Tamara's Blog

FALLING DOWN

2010-09-07T07:57:00.000-07:00

I wouldn't have minded so much, but I hadn't even had a drink! There I was, lying in bed, doing nothing more harmful than trying to get to sleep when WHAM!!!! I turned over and felt exceedingly dizzy. I carefully moved my head. There it was again. Oh, gawd, I've had this before and it is definitely not fun.
Obviously knackered because I fell asleep despite 'im indoors snoring for England - but woke next morning, fell over when I tried to get up and just about made it to the bathroom before I was horribly and violently ill. Not nice! Poor 'im indoor didn't quite know what to do - he offered his services as a leaning post, which was gratefully received, but I couldn't eat or drink a thing and was sentenced to spending the next five days on the couch. Doctor called in labryinthitis - I call it getting drunk but without the fun and alcohol. Actually it's put me off the drink! Weird. I could barely touch a drop the other day - and I'd come off the pills, so there was no excuse really.
I'm rambling.
As usual.
We're back from Cornwall where I managed to persuade him indoors he didn't need to spend the entire time gardening - we ate and drank and walked and caught up with friends, which is so much nicer. Mick, if you're reading this, I love you really.
So, it's back to work. Head is fine, stomach is fine. Still not interested in booze, and even the cigarettes are beginning to pall. Perhaps this is another phase in my life where I shall become a saintly non-smoking tea-totaller, who is also slim, gorgeous and absolutely successful in everything I do.
Dream on Tamara.

Summer days and lost instructions

2010-08-12T03:40:00.000-07:00

Hi there, I know it has been a while, and I apologise. I lost the piece of paper that had my address and password on it! Don't laugh, brain like a sieve at the moment - office in chaos - social life out of control - weather far too gorgeous to be stuck in an office. I had to guess several times before I could get into this thing, but now I'm here, I don't really know how to begin.
Having worked solidly for several months, him indoors and I went to France to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Lots of lovely shopping in St Malo with the other girls while the men played golf - followed by a recitation and exaggeration of every ball, hole and bunker played by the men as we sat and drank lovely wine. We didn't brag and boast, didn't bemoan the shoes we couldn't find, the bargain we missed - we just held up all the shopping bags and hid the price tags - but then that's what girls do.
Back home now and the weather has been great. My daughter has moved back into her flat and we're carting her stuff from our attic over to her. It's amazing how a whole life can fit in an attic, isn't it? Tonight we're borrowing a car and trailer to get her couch and bed across - unless it rains - and it has rained, something the gardens are really enjoying. But not the cushions on my new terrace furniture - they are sodden and at the moment hanging on the washing line in the hopes they dry out before it rains again. Sunshine and showers, lovely - I just wish the showers would all come at night, much more sensible.
Right, I'm talking rubbish. Bye for now, will let you know how him indoors and I get on in Cornwall.

Under a cloud

2010-04-16T02:39:00.000-07:00

Firstly, thank you to Tracey and Brigitte for commenting on my blogs. I have lots of favourite books and authors, at the moment I'm readin Penny Vincenzie - love them! It seems I'm not the only one who suffers from an 'im indoors! The organization of the Thailand trip was left entirely in his hands, so I have no-one else to blame but myself. It sounded so romantic, a night boat to Koh Tao, would even make a great title for a book - the reality was somewhat of a let down, but it was an adventure, and when I'm old and grey - in about five minutes - I can look back and laugh about it!
The cloud I'm under has come over the UK from Iceland. Poor devils, as if they haven't had enough problems in the past year what with going bankrupt! All airports are shut down, the ferries and trains are doing a roaring trade, and all we need now is for the French to go on strike so no-one can get of this small, overpopulated island. I can't think why they haven't already struck - they are usually superb at doing so right at the most inconvenient moment - I do with the British were the same.
The cloud has yet to arrive here in the south - we had white stuff come down, but it was frost! Charming at this time of the year when all the bedding plants are struggling for survival.
Talking of clouds, 'im indoors has a bad back!!!!! I'll say no more!!!!!

Two left feet

2010-04-13T04:48:00.001-07:00

I love him indoors - I really do - but there are times when I wish..... Never mind.
He organised a wonderful birthday surprise, and although he admits he can't dance, thought it best to come with me to the Strictly Come Dancing four days at a hotel in Somerset as he didn't trust me with anyone else!? Moi? At my age? Give me a break.
We went off to our respective classes and of course in the evening dressed up to strut our stuff on the dancefloor. Poor love, him indoors has all the grace of a rugby prop forward after a night in the pub - my poor feet - trampled by size elevens - not that much fun really. He got red around the ears, and in the face - lost his temper, got frustrated and flounced off - Well, I say flounced, sixteen stone men don't flounce, they barge, stomp or simply disappear to the bar!
Unfortunately we seem to be the only two that are uncoordinated - the others swept around the floor, sashaying, hands waving, heads bobbing, smiles plastered as their feet twinkled and their pitying gazes glanced over us. It's at times like these that I wish him indoors was Antonio Banderas - at least he knows how to tango. - but then in the real world, I wouldn't swop him indoors for a hundred Antonios - life's too short to have to fight to get to the mirror first.

The night boat to Koh Tao

2010-04-13T04:32:00.000-07:00

When the plans had all been arranged and we told the offspring what they were, they threw their hands up in horror. Thailand was great - for back-packers - but it was a long journey across the country to the island, and did we really plan on taking the night boat? Him indoors looked puzzled and I began to have that squirming sensation in my stomach - a sense of impending doom. But the plans were made, there was no backing out.
It all started out so well. Upgraded by Emirates to business class, we arrived in Bangcock well refreshed and after an overnight stay took a short plane ride across Thailand to Krabbi. Perfection, blue sea, green palms, white sand - great monoliths of rock that were the focus of foolhardy, brave climbers who could be seen dotted about hanging from ropes way above the ground.
A longtail ride back to Krabbi town, a short journey in a minibus with Swedish back-packers, one of whom observed that he was born in Sweden but would probably die in Thailand if the driver kept on overtaking on bends! Three hours wait in the heat - 39 and rising, with eighty percent humidity! Not good.
Coach ride to Suratthani where the food market was in full throttle on the dockside. This is the first glimpse of our transport to Koh Tao - oh dear. The kids had warned me, and I was expecting hell - actually it wasn't that bad - not really - not if you shut your eyes and ears and covered your face with sarong!
The night boat was actually one of the better ones - more by luck than judgement - and was in reasonable shape. You entered at quay level to discover it was completely empty inside but for a short wooden staircase that led to a vast wooden floor. Laid out like sardines, the mattresses - lumpy, flea bitten - and god knows what else - lined both sides. There was a pillow - or should I say a lump of something resembling a brick - and nothing else.
Him indoors looked round, realised he would be lying next to a leggy, blonde young thing and grinned like a cheshire cat. Her boyfriend swapped places - I can't think why! I was next to a lovely Canadian girl who'd just come back from a long stay in Tasmania, so we had lots to talk about. Several lads arrived toting beer crates - obviously already well-oiled in one of the bars - it could be a long night.
But the real horror of the trip was not the beds, the drunken singing, the futive rustling of clothes etc., but the toilet. In the bowels of the ship, its miasmic stench permeated everything. I braved it at about four in the morning, only to find the bolt on the sliding door had been wrenched off, the floor was wet and the smell so bad from the hole in the ground that it was impossible to breathe. It's very difficult having a pee with one hand on the door, the other over your nose, and your skirt held up by your teeth. I didn't stay in there long!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Koh Tao was it's usual lovely, hectic self, and there was my son waiting for me, surprised I think, that I'd survived. We had a wonderful holiday with him, and the only day it rained was on my birthday when it came down like a monsoon - stopped abruptly and when the sun came out shot the humidity up to about a hundred percent. I was wet all the time, either sweating, showering or swimming - and the ankles took umbrage at everything and decided to swell quite alarmingly - I blame it on the heat, but actually the booze probably had more to do with it.

