Where was I?

He phoned just before 4pm.
"I've crashed, " he said.

Being married to a man who loves his sports cars (not to mention the motorbikes) means that I've been expecting this call for nearly seventeen years. When it finally came, I was grateful he'd phoned me himself, having hung up on the emergency services lest they get to me first.
"Are you all right?" I asked.
"I'm fine," he replied, "but I think I've hurt my foot."
I had a little panic then: this is a man who could slice off his finger and mention only a small cut.
"What sort of hurt-your-foot," I asked.
"It hurts when I move it, and I'm stuck."
Poor lamb. He was stuck in the wreckage for over an hour while they searched for him (he didn't know exactly where he was, and his satnav had been flung out by the force of the impact). Eventually, he was spotted by a kindly farmer, bumbling along on his tractor, who noticed something unusual sticking out of the hedge...

Altogether, he broke three bones; one of them in four places, and the 'hurt foot' required a major reconstruction of his lower left leg. Three months, and three operations later (so far), it remains encased in a steel frame (with all kinds of exciting bits to twiddle). He doesn't get much pain now, he says, and has stopped swearing at his leg, but I can tell you he swears a lot at his crutches instead.

Now he's past the seriously-injured stage (sleeps well, can stay awake all day, isn't popping pills every hour), he's reached the frustration stage. He thinks he's better (which is laughable), and being a man, he's trying to get on with Normal Life. Only he can't. Not even nearly. Hence the swearing. This is at least as hard to live with as having a fragile, bed-bound, smashed-up invalid in the house.

He's getting better. Not day-to-day, or even week-to-week, but if we look back a month, he's much better than he was. Eighteen months, the consultant said, and we've done two of them already.

--------------------------------------------
These people have made it all possible: the Brighton Orthopaedic Trauma Team, who are talented and lovely with it; Queenie, who thinks she's neglected me, but has just been wonderful; Jane and Angie who have picked up so many pieces I've lost count; my dad, who paid for a cleaning fairy; and my kids, who stepped up to the mark when I needed them to.

Is it Me, or the Rest of the World?

I am less grumpy now, but it's taken a while. I don't believe in writing things down during a serious grump, because then the grump's there forever, and it looks like you're a grumpy person. And I'm not. Much.

I've forgotten the more trivial things now, which is good, but others still stick in my side:

• The teenage staff in the Ptarmigan Restaurant who were rude and surly - when they work in one of the most beautiful places on the planet. I might be getting old, but when I make a justified remark (politely) about the disappearance of the children's play area, I don't expect the staff member to say, "Well it's not my fault." And then turn to his (teenage) colleague, and say, "It's not my fault, is it?" And snigger.

• The woman who told me on the phone, "Oh yes, our climbing tower is suitable for little ones. My 18-month nephew goes on it all the time." So, we went, having spent considerable time and effort locating a climbing venue that would let the Smaller Girl (three and a half) have a go. And when I got there? They said the Smaller Girl was too young, the helmet wouldn't fit (it did), she would be scared (she wasn't), she wouldn't be able to reach (she could). After a fight (I was cross), they let her go, and she waved delightedly to me from ten feet up. She loved it.

• The People's Friend, that last bastion of old-fashioned values, has stopped sending out complimentary copies to authors, citing "rising postal costs and the current difficult economic conditions." Sure, I can see that 81p, is really hard to find when you have a circulation of three hundred thousand. In addition, they didn't tell me my story (published on the 21st August) was out until the 23rd (at which time I was in remotest Scotland, with no newsagents to hand), and by the time I returned to civilisation (on the 25th), the next issue (dated the 28th) had replaced mine.

• Some yobbo threw a rock at my windscreen (mercifully not breaking it), and yet it would have been wrong for me to take a hiking pole and beat him round the head. The police came. Looked bored. Was I wasting their time? Should rock-throwing fuckwits go unreported?

And there is one other thing I'm grumpy about: the fear that I'm getting old and grumpy. I'm not a luddite. I can change. I embrace change; but I'm tired of falling standards, and seeing good services - that cost nothing - replaced with bad services, or none at all. Above all else, I'm tired of lethargy and rudeness, and grumpiness.

Where do Your Ideas Come From?

I mentioned in my last post that an idea for a new novel had popped into my head while I stared out of the window on the train. I have no idea what triggered it, other than I was not, for once, thinking about anything else. Usually, I am looking after the children, working, writing, washing, cooking, or even doing some housework. Occasionally, I am drinking tea, but this last activity is invariably accompanied by reading.

