read Do You Like Jelly, if I ever get around to publishing my short stories!)

So, while I envied Giselle her magnificent ballgown and her dishy McDreamy, my daughter was asking me to play Guess Who. Like Patrick Dempsey’s character in Enchanted, I don’t want my daughter be so wrapped up in fairy tales that the real world disappoints her (like me with my ten-year search for my Georgette Heyer hero). But I’ve never discouraged her from reading Disney stories or watching the movies (okay, I edit out the bit in her fairytale book where the princess answers her marriage proposals with “Yes please.” I mean, really?) But somehow my practical, stripped bare, world view has rubbed off.

It makes me sad. I never intended or sought to take away the magic of being four. I wanted her to go to Disneyland and be wowed. Unfortunately this isn’t Miracle on 34th Street and Santa isn’t going to make her dreams come true. I’ll have to settle for writing HEAs and let my little princess carry on in her left brain world.

P.S. Daddy tells me she is starting to ask for girly stories at bedtime, so maybe I just need to wait a bit longer!

________________________________________________________________________________

The cold air made Claire’s eyes water, as she waited, shivering, outside the hostel. A few paces away a cluster of people stood, giggling and shoving each other. They were a disparate crowd, although they all looked under twenty. Claire heard a range of accents, American, Irish, at least one that sounded Japanese. She wondered where they had met and formed such a close bond, and how they’d found time to come travelling together.

Feeling like she would give her left kidney for a hot coffee, Claire stared at her itinerary and tried to tune out the laughter and banter. It brought back too many unhappy memories. Why are youngsters so noisy? Don’t they know it’s before 7am? She glanced up at them, with their glowing, tanned, skin and happy smiles, and felt ancient.

I’m not even thirty, I’m not old. With a quick mental calculation she realised she was probably a decade older than most of the group.

They were probably all born in the nineties. Ugh.

It made her want to get on the next plane home; to go back to a normal life, with a job and a car and her own circle of friends.

Except I don’t have any friends.

A large green coach pulled up outside the hostel as the dark thought flashed in her mind. Feeling like a four-year-old on her first day at school, Claire shuffled nearer to the bunch of people as they jostled and scuffled good-humouredly to be the first on the bus. They greeted the driver by name, and he gave one or two of them a high five.

Wait a minute. Isn’t this the first stop on the bus? How come they all know each other?

Now it really did feel like the first day of school, except this time it was high school, when her parents had taken her away from her friends and launched her into private education. All her new classmates had come through the junior school together and she hadn’t known a single person. Character building, her parents had said.

With a shudder, Claire presented her ticket to the driver without looking up.

“Claire Carleton. Hmmm.”

The man scanned his list for too long. Claire felt her stomach clench on the empty space where breakfast would have been if she could have managed it.

“Are you sure you’re booked on?” He looked again, then flicked the paper over. “Ah, yes, there you are. Alright, Claire, on you get. Leave the sack with the others.” He cast his eyes towards the mountain of luggage by the side of the coach and then looked behind her, dismissing her from his mind.

Claire hadn’t heard anyone else approaching and was surprised to hear a deep English voice wishing the driver good morning.

At least I’m not the only solo traveller.

She chanced a quick glance as she added her rucksack to the pile. The newcomer was a dark man in his forties she guessed, by the grey sprinkled through his hair. His voice, low and smooth, sounded like a cello cutting through the chattering violins in a Brahms concerto. It resonated deep in her gut. He seemed to feel her eyes on him, and turned to meet her gaze. She flinched at the electric shock that ran from her head to her groin.

For goodness sake, girl, you’re like a dog on heat. You’re here to write travel stories and come up with a plan for the future, not eye up every sexy stranger like a child in a sweet shop.

Hiding her blush with her curtain of hair, Claire scurried past the newcomer and the driver, and went in search of an empty seat. The bus must have been half full on arrival, as nearly every seat was taken. At last she located an empty one at the back, and sank to the seat, placing her handbag on the spare seat, lest anyone get any ideas.

Out of the corner of her eye she saw the man climb aboard and languidly scan the bus before sauntering up the aisle. He had the grace and power of a panther.

Claire felt her heartbeat quicken as he came further down the bus. Oh crap, he’s going to sit next to me. Please don’t. She turned to look out of the window, following his progress with her ears.

She heard his deep voice say, “Good morning, may I join you?” It sounded slightly further away than it should. Turning her head a fraction, she saw he had stopped two seats away and was talking to a pretty redhead, who giggled and patted the seat next to her.