Mothers and daughters

2010-04-13T04:24:00.000-07:00

My lovely girl left home to live in Australia for a year, and I missed her terribly. We don't see a lot of each other even though she is less than an hour's drive away - but knowing she was on the other side of the world left a huge void. I've always advised my three children to be adventurous, to see the world and not get stuck in a rut - I just didn't think they would take me so literally! One is in Australia, married with two son - the other is in Thailand, unmarried, but having a wonderful time, and now my darling daugher has cleared off to the other side of the world and left me - the only Australian born one in this part of the family, high and dry in England.
But she came back. Oh, the joy of seeing her again, of hearing her adventures instead of reading them on her facebook - seeing her photos and being able to laugh and chat like old times. I know parents have to let their children go - it would be far too selfish to pin them down out of loyalty and emotional blackmail, and it's the hardest thing to do without crying - but the joy of them returning, so mature, alive, full of plans for the future - it's worth every salty teardrop! Our relationship has changed, deepened and strengthened because of that long parting - and although she might disappear again, I know that just because she's not close she's still thinking of me. Mothers and daughters eh?

Long time no blog

2010-04-13T04:13:00.000-07:00

Firstly, I must apologise for being extremely lazy - but I do have several excuses, as you will see. Writing a daily diary was something I did as a teenager, but once married and bringing up children, there never seemed to be any time for such frippery. Once I'd taken up writing for a living I spent all day on a computer and the last thing I wanted to do was spend another hour writing up the minutae of my working day!
Being an author isn't very exciting actually - I sit at my desk for about eight hours while him indoors brings coffee, distraction and useless information - then it's downstairs to a glass of wine, supper - once I've cooked it, and an evening watching the tv. See? Boring!
I jest. It might seem boring to you, but I've spent all day in a different world to the one outside my window. I've been in Australia, in the outback, or on the coast, reliving all the glorious trips I've had over the years and making up my own little world. It takes a while to return to the real world, and if the phone rings, I am usually very cross to be disturbed.
Of course, once the book is finished - the long nights, the endless research, the angst over a piece of dialogue or where my characters are leading me - then I can relax.
But not for long. The editing is next - an exciting time where the book is polished and shined until it is as near perfect as I can get it. Then I can relax.
But then comes the invitations to do talks, signings, interviews - to travel and meet my readers. Then I can relax.
The book goes to my foreign publishers - it's released - reviews have to be read - discarded or held tightly as proof that I'm doing okay. Perhaps now I can really relax.
But I have an idea for another book. It's exciting and the research will lead me who knows where? Perhaps I wasn't meant to relax - after all, this is what I enjoy doing - it's what gets me up in the morning and gives me dreams at night.
Relax? Life's too short and the publishing world too speedy to let up for a minute. Relaxing is for other people. Now perhaps you can see why I don't have much time for blogging? Let alone twittering, face-booking et al.

NEWS FLASH

2009-09-15T06:40:00.000-07:00

The largest UK supermarket, TESCO is taking a substantial number of Legacy for their shelves. YIPEEEEEEEE!

Autumn Leaves

2009-09-15T06:23:00.000-07:00

Well, here I am sitting at my desk again after a few weeks in Cornwall. It wasn't exactly a rest as such, the garden was over-grown, him indoors insisted upon adding to the already enormous decking, the weather was rubbish and my cats got beaten up - which cost me an arm and a leg in vet's bills on my return home. Oh, the joys of family life - or not, as they turned out to be. Adding to the misery of this 'summer' break, was the fact we fell out with the neighbours as well. There are just some people who won't ..... I'd better not go there, they might be reading this, and things have calmed down somewhat.
On to the writing career. Yippee, finished Ocean Child, now I must keep everything crossed that my publishers like it as much as I do. It's a little different from my other Australian novels, in that it's set in Tasmania - no joking around now, it's where I was born, and no, I don't have two heads! Ocean Child is a mystery story of the gift of a yearling to a young English woman, Lulu Pearson. It's what she discovers on her return to Tasmania that begins to put the pieces of her life together, but who is the mysterious Mr Carmichael - and why has there been someone watching her for the last eighteen years?
You'll have to read the book, I'm not telling.
It was a hard book to write, because some of it is autobiographical, but having said that, the experiences that Lulu goes through were some of my own - like returning to my birthplace, seeing the old house again - remembering not only the good times, but the sad ones as well. Readers who know my stories will recognise the beach as being a part of the memories - and it is so in Ocean Child, for this is where Lulu and I spent our formative years in dreaming, playing and hiding - now of course I sit on beaches and sunbake - which is bad for me, but therapeutic anyway, but the love of the sea remains.
I live in the heart of the South Downs in England, and this is where Lulu lives, though not in my village, but one a few miles away. It's a beautiful part of the world, and I'm privileged to live there and look out of my office every day to the fields, the horses, sheep and cattle and a long line of trees which are beginning to turn to autumn colours.
The Ocean Child took a long time to write because I wanted it to be as perfect as possible, and now it's done, I feel quite sad. But I have an idea for another book based on the legend of Lasseter's Reef. I like legends, they offer so much room to explore and let the mind go to places it might not go otherwise.
I've also decided to turn over a new leaf and go back to the gym. My back is better even if the hips and shoulder are a bit wonky, and after one session I feel better already. It's always a good thing to get out and have some excercise when one is stuck behind a desk all day, apart from the fact winter is coming and I need to be able to get into my little black dress for the party season that's fast approaching. Vanity, vanity, all is vanity.
Farewell for now! Tamara

camels, tombs, temples and bakshish

2009-06-02T06:39:00.000-07:00

Hi there to you all on this glorious English day. It's sunny - yes, the sun does appear in England - and we have just experienced almost a whole week of summer with temperatures reaching the high eighties - or for you younger ones, that's about thrity something. Never did get the hang of it, and it sounds so much more impressive if it's eighty rather than thirty, don't you think?
I digress. Him indoors took me to Egypt where it really is hot - in the hundreds by breakfast time and rising as fast as they can pour rum and cokes over ice. I'm very brown, now frantically trying to keep the tan with buckets of body creams. We went up the Nile - or is that down, from Luxor to Aswan and back again. Hot, hot, hot - but unfortunately the belly dancer who performed for us in cabaret was only luke warm. She was more interested in the bar manager and spent most of her time flirting with him or talking to her musicians. Tepid round of applause followed and she stomped off in high dudgeon.
PAUL AND CHRIS, have lost the bit of paper with your address and phone number on. REPLY TO THIS!
The temples were beautiful and quite what I expected them to be - but I didn't bargain on the ubiquitous arab appearing from behind every pillar and post wanting to show me something. The wink and nod and the leer was warning enough, so I steered clear. Him indoors is far too polite and ended up on numerous occasions having to hand out backshish (I think that's how you spell it) for the honour of having a 'lucky eye' pointed out, or some engraving from 1904. Anyway, most of it was lovely - it was too hot really, and I must have drunk gallons of water - which was a shame, because when it came to alcohol it was really too hot and one got very tiddly after just three or four. Quite ruined my reputation!
I digress - again. My Brissie friend, how are you? Hope all is well and that you're enjoying reading Legacy. Yes, it does follow on - but don't reveal the plot on here PLEASE!
To the ladies from Holland and France - my books are now translated in both languages - more in Dutch, admitedly, but we're getting there.
PAUL AND CHRIS LET ME HAVE YOUR PHONE NUMBER.
My daugher is in Australia at the moment. She upped sticks, rented out her flat and set off to visit her brother in Thailand before descending on her other brother in Buderim. Now she's in Brisbane, the Redhill area, and has started work at Strathpine Hospital. She has lots of interviews to go to and is looking forward to at last being able to enjoy being in Australia now all the paperwork is completed. I miss her, but at least, unlike her brother Wayne, she does keep in touch. HINT TO WAYNE. WRITE TO YOUR MOTHER. I COULD HAVE BEEN KIDNAPPED IN EGYPT AND SOLD OFF TO THE SLAVE TRADE!
I jest. I'm not worth enough camels.
Tombs are creepy, aren't they? Did you like that change of topic? Slick, eh? We went to Abu simbel (I think that's right, forgive my ignorance) and I had a very creepy moment in one of the side bits. It was deep, narrow and low-ceilinged, and I could hear chanting, or humming, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I was out of there like greased lighting. Him indoors wasn't impressed. He heard nothing, felt nothing and just wanted to sit down.
WAYNE - WRITE TO YOUR MOTHER
PAUL AND CHRIS, EMAIL ME
NINA, KEEP IN TOUCH
BRETT, LOVE YOU.
Thanks for all your blog replies. Keep them coming. I'm working really hard at the moment on the book, in the hope I won't have to work through the summer - if we get one. Stay safe, keep smiling, and don't let the b******s get you down. Tamara