I used to get my ideas as I dozed off in bed, but these days I just fall, zombie-like into the deepest slumber (until woken by the need to rearrange a duvet cover, pick up a teddy, fetch water, etc.), and so that dreaming time has gone. The same with driving. I like to think I pay attention to the road (unless Cally's in the car), and there used to be space for thinking too, but now that's taken up with The Wheels on the Bus, and I haven't a hope of constructive contemplation. So you see, I'm never not thinking about something else, and how the too-tired-to-bother-with-work episode on the train proved unexpectedly productive.

I'm going to practice now, thinking about nothing, and see what happens. With luck, my stress levels will dive, but I'm hoping my creativity might get a boost too.

Where do your ideas come from?

---

New Mountain-Walking Blog
I have started a new blog: Mountains, Miles & Mist, and would love to see you over there!

On Mountains and Muppetry

I climbed a mountain today.

I had until the baby woke up from her lunchtime nap to get back to the cottage, and so I had to climb it in record time. That wasn't as hard as it sounds because, although it was a bloody big mountain, I was on my own.

I've climbed that particular mountain: while pregnant with the small boy; while pregnant with the small girl; carrying the small boy on my back; carrying the small girl on my front (see photo); carrying the small girl on my back whilst pushing the small boy in the buggy. Today, I carried nothing more than a bottle of water, and that was much easier. (Easier still was taking the funicular down; baby's nap time and all that.)

When I got back to the carpark, I thought "Oh, look. There's another car exactly like mine." I did think it a bit odd that there should be one exactly like mine parked so very close. But I knew it was somebody else's, because the door was wide open...

Ahem.

Soooo, my advice is, if you're going to leave your car unlocked at a popular tourist spot, make sure you leave the door open too, because no owner would be such a muppet to be any distance away, thus the car thieves will leave it alone...

Blogoversary Day!

How different things were when I wittered writted my first blog post in September last year. I felt very isolated in my study, but at the same time bemoaned the advice that I should 'get out there and meet other writers'. With three little children (the youngest only six months at the time) the only place I get out to was the playground, and there aren't many other writers there.

Now, a year on, I have made some very special friends - many of whom I hope to know for life. I have been on two writing courses, two Novel Racers' meets, and I am heading up to London on [edited to read...] Thursday for my second book-launch (though not actually my book, you understand). I make time for myself now, because these are things I really want to do... for myself. Thus blogging, and the world to which it has introduced me, has changed the way I live.

I used to think that blogging was an idle/frivolous pastime of absolutely no value; but, I've changed my mind. I have learned that with the right motivation and support (which might not be available locally), one can find new energy and inspiration.

I would like to take this opportunity to say THANK YOU to all you, who read and comment on my posts. I have also generated a new award (see right) to say an extra big thank you to some of those who made me so welcome in my first few days (and who have stayed with me): SallyQ, Calistro, Helenmh, JJ, Spiral Jen and Womagwriter.

Do you have blogmates who supported your early blogging? Please feel free to give them this award.

Big Wide Open Spaces

Well, we survived the journey, despite yet another motorist on the M1 trying to smash his way through to the other carriageway. His accident occurred at almost exactly the same spot as the accident we witnessed in May (also on the way to Scotland), and, it must be said, as the accident in which my mother and I were involved in 1986. I think someone is trying to tell me something (to stick to the M40, perhaps). This time, however, there were no injuries. No hands needed to be held. And we carried on our way in awe of the severely bent, but intact, crash barrier. I really thought he was a gonner.

An hour later, and we were at Helenmh's where we finally got to meet Smudge (renamed 'Spludge' by the small girl). I thought Helen very brave to have us, considering that the small boy arrived with sick bowl in hand. But he was fine, and after a good natter and some great food, we were on our way again. We made an overnight stop at my sister's (more good food, more nattering, and a stupidly late night) before making the final push for the Highlands - only 460 miles to go, on five hours' sleep...

Three cans of Red Bull later and we pulled up outside what is now our home for six weeks. It is a tiny house (the kids are all in together), but it's really comfy, and we're loving it. It's not the inside, you see; it's the outside. There's lots of it. Lots.

No Time

I've realised where all my time has gone, but I'm not quite sure why it has taken me this long to work it out (perhaps because I have a Brain of Mush), but at least I have worked it out.

This time last year I had a 4yo, a 2yo, and a 3mo baby, and I was writing a shorty a week. Now that the small boy is at school, and the small girl at playgroup every day, you'd think I'd be managing a shorty every day, but no...the baby has given up her morning nap.

Sounds trivial, doesn't it. Not exactly world-stopping news. Rather boring coffee-morning-type news, in fact (and I'm talking here about mothers' coffee mornings, rather than the somewhat more interesting Novel Racers' coffee mornings).

But a year ago, when both the baby and the small girl were napping, I had ten hours a week in which I could reckon to write effectively (my brain doesn't work in the evenings). This dropped to about six hours a week, and, now, I have none.
None!
And that's it, until the baby starts playgroup in fifteen months time.