Slumping back into her seat, Claire closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

***

Proofreading Blindness: 2013 365 Challenge #218

Proofreading Pain

Today I finally bit the bullet and opened my proofread manuscript. I’ve been putting it off, not because I’m scared of the contents, but because it’s been hot and editing gives me a headache. And I know there are around 3400 revisions to review.

By the end of the day, I managed to get through 35 pages out of 230 (and cleared 630 revisions). I can barely see straight! Laptop blindness.

Unfortunately I still have days of work left and only 7 nursery days before I lose them completely. My daughter finishes nursery in 3 weeks.

Once my daughter starts school full time in October (she’s only part time in Sept), the longest time I’ll have child-free at home on any given day will be around 5 hours, give or take school run traffic. And then only for 1 or 2 days a week during term time. I’m about to really and truly appreciate how spoiled I’ve been with my two 8 hour days to spend on writing (and walking the dog, household chores and all that other stuff).

As is always the case, I am already wishing I’d worked harder, appreciated my time more, over the last four years. The truth is some days I’m so tired I manage less than two hours’ work in an 8 hour day. Anyway, it is what it is. I will adjust.

I feel like these are our last carefree days

Maybe hubbie will get another job soon and we’ll be able to afford for little man to do an extra day at nursery. In another year my daughter will be able to stay to after school club and I’ll be able to stretch the day. In two years they’ll both be at school, not that I want to wish that time away.

(Actually, I wish I could relive the first four years of their lives with the knowledge I have now and a bit more sleep!)

Maybe once they’re both at school, I’ll get so much sleep I’ll manage five productive hours and the words will fly from my fingers (as will the pigs across the sky!)

In the meantime I’m trying to juggle keeping up with Claire and getting Baby Blues ready for release. I really want it out by end of August, for obvious reasons (September-December are going to be HECTIC), but it’s looking unlikely. In the meantime I’m having fun looking over my old photo albums of New Zealand and hoping not too much has changed in ten years (apart from Magic Bus Tours being taken over by Kiwi Experience! Oops)

________________________________________________________________________________

“You wanna book on the Magic Bus? Not a good idea. Best go with Kiwi.”

Claire wondered if the lad behind the desk ever spoke in full sentences. She picked through his words and frowned as they eventually made sense. “I heard the Kiwi Experience wasn’t as good as the Magic Bus.”

The man shrugged, as if the relative merits of the two tour services mattered little to him. “Same thing. Or will be. They’ve bought them out. It’ll all be green bus from July, so you might as well start now.”

“I won’t be here in July. I’m only here for a few weeks.” Claire felt the panic rise again. She couldn’t remember much of what Mitch had told her, but something made her not want to travel with the Kiwi Experience. Wasn’t he a driver for Magic, though? Maybe he knew his job was at risk and that’s why he didn’t like the green buses?

Resisting the urge to dash back to her room, Claire looked the man in the eye and said, “I think I’d really rather go with the Magic Bus. It was recommended to me.” She didn’t add that the endorsement came from a random stranger in a bar who happened to work for the company.

With another shrug, the man tapped away at his computer. “Have it your way. Are you doing just North Island or South as well?”

“How far will I get in two or three weeks?”

“How far do you want to get?”

“I want to see everything. I don’t know; I only arrived yesterday. Or was it the day before?” Claire wanted to kick out at the desk. Am I being unreasonable? Is it me? Surely she wasn’t the only person to turn up without knowing why she was there?

“Why don’t I give you some brochures, so you can choose your pass?” He gathered up a selection of paper leaflets and passed them to Claire. She noticed that they were all green. Then he looked over her shoulder and made eye contact with the next person in the queue.

Claire turned round and saw five people waiting behind her at the desk. She scuttled past and almost ran back to her room.

Opening the door like a member of the bomb squad, Claire nearly wept with relief to find the room empty. She flung herself on the bed and pounded the pillow. It felt stupid to have a tantrum but she was too tired to cope with the feelings swirling out of control inside her body. Her emotions choked her too tightly to even allow tears to break through. She lay, face down, and waited for the surge to subside.

Eventually, conscious that her roommates might return at any moment, Claire sat up and looked at the leaflets in her hand. As suspected, they were all for the Kiwi Experience.

“Oh, what the hell,” Claire said aloud. “What does it matter which bus takes me around the damn country. I flew all this way for nothing; I may as well see some stuff while I’m here.”