In reply to comments

2009-03-30T03:05:00.000-07:00

More comments please, love getting them!
To anonymous in Bris vegas, hope the party went well, teenagers can be tricky - I know, I was one, and then had three of them! Thankfully they grow up eventually, leave home, come back, leave again - and it's strange, but they get more expensive the older they are!
To the dog lover - I wasn't quite sure what you meant. But at least with cats I don't have to walk them, they just get on with it!
Have a happy and fulfilled week, I'm starting my working/writing day. Cheers, Tamara

The Book

2009-03-27T09:11:00.001-07:00

I've just read the blog I wrote back in January, and sit here shamefaced as I realise just how long ago that was. I haven't got very far with this latest book, in fact, I have to confess I've been dithering a lot - until yesterday.
The biggest problem for an author is where to start. The story is there, the characters rounded out and so real I can almost see them. I have a beginning, a middle and an end - but where do I begin? At the beginning? At the end? In the middle? Years before, or after? It's a conundrum that authors down the ages have battled with.
So I started the book. I wrote four chapters, didn't like them and scrapped them. I wrote three more and felt better about those, but I still wasn't happy with the prologue - which actually wasn't a prologue, but something set several years after the beginning - come on, keep up there at the back. I know what I mean!
Anyway, until yesterday I have had to deal with my daughter leaving England for Thailand and Australia with plans to find work in Oz and perhaps stay there. I've had a broken hearted carpenter telling me his woes, and his girlfriend telling me hers. I'm thinking of having a new career as an Agony Aunt - it seems all my friends are either broke, unhappy, unwell or splitting up from their other halves - or worse, all four things at once! The recession has a great deal to answer to if you ask me - and I do wish people wouldn't ask me anything - not now, not when I'm wrestling with this book.
Ho, hum, I hear you say - boring, boring. Just get on and right the darn thing. What can be so difficult? Okay, you could be right, but if the book isn't right, then I'm not happy, and will remain in that state until I've figured out what to do.
Books are like giant jigsaw puzzles, spread over an enormous table. All the pieces are there, the author just has to put them in the correct place. I find talking helps. Talking is one of the things I do most, so it has to have something good about it. To talk over the problem, to air my fears, my doubts and the strands of each story is an enormous help - and the more I talk, the closer to a solution I come.
EUREKA!!!!!!!!!!!! I finally talked myself into the solution, and HEY PRESTO, I'm writing like the wind. The pages are filling up, the story is flowing, and THANK GOODNESS, I can stop getting in a panic.
Wish me luck - I'll be busy for a few weeks now - happily writing.

Cats in a Flap

2009-03-27T08:55:00.000-07:00

Bluey has decided he's a star and this all began when a cheque came in the post from a German publisher for an anthology which includes my story entitled, A Cat Called Blue. The persona on this feline star is one of disdain for the brand of cat food he's eaten since a kitten, dried food and anything human - and definitely anything female or feline, which means me, and our other cat Tilly.
Tilly, as you know was an orphan abandoned in the storm by a neighbour who will remain nameless as she isn't worthy. Bluey is jealous, there's no two ways about it. He stalks into the sitting room, eyes her with disgust and tries to chase her about the house. Tilly, of course had a somewhat slapdash upbringing, and her language would make a docker blush, so she lets Bluey know in no uncertain terms that she is not to be tampered with. They have declared an armistice for the nights though - but only because then they get to share out bed and keep us awake by purring!
Anyway, getting back to this stardom bit, it has all come to a head after 'im indoors went out and bought a new cat flap. It's very smart, shuts properly so there isn't a howling gale blowing through it, and refuses entry to the other cats in the neighbourhood which had taken it upon themselves to visit, wee and eat all the food lying about.
For this flap to work both cats had to have a chip implanted. Tilly swore and Bluey eyed 'im indoors with such loathing he almost cried - he's that way inclined actually, the old man - cries at the soppiest things, and yet he's all man I can guarantee that!
Getting back to the cats. With the flap installed it was now time to teach them how to use it. Stuffing their head in the hole so the mechanism could read the chip was only the beginning. Tilly refused point blank to go anywhere near it, and Blue sat for hours trying to stare it into submission.
'im indoors didn't help. One pathetic miaow from Blue, or a pair of sad green eyes from Tilly and he acted as doorman! Well, that couldn't go on. I'm damned if I'll get up in the middle of the night to play concierge to two cats!
I stuffed both cats unceremoniously through the flap at every opportunity. They only had to look as if they'd got their legs crossed and out they went.
Now we have a real problem.
Blue will go out the flap and refuses to come in through it.
Tilly will happily charge in, but refuses to go out.
'im indoors is still acting as doorman, and I've given up. I've warned him, one 'accident' on the carpet and he cleans it up, I've got more important things to worry about - like writing this blog.

Builders and Plumbers

2009-02-17T06:13:00.000-08:00

Neither of the above are conducive to writing. So I sit in my office staring out of the window, listening to the sounds of whistling, out of tune singing, hammering, sawing and the heavy tread of feet up and down the stairs. My supply of coffee and tea and sugar have reached famine proportions, the cats are threatening to leave home, and the house is in a tip. In fact it looks as if a bomb has exploded, and it will be months before the dust is cleared!
None of this is helped by the fact him indoors has managed to lose my car keys. He tells me they must be in a pocket somewhere, but as the spare bedroom looks like an explosion in a clothes factory at the moment, this isn't much help. Mind you, he really knows how to blot his copybook properly - he's down in Cornwall, the keys are lost, and he'd left the boot of the car up for over five days! There's a light in the boot - well, there was - and there was juice in the battery too - now there is neither. I'm stuck here in the middle of the countryside, and all I've got in the cupboard is a packet of Jaffa cakes. Actually, life isn't all bad if you have a packet of Jaffa cakes, at least I'll get a chocolate fix. I just wish..... Oh well. He'll be back tomorrow - then he'll discover just how deeply he's in trouble.

A new year and another book

2009-01-05T03:54:00.000-08:00

I'm sitting here in my warm office watching the two shetland ponies attempting to nibble the frozen grass that is only just visible above the snow. Yes, it's a beautiful world out there, but cold, well below freezing, and as I'm a woman who hates the cold, I thank goodness I don't have to be out in it!
The next book is waiting to be written. Where to start? What is the first sentence, the first paragraph? These are the joys awaiting me once I've stopped messing about and putting it off. It's all to easy to find something else to do, isn't it? But I know I must get on, so will keep this short. I have the plot, the characters, the period it's set in and the place, so what's stopping me? I'll just go and make another cup of coffee and settle down to it. No excuses. Start today - it's Monday, a new year, a new week. Okay, I'm off. Wish me luck!

Happy New Year

2009-01-05T03:50:00.000-08:00

We woke up this morning to a white world. Trees frosted, the lawn a white blanket - the cats very reluctant to go outside! The temperature has plummetted to six below zero, and I'm snug in my office in jumper, t-shirt, cardigan, trousers and boots. Reminds me of the old days when I used to write all hours, had no money for heating and used to dress in every warm thing I could find. Those days are gone, thank goodness, but it's good to be reminded now and again that life was once very hard, and to appreciate all I have now. 'im indoors is tramping about swearing and getting cold as he tries to sort out the broken fence, the dying tree and the shed roof which has blown off. I won't be helping him with roofs or anything else this year - not now that my slipped disc seems to have healed itself. Ain't life a miracle? Have a wonderful year.