But, you know what? In fifteen years time, I want to look back on this pre-school bit and remember it as a time I enjoyed with the kids. So often, in teashops and such places, older women come up to me (with my children) and say, 'make the most of them, they grow up so quickly', and I think, yeah, yeah, you've forgotten how hard it is; but they haven't. They just know that this is a really good bit. So, despite the six hours a day I'll get in a few years time, I'm not in a hurry for my kids to trot off to school.

Not even when I wish I could write more.

A Lovely Weekend Away (at last)!

Well, my feet have finally touched the ground again after a fantastic weekend away. Yes, I know I said I would never go away again, but I did and no one was sick (at least, not until this morning), and the cat didn't wee in the car until the next day - so that didn't count either.

We spent last weekend at a family reunion in Chesterfield and very nice it was too. Forty rellies from my mother's father's side gathered in a small (and very friendly) hotel to remark on how much older/greyer everyone was since Aunt Margaret/Uncle Guy/Uncle Norman's funeral... and, oooh, haven't the children grown.

And there was rather a lot of drinking involved... which is why I've been
a bit quiet since.

The bonus was that Chesterfield is the home of the lovely SallyQ, whom I met up with on Saturday afternoon for a coffee. Of course, Sally didn't know what I looked like, whereas her appearance is totally familiar to me. Thus is was very strange to find her looking straight through me, like a stranger. Very odd!

Once introduced, we had a lovely hour in Costa Coffee, with her daughter and granddaughter too. The kids (mine) were shattered, and it showed, but Sally has subsequently remarked on their perfect behaviour. I guess she missed the bit when they started throwing things.

Now this morning, things are back to normal except that the car smells of cat wee instead of vomit, and I think I probably prefer the vomit.

Another Disastrous Holiday

Sorry about the silence. Am perfectly well (although rather grumpy) following an Internet-free, four-day break in the Shropshire wilds. Despite a delightful location, snug cottage, and a lovely visit to my uncle, I am grumpy because, yet again, it all went horribly wrong. Here is a summary of the last few times I've ventured away from home:

July 2005 - We were burgled. The resultant damage cost over £10,000, and ten months, to put right.
July 2006 - A postman named ALAN JENKINS smashed into my car (on my birthday) in a remote part of the Isle of Jura (itself pretty remote), and I had to take 50% blame DESPITE BEING STATIONARY AT THE TIME (still seething over that one).
Oct 2006 Had major row with husband, and had to be talked out of divorcing him on the spot by very good friend (thanks, Maggie!)
May 2007: My Dad, who was with us (in isolated Scottish cottage), had suspected heart attack.
Oct 2007: Small girl had croup for two days, baby teethed for two days/nights, small girl broke her leg.
Feb 2008: Small boy was unexpectedly, and spectacularly, sick in the car. Spent the whole time convinced he was going to vomit at any moment. Baby teethed solidly; got no sleep. Had four-day headache instead. Got £60 parking ticket.

I'm never going away again, ever...

Final Message

Phew. Final Message just posted (00:14). What a struggle that's been today (not helped by various offers of help from various small children). Several times I nearly just posted it, even though I wasn't happy with it, but Himself encouraged me not to give up (this was just before he said, "right, I'm going to bed"). I'm glad he kept me at it, though. I'm pleased with it now.

I've done all but the first four, and have enjoyed myself ever so much. I'm not sure what I'll do with all my free time now. Oh, yes...Christmas.

I forgot.

An Exercise in Definition

I've spent much of the day searching for a word. I've looked like a proper writer (albeit one with a poor vocabulary) with dictionaries littered all over the desk, Roget's Thesaurus lying about, and a study full of loving children. (I'm bored. Can I play on your computer? Oaww, but that's not fair. Waaaaah.)

The word I was looking for was verbal. I think. I'm still not sure. It was the best fit.

Now, please, before reading the rest of this post, read my Message (20:46), and tell me how you think the writer is describing her cousin - this exercise is optional, but I am interested in your thoughts!

I wanted a word that meant "formed of words" (not letters, not parts of words, not spoken words, etc.). I wanted to convey an image of the writer's correspondent as a person formed only of written words.

This has been a fascinating exercise for me, and verbal is not the word I expected to settle on. I have learned a lot about the structure of language, in telephonic company with my Dad (to whom I turn at times like this), and also about various art forms using words.

During the course of the day, I met: semantic, morphemic, calligrammic, epistolary, syntactic, and many others. None of them the right word, but all very interesting. Do you know what they mean? I didn't.

The word I really wanted was logoral, but it doesn't exist.

Next day Addendum: My father phoned back this morning, just after the 8am Messages deadline, to suggest verbiform. This doesn't exist either, but it is perfect, and I reckon I could have got away with it. He would have rung earlier, he said, but he didn't want to wake me up (I think he forgets sometimes that I have kids).