She flicked through the leaflets, smiling at the names of the various tour options. Fush ‘N’ Chups, Buzzy Bee, Super Funky. As far as she could tell, they all went to the same places, although some were considerably more expensive than others. In the end she decided it might be easier to browse the website.

After twenty minutes of brain-numbing analysis, Claire decided to sign up for the Whole Kit & Caboodle pass. After the cost of her flight, what did a few extra hundred dollars matter? She could always tell Carl she’d changed her mind, and accept his lucrative counter-offer once she got back to the UK.

Not wanting to allow any time to talk herself out of the decision, Claire marched back to reception to book her ticket. A different person now manned the visitor desk and Claire smiled gratefully at the young woman. The pass was ordered in moments and Claire felt the chilly sensation of passing the point of no return.

“You leave in the morning for Paihia in the Bay Of Islands. It’s going to be cold – only about 18C – so you might want to take your winter woollies.”

Claire laughed, and realised it was the first time she’d done so in days. “I’m from the UK. We would consider 18 degrees to be barbeque weather.”

The woman grinned and handed her a pack of information. “Hope you’re also good at early starts. Bus leaves at 6.30am.”

“That’s fine, I’m still on UK time. Thanks.” Claire smiled at the woman and headed back to her room to pack and to try and convince her body it was bed time.

Let the adventure begin.

***

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! 🙂

________________________________________________________________________________

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.

***

Why Facebook is Mostly for Me: 2013 365 Challenge #216

My WriterMummy Page

Kristen Lamb recently posted an article about how Writers Building a Platform Have NO Private Life On-Line.

It was a difficult post for me to read, because I am naturally a very private person (I would guess most writers are) and it’s tough to learn how much we have to push ourselves out of our comfort zone. It was also tough for me, because she wrote specifically about Facebook and how writers shouldn’t have a Facebook fan page separate to their regular profile page.

Kristen says writers make the mistake of thinking that their regular page is for acting human and a fan page is “for the professional face and self-promotion.” She explains that, in reality:

The regular page is essential for connecting with people and creating the emotional bonds that will eventually translate into a vibrant, passionate author platform filled with readers. We connect talking about kids, laundry, missing socks, vacations, hard days at work and griping about the weather. All these everyday events are how we forge friendships.

She also says that you shouldn’t assume your friends aren’t interested in your writing. Friends read books and know people who read books, and so social media should be across all channels if you hope to sell books.

Practising skateboard at friends’ BBQ

Normally I fully embrace everything on Kristen Lamb’s blog, even if I don’t think I can implement it myself. And I have no doubt she’s right about this too. However it’s not right for me. Facebook is my sacred place. I am particular about who I accept as a friend on my profile page. Basically it has to be someone I’d happily show half-naked pictures of my kids in the paddling pool to.

Tonight I realised why Kristen and I are both right.

Family Martin went to a friend’s annual birthday barbecue, after a manic day which included Kara’s first Dog Show (more on that tomorrow) and a children’s party. It’s been a couple of years since we’ve made it to the summer barbecue and in many instances it’s the first time we’ve seen our friends in that time. But we didn’t need to catch up, because we follow each other’s lives on Facebook.

Our friends didn’t say “Look how much the kids have grown!” because they saw pictures of the kids in the paddling pool last week. They didn’t ask, “Why are you late?” but rather, “How was the kids’ party?” because we’d posted on Facebook that we were double booked and would be late.

Many evenings I trawl Facebook looking for something interesting, thinking I’m wasting precious writing time. In fact I’m really kind of down the pub with my mates, catching up on gossip and laughing at friends’ jokes. I share silly things the children have done and in turn commiserate with friends who are struggling with teething babies or boring jobs.

If I was constantly talking about writing, or if I knew I had an external audience, I would be more on my guard. I would protect the children more (I already feel I post too much about the kids on my blog). Similarly, if I had more friends that were people I didn’t know, my timeline would be even more cluttered than it already is and I’d miss more of the important stuff.

Not wanting to be outdone by her brother!

I know you can control that with lists – same as you can on Twitter. But I struggle with HooteSuite trying to see Tweets I want to see under all the promotional stuff. If that happened on Facebook too, I would lose my sanity. I would also lose my downtime at the pub. Actually, Facebook is more like a big private party than a pub. One where I know everyone by name and I know they all ‘get’ me. It’s a safe place.