Most frequently asked questions by Swedish students

2008-12-31T05:39:00.000-08:00

I get a great deal of mail from students in Sweden who seem to have been set a project on their favourite author. If they read this website, they should have enough information about me, and as I really don't have too much spare time to reply to each and every one of them, I thought I would do a short biography here.
I was born in Launceston, Tasmania, on 25th February 1948.
I moved with my mother and grandmother to Devonport when I was a few months old, and remained there until I was ten.
My grandmother adopted me when I was six, and as she was English and wanted to return home, she took me with her. I attended an all-girl's school in the UK which I hated, but nevertheless made many friends, with whom I am still in touch.
I trained as a secretary, worked for a few years, got married, had three children and then got divorced. I remarried, divorced again, and am now married to 'im indoors who I met when I was fifteen. Three children, three husbands, there is a pattern there somewhere.
I began to write when I was forty, and by the time I was forty-six had had my first book published. It was a psychological thriller, as was the following one. In 1998 I returned to Australia for the first time since I'd left, wrote Matilda's Last Waltz, and the rest is history. I get my inspiration from the dramatic scenery of Australia, from the people who cared for me as a child, and from the stories that I hear on my travels. I don't claim to be a literary author, but hopefully a popular one. I live in the south of England with 'im indooors who will remain nameless as he's already quite conceited enough - and we have two cats, five children and four grandchildren between us. I have five out of the six wardrobes in our bedroom - a large part of which is filled with shoes and handbags. Him indoors has the spare bedroom wardrobe, the bedroom chair, floor and bed etc., on which to hang his clothes.
My writing day begins at ten - I don't do early mornings - and goes on until six or half past. I work Monday to Friday, unless under a deadline, and don't limit myself to numbers of pages or words. I let it flow, and if it isn't, then I stop and do something else until it does!

Down Under Adventures

2008-12-31T05:18:00.000-08:00

HI there, I'm back - well just about, the jet lag, flue and a nasty cough has kept me low. But at least I am alive, which is a minor miracle considering that 'im indoors tried to kill me during our long trip in Australia. More of that later, can't let you know all the juicy bits too soon!
It has never failed to delight and amaze me that so many love my books, want to meet and talk to me and shower me with praise. This isn't false modesty, just an inherent shyness and inability to handle so much praise all at once. I consider myself to be very ordinary, despite my background and family, and as I sit in my office and write my stories and let my imagination flow, I have little idea of how many lives I am touching. It's awesome and I don't think I'll ever truly take it in, and will certainly never get too blase about it all - an author's popularity rests only on the success of the latest book - not the comfort of their laurels!
Anyway, we're back from Australia, shattered, happy, jet-lagged and dealing with all the winter colds and germs that met us on our arrival. It was a long, but successful trip, catching up with friends and family, seeing favourite places, finding new ones, eating and drinking too much and getting to know my grandsons. My eldest son hit forty this year - shame, as I can now no longer pretend I'm forty - but then I was a mere child when I had him. Or that's what I tell everyone.
His birthday fell on Melbourne Cup Day, which happened to be hot and sunny and we all went out for lunch, lost our shirts on the horse that didn't win, but had a fab time anyway.
This trip was all about getting out there to meet my readers, to talk to them and to do some research for the next book. It was fantastic to see so many eager faces at every event, and I even managed to meet one or two fans who have been sending me e-mails via my website, so that was a real bonus. Glenva was brilliant,so was her afternoon tea! Then, in Tasmania I met up with a tutor I had as a child in Devonport. I remembered only the horrid french lessons, but he was a lovely chap, and I felt a little embarrassed that I hadn't kept up the french after all his efforts - still, I know enough to order coffee, chocolate and to ask how much are those shoes. What more does a girl need?
Tasmania managed to rain on my parade, but having asked for help to do research I was inundated with names, addresses and e-mails - everyone was so very kind, and I can't thank them enough for giving up their time for me. Beryl thanks for all your phone calls and the amazing depths of knowledge you have of Tasmanian horse racing etc., and for your enormous tea - 'im indoors is still getting over it! Thanks to Merle for being such a super fan, to Tracey for giving up so much of her time and to Dianna and Tony for their hospitality.
Our journey took us from Perth to Sydney, up the coast to Buderim, then after a lovely stay with my son and his family, into the country and back down south to Sydney. Tasmania followed for ten days, then up to Melbourne and back to the UK. Eight weeks in all - my cats were delighted to see me again, even though they both resembled footballs after so long in the cattery! In fact, Bluey was so fat he could only squeek, so he and 'im indoors were put on strict diets. Neither of them like it, but I'm only being cruel to be kind - if you see what I mean.
Anyway, I have to get my own back somehow. He almost killed me during a particularly long drive in the hinterland of New South Wales! There I am looking at the scenery, day-dreaming pleasant things, when I glance at the road ahead. There's a lorry, coming straight for us. We're on the wrong side of the road, and 'im indoors is asleep. I yell. He wakes. The car slews off the road and we sit there in the ensuing cloud of dust as the lorry roars past with an angry blast of several horns and much flashing of lights. Needless to say I took over the driving, but it was a while before my pulse rate got back to normal. That's the danger of the hinterland, with a low sun, a heat haze on the tarmac and nothing to look at for miles but the slowly unwinding ribbon of road. It's all to easy to fall asleep, which is why I always take 'im indoors with me to share the driving.
It was an eventful trip, not earth-shattering, but pleasant, feeding kurrawongs on our apartment balcony, watching hawks hunting overhead, visiting stud farms and gazing at foals - super. Can't wait to get back there!

Jet lag and rain

2008-09-09T02:59:00.000-07:00

I'm back, which is probably stating the obvious, but here I am at my desk, looking out onto the sodden fields and grey sky. What happened to summer? I seem to have missed it - even managed to visit Melbourne in their winter, only to return here and find the weather is about the same.
Jetting across the world is exhausting, even if you do it with some style, and although it is always easier coming back to the UK as far as jet lag is concerned, there is a point in the afternoon where the eylids droop and I wake up to find I've been dribbling and snoring in my comfy chair. It's the sign of old age, I swear, but I'm doing my best to ignore it!
Melbourne was cold, damp and grey, but we walked for hours through the city, marvelling at all the changes that have been made there during the eight or so years since our last visit. The art gallery was my first port of call. McCubbin's Pioneers calls me every time I'm anywhere near it, so I spent at least an hour just gazing at it. A group of schoolchildren joined me with their teacher, and it was interesting to hear their view on what the story of the tryptic was telling.
The Melbourne Literary Festival was making the city hum, and Spellbound on Southbank, which was the Romantic Writer's Conference played quite a part in the occasion. The first night was a bit nerve-racking, as I didn't know anyone at all, and was afraid I was over dressed. I needn't have worried, everyone was very welcoming, and as for the dress code - it was fancy dress! There were fairies of every size and age, witches, princes, princesses,, pirates - you name it, they were there. I wish I'd known, I'd have gone as something suitably fluffy and pink!
I didn't win the Romantic Book of the Year award, but I didn't really expect to, and when the winner was announced I was delighted, for I have read the book, and it was indeed a worthy winner, and I enjoyed it very much.
Him indoors drove the hire car out to Gippsland where the lovely people at Bairnsdale and Sale welcomed us so warmly we almost didn't want to leave. Drinks, nibbles, dinner and breakfast were provided, and to top it all, we were accommodated in a fabulous heritage hotel, complete with big brass bed and real lace curtains.
With the Bob Dylan song reverberating in my head (Lay lady lay - lay across my big brass bed) I was looking forward to a bit of fun at the end of the night. Him indoors had other ideas. As I was making myself beautiful - well, doing my best - in the bathroom, he fell asleep. I entered the bedroom and posed in the doorway to no avail, but to the sound of snoring. Charming! Now, if Bob Dylan had been there it might have been a whole different story!
We came back to the UK to rain. Went to Hereford to catch up with school pals I hadn't seen for x number of years - a lifetime really - and it rained. Then we went down to Cornwall. It was raining there too. At this rate I won't have a tan, I'll be rusty!
Him indoors began his usual stint of gardening, and gave me a terrible fright. He crashed through the front door, white as a sheet and breathing hard! Collapsed into the chair, groaned and sighed and was still breathing hard. I thought he'd had a heart attack. Frantic with worry, I knelt by him and asked what had happened. Turned out he'd fallen down a hole, ate grass on the way down, and took ages to get out again - it was a deep hole. I fell about laughing, which wasn't very kind. It was probably relief!
So, we're back here in Sussex again, someone is mowing their lawn in the drizzle, the shetland ponies are nibbling in the paddock and my cat, Tilly is sitting on the printer watching me type. I just know she's about to pounce - far too tempting to have moving things in front of her.
By the way, the back is well, just in case you were interested. It seems that all that sitting about during the so-called summer has healed it all by itself, which means I don't have to have an op, can go back to the gym, and generally get on with my life. Of course I won't be lifting heavy things again, will avoid gardening if at all possible, and will definitely turn a deaf ear when 'im indoors say's, 'Darling, can you just hold this?'
Bye for now. Will write again soon.