Your Messages & Nothing Else

I have done nothing today (apart from look after three small children).

Jane came round this morning (with various additional small children), and we talked about writing (as far as that was possible), which was lovely (in a lovely-things-you-can-do-with-kids-around sort of way). She's been thinking about my novel and, bless her, has been trying to help me think of a title.

I cannot think of a title.

I go to sleep thinking about it hoping that I'll wake up in the morning with the answer. I dread discovering that I did, actually wake up with it once, but forgot to write it down, and then forgot that I even had it (this is a possibility).

It's not that I don't know what the book is about - I reckon it has a strong and obvious premise - but all the obvious titles are just that. Obvious. Too obvious. Clichés. Tired old hackneyed idioms. I need something different.

So, I've done a lot of thinking today, but I haven't actually done anything...

...except my Message (21:24).

Anti-Social Behaviour (...& Your Messages)

I am speaking to you today via a little yellow ethernet cable. I am actually joined to the net. I feel in touch.

I am staying with my Dad for the night, having brought him his birthday present, and three lovely grandchildren to coo over. The trouble is, it was Fireworks' Night last week. 'Last Week?' I hear you cry. 'So what's the trouble?'

The trouble is that the anti-social nouveax-riches of the home counties, think it's acceptable to blast rockets sky high for over an hour while much of the world (inlcuding 99% of the little kids) is/are trying to relax and/or sleep. It would be tolerable if it hadn't already been going on for three weeks.

I have three screaming children upstairs. Actually, I haven't - the fireworks have stopped at last, and the kids have (miraculously) gone back to sleep - otherwise I wouldn't be down here writing this; but, God, it makes my blood boil.

Sorry. Rant over.

Posted today's Message at 21:57.

A Weekend Off

Saturday morning was spent, after less than five hours sleep, trying to get myself and three small children ready for Niece's wedding.

Fifteen minutes before we were due to leave Husband appeared from his cave (the garage), still wearing his jeans and shirt with the worn collar.

Ten minutes later he reappeared in a suit, pressed shirt, polished shoes, brushed hair and trimmed beard - and he had put away his jeans.

We left late (my fault), and we had to go back because I had forgotten to put on my necklace (the necklace I had spent a whole morning shopping for).

It was worth it. The wedding was great. Niece had arranged a kiddies' table where they could draw, make necklaces (perhaps I hadn't needed to go back after all), and play with various games. It was a stroke of genius, and we enjoyed ourselves all the more because the kids were happy.

Masterly Procrastination

Yesterday morning Jane pitched up with a short story for me to proof. This is an honour, I tell myself, despite the fact that Jane's idea of "short" is anything under 20,000 words.

We tried to discuss some of the salient points this afternoon, but with six kids trashing her lounge we were forced to postpone until this evening. We susequently spent an hour and a half on the phone discussing...er... some films with Dustin Hoffman in, Peter Hall's 1989 production of The Merchant of Venice, the way BBC News 24 insists on making news out of nothing, the moronic nature of Jeremy Vine's presentation style, oh, and her story (and why I was looking for it in the fridge).

Having finally sat down to do some work, all I can think about is that, apart from finishing this story (my ambition for this evening), I have yet to load the dishwasher, put some washing in the tumble dryer, put the bins out, get the cat in, feed the baby, go to bed, and sleep, all before six-thirty tomorrow morning.

So, it's sleep or story, and I know which one's gonna win.

Block, Baby & Banana

Still struggling with my reluctant shorty.

Womagwriter suggested a bit of alcoholic lubrication so, having finally run out of chocolate, I poured myself a beer late (very late) last night. I must admit that it had some effect - although whether good or bad I have yet to tell. In pursuit of consistent results, I thought it best to repeat the experiment this evening... and perhaps tomorrow.

Unfortunately, I am being distracted by ideas for the next story. I know I should dump the one I'm working on and get on with the one that shouts the loudest, but I'm trying to be disciplined about this, which is difficult; the alcochol is interfering somewhat.

I try to write whenever I can, but I have a policy of not working while the kids are around. This means that I really only get the evenings, or when the small boy is at school and the little people are napping.

Having taken advantage of one such opportunity this afternoon (resulting in 300 words), my laptop was sitting, screen still open, on the dining room table at tea time. I had just popped a spoonful into the baby's mouth when she sneezed, covering my keyboard with mashed banana and/or snot.

I subsequently made a bargain with the computer: I promised to keep it away from sticky fingers, banana, and the contents of the baby's nose, in exchange for it refusing to open emails or websites that have nothing to do with research.

This evening, I managed a grand total of 75 words before discovering that only one of us is keeping to this bargain.

I guess I'll have to stick to the beer.