But Kristen is right too (of course!) I do need to write a bit more about my books on my private site. I post some stuff but Facebook is selective about what it shows people.

Last night, a good friend who I last saw at my art exhibition two years ago asked, “How’s the art?” I had to explain that I’ve written and published two novels and seven volumes of a serial novel since then. Her response was, “How is it I haven’t heard about your writing?”

Hmmm social media fail!

The best moment of the night for me was finally meeting an old friend of my husband’s for the first time. For various reasons I haven’t met him in person in the 9 years I’ve known my hubbie. But he smiled as we walked in and gave me a huge hug as if I’d known him all my life. Why? Apart from being the most amazing person, he’s been my friend on Facebook for a year or two. He comments on my posts and photos of the kids and we share views on other things he posts. I felt like we’d always been friends and not at all like I was meeting him for the first time.

So, I apologise if my Facebook WriterMummy page is only updated once a day and mostly with stuff about writing, rather than silly pictures of the kids. I apologise if I’m alienating people by keeping my Facebook profile page closed. Maybe I’m not ready to be an author in the twenty-first century. That said, I am myself on my WriterMummy page, on Twitter and definitely here on the blog. Just maybe the me I’d be at a coffee shop, knowing strangers are listening, rather than the me I am after a glass of cider at a friend’s birthday bash.

And if that loses me sales, I’ll have to live with that. Some things are more important than money.

________________________________________________________________________________

Claire shifted on the bed, wondering why her pillow felt lumpy. She swallowed and panicked as her airway felt closed with grit. Sitting up, she grabbed at the wall as her vision whirled and hot shards stabbed at her head.

Peering round the semi-dark room, memories flickered through her mind, as if she had looked upon the space several times, but each time it was slightly altered, like a spot the difference. In her mind the memories were sometimes of a dark room, sometimes of a sunlit space. Different bags by the beds. Voices, conversations, laughter, all blurred together like a dream-sequence in a movie.

The room was empty now, although rumpled duvets and scattered belongings suggested it was still fully occupied. Reaching behind her, Claire realised her lumpy pillow was actually her handbag. A quick check revealed nothing was missing. Her rucksack still slumped against the bed where she had dropped it, who knew how many hours before.

How long have I been asleep?

As the dark receded and the memories clarified, like a photograph coming into focus, Claire guessed she had been asleep on and off for a day or more. Looking down, she saw she was still wearing the clothes she’d put on Saturday morning, when she left her sister’s house. She tried to work out what day it was, but her mental calculations made the hot needles bury further in her brain.

Fumbling through her bag for her phone, Claire switched it on and searched for something to tell her what time and day it was, both in New Zealand and back home.

Well, it’s 5am back home. No wonder I’m tired. Checking the calendar, Claire stared at the neon words until they went fuzzy. Tuesday?! It’s Tuesday? What the hell? She sniffed, No wonder I stink. I’ve been wearing these clothes for three days.

Her phone beeped, as it picked up a local signal, and a text message trilled its arrival. Then another, and another. Claire’s hands shook as she realised the enormity of her actions.

I’m in New Zealand. I’m on the other side of the world! No one knows I’m here. I’ve been out of touch for days. Anything could have happened.

Her stomach squirmed with hunger and nerves as she flicked through the messages. Two were service messages, welcoming her to New Zealand. One was from Ruth, relaying her mother’s anger at the abandoned Skoda. One informed her of a voice message and one was from Kim. Heart pounding, Claire opened it.

Hi Claire, it’s Jeff. I’ve borrowed Kim’s phone. Just wanted to say, it’s not your fault. Kim needs you. Don’t give up on her, please.

Claire tried to swallow, and realised how parched she was. She stared at the message for several moments, then closed it. Time enough to work out how to respond later. If Jeff was using Kim’s phone she couldn’t reply directly to him anyway.

Hoping her work account was still active, Claire rang her voicemail to retrieve the message. I’d better add a new phone and contract to my to-do list, before Carl thinks to shut me down.

The message was from Conor, asking her if she’d had time to reconsider the job offer. Claire flushed guiltily as she remembered her promise to let him know on Monday. Vowing to send him an email, and remembering that she also needed to email Roger, she made a quick note before chucking her phone back in her bag.

Pulling out her wash-bag and some clean clothes, Claire stuffed her handbag back under the pillow and went in search of the bathroom.

Out of sight, out of mind, right?

***