Good News Day

2008-07-23T14:57:00.000-07:00

Not only has the weather been fantastic - so hot that even I, the original sun-babe found it too much in the sun - but I've had a really good day. First, I got an email from someone I haven't seen since two years after leaving school, and I got to speak to her tonight. She doesn't sound as if she's changed much, still as mad as a hatter, for which I'm very grateful. We were a couple of gals in those days and constantly in trouble with our horrible old headmistress - who has since passed on - and it's nice to know that the spirit of those two young girls is still there behind the aches and pains of age and decrepitude! We spent an hour and a half trying to catch up on the lost years, which of course wasn't nearly long enough, so the next plan is to meet up. That could be a problem, I'm rarely in the country or not writing, and she's a busy wife, mother, holiday letting person and grandma. But we will do it - and not before time!
The other nice thing that happened today was that I found out when Legacy will come out. For all my fans, that will be in May 2008 in hardback, October in paperback, in the UK. I suspect it will be the same sort of time in Australia as well.
So, I can relax, enjoy the sun while it's out - evidently we'll be losing it again on Friday and have yet more rain - and generally sort myself out for the next book. I have realised it will take acres of research, but that's what I enjoy. Putting the pieces of the puzzle together, weaving the tale, agonising over dates and ages....... Well, I enjoy most of it most of the time! I've had a nice day today - I hope you have too, and that tomorrow the sun will shine for you!

Dangerous Liaisons

2008-07-16T10:51:00.000-07:00

It's lovely being married, but there is a dangerous side to living with a man - as I have found to my cost. No, I'm not talking about wife-beating, divorce or nasty things like that. It's the few words he says as he bustles about with tools and diy. The most dangerous words any man can say to his woman is 'can you just hold this while I...'
I have learnt to my cost that I should ignore these words. For they are the cause of my slipped disc. Him indoors denies it, of course. Well, he would wouldn't he. But it is an indisputable fact that if I hadn't held onto the shed roof while he messed about, I would be in this state now.
I never realised how heavy shed roofs are until asked to hold one up while he aligned it. To the right a tad, no left. Up, woman, for goodness sake, I can't line up the screws. Never mind me, wedged against the other shed, arms trembling with the sheer weight of the blasted thing, knees shuddering and threatening to collapse under me. To the right, no up a bit, now left. Hold it. Hold it. I can't. It's too heavy. But I can't let go of it either or it will decapitate me and I have nowhere to run to avoid it - wedged as I am between the old shed and the new one.
He takes for ever to screw in screws, find the hammer, something to stand on etc., while I sweat and strain and generally lose all ability to stand upright. My arms are dropping off. This is worse than the gym!
Finally it is done. 'You can let go now.'
I gingerly let go, expecting any minute for the whole darn thing to come plummetting down - I know him indoors' diy capabilities, and they are legendary (unfortunately for all the wrong reasons.) It stays up! Amazing. But I can hardly walk back down the garden to the house because my knees are sagging and my poor arms are still trembling.
The thing about backs is they don't always go when you expect them to. It was five days later when mine decided to pay me back for being so stupid to hold up a roof at my age - any age is a daft thing really. It went with all the suddenness of a summer lightning strike. My back went into spasm, locking me absolutely brilliantly into twelve hours of hell. The surgeon had me xrayed and zapped in a tube - very odd experience, not helped by the fact the chap in charge forgot to turn on the headphones so I couldn't hear the music, just the rather disconcerting heartbeat of the machine and its rattle and groans.. Anyway, as I was saying, the surgeon decided my disc had slipped and I had visions of something askew in my spine which could be manipulated back.
Wrong. It isn't really slipped at all - it has been squashed, and all the gooey stuff inside has come out and attached itself to the sciatic nerves and anything else that dared to be in the same vicinity at the time. Lovely. Just what you need when you're about to fly off to Australia for an award ceremony!!!!
The surgeon arranged for the operation to deal with this slippage - or seepage - or whatever it is, but there's a problem. The recovery time is six weeks. My flight goes four weeks and he won't let me get in a plane! The answer was to cancel the op. I'll have it when I get back.
I hasten to reasure you, should you care, that I'm no longer in pain thanks to steroid tablets. My chin has remained hairless and my voice is still quite girly, but the pain has gone, and now, I can manage the discomfort with a pain killer in the morning. As long as I don't stand for too long, or walk to far and not lift anything remotely heavy, I can cope.
So, the long and short of it is, if him indoors says to you, 'can you just hold this?' RUN!!! It's what I should have done.

Hair yesterday - gone today and other stuff

2008-06-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

I've done something today that usually frightens the life out of me. I went to a new hairdresser. Now you might think that that's really silly to be frightened of someone wielding a pair of scissors - but it's not. Hairdressers are notorious for cutting off too much - turning a fringe into a pelmet and hacking away at the back where you can't see until she whips out a mirror and says, what do you think? By then it's too late. The tresses are gone, the neck is bare and my face is visible to all. A scary thought. I like to really know my hairdresser - to be secure in the knowledge she is listening to me, knows what I want and does as I ask. So a new one is a terrifying ordeal. She has to be trained into my way of thinking. Has to know my particular foibles, as well as my follicles (is that how you spell it? It's too late to dig out the dictionary now) and generally pamper to my every whim. I'm not usually bossy, but I've had the odd - very odd - ghastly experience of hairdressers, so approaching a new member of the sisterhood is a daunting prospect.
But I should not have feared - and here, Chris, I give you my apologies for being unfaithful to you - but when the grey has come through in six inch tramlines along the top of my head, there is no other solution but to try and find a suitable replacement! For those of you in the dark, Chris is a brilliant hairdresser - but she lives in Cornwall, and as I had a bad back last time I was there and couldn't take advantage of her brilliant services, I've had to resort to finding a more local expert. It seems I was worrying needlessly. My hair has been beautifully cut, coloured and generally beautified from the previous sunbleached, tangled mess it was, and I feel so much better that I can actually face my reflection in a mirror. It's been a while.
Other news. Him indoors is going to be a grandfather again - and it's another girl. She will be born when we are in Australia celebrating my eldest son's birthday - but Christmas will be enhanced with her arrival.
Our new cat, Tilly is sitting on my lap, trying to help me write this blog. Not helpful at all. She can not only not spell, but she can't type either, and if I dare to try and get her off the keyboard, she swears at me. Nice. Nothing like snarling at the hand that feeds, cossets, strokes and fusses. Why do I love cats so much when actually they are selfish, stuck up, and generally antisocial except when they want to be?
My second son lives in Thailand and his sister is visiting him at the moment. He's broke as usual, but I seem to have become deaf to pleas of poverty. He's fallen off his scooter so can't do his diving at the moment and is scratching a living by teaching others to take underwater films - I suppose scratching is the wrong word really, as he's managed to scrape a good deal of his skin off on the rubble that's called a road in Koh Tao! Now he's moaning that his sister has brought the rain - I hate to tell him, but I thought it was monsoon season anyway!? I could be wrong.
Better go, talking rubbish and it's late, and I have to get everything done tomorrow morning nice and early so I can lounge about all afternoon and watch the tennis at Wimbledon. It's a terrible time waster, tennis at Wimbledon, but it wouldn't be summer without it. That and strawberries and cream. Some things are so British and so delicious they are impossible to resist. Good night!

Don't get it right, get it written!!!!

2008-06-19T15:02:00.000-07:00

The above is an old writing adage which holds true today as it ever did. I find that if I crash through my stories from beginning to end and lay down the skeleton of the tale as quickly as possible, it makes the whole thing far more exciting - to write, and hopefully to read. Legacy is now finished - or at least I thought it was - my agent has decided otherwise and needs me to do a bit of tweaking before it goes off to my editor. Ho, hum, looks like it's work for me over the coming days, it's a good thing the weather forecast is bad and that my back has become accustomed to my typing chair again. It was murder a few weeks ago, couldn't sit, couldn't stand, couldn't even get into bed and lie down without a great deal of drama and being propped up by 'im indoors. He's fast becoming a legend, you know. People are always asking after him - and he's threatened to start up his own blog in competition. I've told him to go ahead - anything's better than him crashing into mine and messing the whole thing up like last time! Lovely he might be, kind certainly, but he's no computer buff, and I always know when he's been experimenting.
Anyway, with Legacy almost under my belt, my thoughts have now turned to what I am going to do next. It's a puzzle, and not an easy one. Should I continue with the Australian historical romances - should I set the new one firmly in England - or should I start it in England and end up in Australia? There seems to be a problem in the UK with books set in Australia - the supermarkets and larger bookshops don't like them - I have no idea why - so consequently, I'm not very well known over here. If I write a book set in England, will that at last see me breaking into the bestseller list here - or will it alienate all my readers who love the books set in Australia. It's a conundrum - and one I have yet to solve. Ideas on a postcard please - or better still, write to me here and let me know what you think.

A Day at the Races

2008-06-19T14:48:00.001-07:00

It's that time of year again, and bad back or not, I was not going to miss Ascot. We went on the first day, Tuesday, and i'm indoors drove us there to meet our friends - much more sensible than last year - and we arrived on time! The weather held up, sunny with enough breeze to make it pleasant, and I had recycled the hat from last year by adding lots of silk flowers. Rather resembled Eliza Doolittle, but hey, why not? It is summer after all and the sun was shining. The back is still bad, so I had a pair of flat, sparkly sandals tucked away in my handbag just in case the wedges got too much. I know I shouldn't have been wearing heels at all, but they were solid, and actually held up really well until the very end of the day. Then I reverted to being Tasmanian and off they came. The grass felt wonderfully cool on bare feet!
I managed to win a couple of quidlettes on the horses as well, although Frankie Detorri let me down by not coming in the first three - how dare he - but I was still down on the day. I'm not a gambler, the most I ever put on a horse is a pound each way on the National and The Melbourne Cup - but as I was at Ascot, could see the horses and watch the odds, I went mad. Five quid each way - talk about reckless!!!!
Lots of champagne, good food, good company and an easy drive home meant the day went well, and although my back suffered the next morning by being a little stiff, no real harm done!
I'm off for an MRI scan tomorrow so the specialist can see just what I've actually done to myself, then he can decide how to put it right. Keep everything crossed I don't need an op!
We finally managed to get to the garden centre today to sort out bedding plants for all those empty pots and hanging baskets - it's a bit late in the season really, but we had a lovely sunny afternoon, 'im indoors carried anything heavy, swore and went pink around the ears trying to put a sun lounger together and generally made himself useful. Love him. I know how frustrated he's getting with me being off form, but he's trying so hard not to lose it - I can forgive him a bit of a swear-up over the sun lounger - the instructions were in Chinese, and the diagrams were absolutely no help at all.
I am writing this late at night because there's rubbish on the tv, football, football, football and repeat programmes - lovely - there are moths coming through the open window, the cat, Tilly is scratching frantically at the door and it's really my bed time. Tilly by the way is gorgeous, running to greet me every morning the minute she hears me up and about, sitting on my lap when I'm working - which isn't as much fun because she thinks she knows how to touch type - and generally endearing herself to me. Now I realise that cupboard love comes into this, she's being fed, loved and sheltered properly for the first time in her life and wants to keep things that way, but I like to think she likes me just a little, and I'm sure if her purring is anything to go by, she likes me quite a lot!
I'd better go, I'm rambling. Wish me luck for tomorrow. I have my flight booked for Melbourne in August, and I don't want to miss it.

Back in the Driving Seat

2008-06-11T15:13:00.000-07:00

It's amazing isn't it? One bad back, six weeks of agony and a week of steroids and 'im indoors decides he's the blogger, author - general factotem! He even tells you my biggest piece of news before I can get my poor old bottom back in my chair! So now you know about the nomination and the fact that we're off to Australia in August - not really looking forward to the twenty three hours of flying - not with this back - but I wouldn't miss it for the world. And he's right, the art gallery is brilliant in Melbourne, and I can't wait to see McCubbin's Pioneers again. I have a large print of that tryptic on my wall in my lounge-room, and gaze at it frequently. It is so evocative, so beautiful that one feels you could just walk into it and smell the eucalyptus and the woodsmoke.
Enough of all that. I've had my hair cut and it's very short - too short really, but then I did risk a new hairdresser - always scary - and it will grow again. The one good thing about a bad back is that I've had plenty of time to sit in the sun and get a tan. Not politically correct really, but I feel better when I'm bronzed, and like to think I might even look a bit better too. The upshot is I can now wear orange and turquoise, and even yellow - colours not usually worn when pale and uninteresting in the winter.
The cats have settled in - just. We still have punch-ups in the middle of the night with fury felines doing the wall of death around the bedroom and up and down the stairs. But it's fun - some of the time. Tilly has decided she doesn't like the catflap and will only use it if him indoors opens it up and keeps it open with a bit of elastic so she doesn't have to put her nose against it and push her way through. Very lady-like - which is more than I can say about her language. Poor Bluey, he's quite shocked at her swearing, and when she's really wound-up, it is appalling!
Back to bed now. Will write again soon.

In Sickness and in Health.....

2008-06-11T08:54:00.000-07:00

Hi there, it's 'm indoors writing a quick note on 'er upstairs behalf. Poor dear, she's been in a lot of pain with a suspected slipped disc for the last six weeks and can't sit at her workdesk for very long. And it's all been happening just at this most inconvenient time.
First the good news, 'Lands Beyond the Sea' has been shortlisted for the Romantic Novel of the Year in Oz so as it's the first time the old girl has been nominated for anything - apart from the oldest swinger in town -we have decided to make another journey to the other side of the world this year and see what it's all about. Melbourne in winter, that could be fun, even in summer you can get all four seasons in a day but we do love the city itself and it will give us a chance to visit their wonderful art gallery once more.
The bad news? Well, apart from Tam's back I suppose there isn't any. We will miss most of our August break with friends in Cornwall and I do have to go on a boozy weekend in France on my own but if we can repair Tam's back and the pain killing steroids don't result in her growing a beard then the future looks bright. Here's hoping she will be back to write the blog herself very soon so I can get on with the important work of writing lists of jobs which I probably won't ever do.

Mexican Stand off.

2008-04-28T02:55:00.000-07:00

We have a new cat, her name is Tyler, but we've decided to call her Tilly. She's six, a tabby with a sweet nature and great big green eyes. She's not very lady-like, her language is quite shocking, and poor old Blue, my ginger tom, is not impressed. She swears at him like a tart on a street corner whenever he dares to approach the food bowl, blanket, her chair, or even the stairs, and he eyes her with disdain and slinks off. Poor old boy, he used to be king of the lane where we live, and he's been usurped by an uppity upstart!
They have settled down - sort of. She sleeps on the spare bed, he sits outside the door, thereby asserting his bossiness by not letting her out of the room. If she's in our bedroom, he sits at the top of the stairs cutting off her escape route. He hadn't really taken into consideration the fact that she's female, very indipendant and absolutely free with her language and her claws. They've agreed to disagree, so it's a start I suppose.
But it's lovely to have a cat, especially a tabby female, who loves being picked up and cuddled, who enjoys my company and will sit on my lap for hours. The only time I don't appreciate her - or Blue, is at night. Two days after her arrival, they were both on our bed. We were asleep, it was four in the morning. Tilly decided she wanted to see what Blue was doing on the other side of him indoors, and POW KAPOW - cat fight on the bed, tooth, claw and fur flying all over the place. A quick rampage around the room, two cats doing the wall of death before they shoot out and down the stairs. The cat-flap rattling in their wake. Talk about a wake up call!
They don't do that any more thank goodness. I need my sleep.

The Moment I've been waiting for

2008-04-28T02:42:00.000-07:00

That's it, I've finally written those magic two words - The End - on part three, Legacy. It happened on Wednesday, quite by surprise really. I knew I was close, but didn't realise it was that close. Now that may seem strange to you, but it's the way it happens sometimes. The characters have done and said all they need to, the strands of the plots have all come together, the mysteries solved - there's nothing left but to say goodbye and move on.
It's a sad moment, although it is also a triumph. Ihave never written a trilogy before and it was a mammoth task and a very steep learning curve, but I've done it! It's over bar the shouting - ie, editing, mucking about and having it come back and forth from the publishers to tweak. I'm free for at least three days - then it's on to the next project. I have four lined up at the moment, and know which I'm going for. It's a bit like a kid outside the window of a sweet shop, mouthwatering, heart pounding, already tasting the delicious wares that are displayed. This of course wears off when I'm in the middle of the book and I've hit a snag, got a block, too much going on to concentrate and huge doubts as to my ability to carry it off. But this is where the characters come in. They bully me and chide me and shove me back into my chair so their stories can be finished - I've left them hanging you see, and they don't like it - and neither do I. It's unfinished business. But those characters become very real as I write my stories, and when it is time to leave them behind and meet new friends, it is hard to forget them.
I can hear you sniggering and thinking she's off her rocker, and I fully accept that I'm probably not at all normal. It's a bit like being a schitsophrenic - is that how you spell it? I don't know, but I can't be bothered to reach for the dictionary - I'm off on holiday from writing - anyway, as I was saying, I have a lot of characters racing about in my head, and I know them all intimately, so that probably does make for a split personality!!!!!
So I've finished Legacy, it's sitting here in a box on my desk, waiting for that moment when I read it through and start cutting it down. My editor swears I'm the cause of her hernia, for my manuscripts are always hefty.
The sun is shining, the birds are singing, and I have a new cat. Well, she's not new, she's six, but she's a rescue tabby and utterly gorgeous, and will sit on my lap and purr, and even try to put her own paw on my writing while I'm at the computer. Makes for some very strange wording, but hey, she needs to express herself, just as I do. More about her in another blog. For now, I have raised my glass in salute of Legacy and am planning to just mooch about, do a bit of housework - which him indoors hates - and plot the next project. Him indoors hates it when I'm not writing, I tidy up and get ratty when I have to pick up eight pairs of his shoes which he's left scattered about the house - and don't even start me on the laundry basket. Why can't men put things in it, instead of dropping them next to it? Same goes for the dishwasher - oh well, take a deep breath and just let life flow. The End.

follow up to reunion

2008-04-14T05:42:00.000-07:00

I'm glad I made someone laugh, but the truth be told I was crying inside too most of the time. Boarding school is hard enough anyway, but when you've been dumped in a foreign country among girls you don't know or understand, and then have a headmistress who hates you on sight, then it makes for a lonely few years. I made some wonderful friends, who must have been exhausted by my bad behaviour at school - and I was bad - but I think I just wanted to be noticed, to make any kind of impression as long as I wasn't ignored. I'm still doing it!
I was different you see, not only because I spoke with a strange Aussie accent, but because I lived with my grandmother - I was illegitimate - shock horror, plague to all who enter there! But that was the atmosphere in those days, and if I'd known that the headmistress was sending letters to parents warning them of my bad influence and the chances of their daughters being tainted by having friendship with such a terrible person, I probably would have sued. I still may! It's a good thing I was an innocent abroad in those days - these days I'm just a broad and my innocence was murdered years ago - so watch out! I will return, and boy, am I going to make you take notice!

Reunion

2008-04-13T04:33:00.000-07:00

As our school was pulled down many years ago - probably due to the calibre of student that went there - the headmistress was in constant despair, I seem to remember - we decided to have a reunion to celebrate the fact we had reached a significant birthday, and the fact we are all still alive and have mostly all our marbles, it should be celebrated.
It was quite exhausting trying to track various people down. Many of us have moved abroad, had several husbands, changed our names, decided we want nothing to do with our old school, or the people who went there. But the networking was magnificent, and we had letters from those who couldn't come, emails and phone calls as well, but the majority of our year did turn up, and it was great fun to discover who looked the same - and who didn't. We had drinks, lots of them, in a nice hotel bar, then went into lunch and had more drinks, then coffee, then back into the bar - and yes, you've guessed it, more drinks. Then there was cake and champagne. Photos were hauled out of handbags and laughed over, fingers pointing, who the hell is that? I don't remember, yes, someone on the other side of the room knows who it is, and so on. There were the usual reminiscenses about our days in the torture chamber of our school, and the general consencus was that most of the staff were unqualified old spinsters who had nothing better to do with their days, that only a few should have been allowed to be in charge of young girls, and that if the same sort of things went on in a school today, they would have been sued!!!! 'elf and safety would have had a field-day.
I was reminded that I was always in trouble. Every morning at assembly the cry went up and I was hauled into the headmistresse's study to receive my daily telling off, accept my daily incarceration in the library to learn my daily section of the Bible. I used to know the bit about 'a time to be silent, and a time to speak,' but thankfully have blanked it from my brain.
I was also reminded that I was different, with an odd Aussie accent, which added to my behaviour made me a bit of oddity - but they hadn't realised how lonely I was, how depressed to be shut in that awful place with girls who couldn't understand me, and who I couldn't understand. It was a long time before I began to make some real friends, but it was worth it, for they are still friends today, and it was interesting to hear their take on things.
After cake and champagne, we decided to forego supper before the theatre, and managed to stagger down to the congress theatre to see Voulez Vous, an Abba tribute band. A bit naff, yes, the audience suitably attired in some very strange outfits. but actually it was brilliant, and we were soon up and dancing to the tunes that even the younger generations seem to like. Having worn ourselves out, we then went off to an italian restaurant for supper, got chatted up by the waiters and staggered back to the hotel. I was asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. I had a lovely day, and I hope that if anyone is reading this who was there, feels the same way.

A new Arrival

2008-04-13T04:25:00.001-07:00

No, I haven't had a baby - too long in the tooth thank goodness. But Bluey, the ginger tom which has featured in my books in various disguises, has a new playmate. Actually, he's singularly unimpressed, even though she's a beautiful tabby with yellow eyes and a deep purr. He sits and looks at her, his tail flicking ever so slightly at the tip, eyes narrowed, nose raised in a sneer as she swears and spits and hisses at him, eats from his bowl and tries to sit in his favourite chair. He puts up with it all, walking away with a strut to show he couldn't care less, but then she made a big mistake, and he had to put her in her place.
Bluey is supposed to be my cat, but he adores him indoors, and at night insists upon sleeping on the pillow, or on his shoulder. Tilly, my new arrival and the second female person in this house to redress the balance, decided she wanted to see what him indoors was dreaming about, and proceeded to walk over him to investigate. Bluey was in usual position on pillow, Tilly trod on him, and at five oclock in the morning we had a full-blown cat fight going on on our duvet. Claws and fur flew, hissing, growling and yowling, then a hectic dash out of the room, Tilly going hell for leather down the stairs, Bluey stopping on the landing and metaphorically dusting his paws as if to say that saw to her!
But she has used her charm on him, and being gorgeous, has deigned to let him sleep on the front bedroom bed in the sun. We found them at opposite ends of the bed, both stretched out and purring, pretending the other didn't exist.
There's a litter box in the kitchen, umpteen bowls of dry food, wet food, water, the odd few prawns and bits of chicken, as well as a cat basket. I'll be glad when the two weeks are up and we let let her out - dirt trays aren't pleasant at the best of times.

All work and no play

2008-04-13T04:03:00.000-07:00

Hello, sorry I've been lax in writing my blog, but I've been writing. Yes, I know, it's about time I hear you shout - all I seem to do is swan about on cruise ships and shoot off to Cornwall. But I do work, and when I do I am fully occupied.
To give you some idea of my working day. I have a gallon of coffee and do the soduko, read the paper, make the bed and fill the dishwasher. Dishwashers are a brilliant invention, the kitchen looks tidy in a tick, and I don't know any working woman can live without one. Having woken up it's about nine thirty - I'm not an early riser, preferring to stay up until three in the morning, hence the inability to get up a few short hours later - it's into my office. This is a spare bedroom in my home, which overlooks a line of trees on the top of a hill, a bit of a paddock where there are two shetland ponies grazing, and a chicken run. This chicken run used to be a nuisance, because it contained a rooster who got far too big for his boots and was shouting at two in the morning and was still at it a four in the afternoon. Needless to say he has be removed and is now living a pleasant rural life in another part of Sussex where we can't hear him.
Talking of roosters, no sooner had that one gone than another appeared in next doors garden - talk about over-egging things - sorry for the pun, but you have to admit, it's not bad for a Sunday morning when I've a bit of a hangover. I digress, which I do often - the second rooster has now joined the first, which is a relief to all.
My office isn't very big, but there's a large desk under the window, a proper typing chair and two walls completely covered in bookshelves. A lot of the books are my own, issues from foreign publishers which they give me - the rest are folders and files to do with writing, reference books, atlases, dictionaries, picture books, geography, plant life, trees, flowers and animals, and of course loads of stuff on Aboriginal Dreamtime, customs and rituals etc. There isn't any central heating in this room, I don't know why, we just never got around to it, but I do have the old nursery heater I used when my children were small and this is perfectly adequate. I am surrounded by pictures of Australia, bits of pottery from Cornwall, bronze statues of shearers and drovers and loads of fake flowers. They're easier to keep than real ones and don't die on me.
Having read fan mail and email and done all my other admin, I settle down to work. I usually read over what I'd done on the previous day, edit it, bin it, or think, yes, that worked, and then get on with the next bit. I have to stop now and again to look up something, or read reams of information of which I will need only a sentence, and then carry on. Him indoors supplies coffee, pot noodle etc., and sometimes unwanted company. There's nothing worse than being in full flow when someone creeps in and lurks behind you. Love him, but I wish he'd go and find something else to do.
Writing is my career, it's what I do - and is probably the only thing I do really well, even if I say so myself. So it is my work, and my livelihood, so it has to be treated with respect. I work Monday to Friday, from ten in the morning until six, and usually don't realise what the time is until him indoors enquires as to what we might be having for supper. Urrrrrrrrgh!
Weekends are sacrosanct, it's when I catch up with friends, go down the pub and generally behave like a hooligan. It's incredible when you realise the bush telegraph works just as well in Sussex as it does in the Outback. I went and had dinner in the local pub, had rather too many glasses of very nice wine, and by nine fifteen the next morning, someone who lives at least fifteen miles away, phoned me up and told me I'd been seen staggering home. Not good, but hey, I was on a night off.
So work. I am writing the last of the Oceana Trilogy now, and it's tough going. Having to round up all the story lines, keep the balls in the air so to speak, and make sure I haven't left any loose ends, means I have to really concentrate. I have idiot cards on my desk with my characters' names, ages, eye colour and hair, and who they are married to, and the names of their children - it's funny, I always forget what colour their eyes are! With the trilogy I also have to have a family tree, and that wasn't easy, because I'm dealing with three families and their affairs and the progeny of said affairs. I would have liked to include the tree in the book, but if I did that it would give the plot away - so hopefully I've kept it simple and the reader won't be too confused.
At the end of my working day I usually go downstairs, cook supper, feed cats, empty dirt tray, tidy up the mess him indoors has made during the day and collapse in front of the tve to watch whatever rubbish is on. Bedtime means reading someone elses book until I fall asleep.
That's about it. better get on, I've thought of another blog.

Some like it Hot

2008-03-03T07:06:00.000-08:00

Hi there, so sorry I've been remiss at doing my blog, but life has been hectic, and him indoors whisked me away on a cruise to celebrate a rather significant birthday. Lucky me, it was the perfect excuse to down tools, go shopping for posh frocks and shoes and indulge in fantasies of dancing in the moonlight and being the belle of the ball.
It didn't quite work out like that, the first two night on board it was freezing cold and blowing a gale - as for the moonlight, it was being a great many clouds. But that's what happens when you sail from a wintry New York. New York, Broadway, Manhatten skyline against the rising sun, The Statue of Liberty rising up over the bay in imperious majesty, and the shops, Times Square and the Empire State building. Magic. Not enough time, too many shops, too much of everything to take it all in at once. My feet hurt, him indoors got a pain in the wallet and all in all we had a whale of a time.
Our liner - not a ship, and definitely not a boat according to the Commander, was HUGE! When we docked next to the Oceana - how's that for coincidence - we dwarfed her. But as we prepared to leave BArbados, and the band struck up to get the party going, we sang along with those on the other ship as they waved their flags and saw us off the premises. What a blast - had far too many cocktails, and managed to show myself up by doing belly dancing in my sarong and swimsuit - probably not a pretty sight - in fact I know it wasn't because the photographer on board captured the moment!
So I'm back, A Kingdom for the Brave is due out today in hardback, and it's down to work again on Legacy. But I dream of warm nights and white sand, of moon over water and the gentle rock of the liner that sent me to sleep each night. I like it hot - I just hope summer isn't too far away.

PS another thought

2008-01-31T16:39:00.000-08:00

I've had another thought. This writing lark is fine all the while the muse has kicked in - but writers are funny mortals, we have feelings - doubts - worries - uncertainties that we are doing it as well as we should be - and that is a killer. Sitting here, with a blank screen and the cursor blinking, almost daring us to put the first word up is a scary thing. But we carry on doing it. Braving that cursor - daring to believe that what we have to say might actually be interesting, entertaining - even educational or debatable. And do you know why? It's because we're driven. No, not to drink, although the odd gin and tonic does help - we are driven by the need to write, to express ourselves in an imaginary world, where lives unfold, and characters battle with their problems. It's odd, isn't it? Some people take up fishing or stamp collecting - but my hobby - my reason for being here, is to write. And I just can't stop. So, forgive me if I witter on - I'm an author, a story-teller and weaver of tales. I write by the seat of my pants, with only a vague idea of where the story will end. But my characters tell me, they lead me along by the nose. In fact, I have communication with them when I try to take charge, and they put me very firmly in my place. For this is their story, their lives that I am writing about, and although you'll probably think I've lost my marbles, it's true. Stay safe, Tamara

New Year Blues, Reds, Champagne and Rose

2008-01-31T16:14:00.000-08:00

Hi, yes, I know it's been a while, but a girl has to do what a girl has to do, and the season of good will is not always aimed at MEN! Apart from cooking lunch, entertaining him indoors' family and generally being a domestic goddess and sex symbol, I've had to put up with a bad back, throat virus and face ache - and it ain't pleasant, believe me!
The good news is that the celebrations (?) were eased by copious amounts of wine, mostly white and sparkling, but occasionally pink when I was feeling particularly girly. The back is good now, just the odd twinge which I can ignore - the virus has gone, the face ache has cleared up, and although I look like Dracula's grandmother, I feel okay. Actually, okay isn't a good word, it's sort of mediocre isn't it? I feel fine - the diet is going well, I can get into that skinny little black dress and when I have the full make-up on I look passable in a good light as long is it's gaslight - or candlelight. You get the drift.
Anyway, I'm sitting here after spending a lovely evening with a girlfriend, in which we drank far too much Jacobs Creek pink wine - we were feeling girly - and talking nonsense all evening. You know, the usual thing, men, children, the vagaries of men, the house, our careers, what bastards men could be given half the chance - the usual thing. Funnily enough, shoes and chocolate never entered the conversation. We must save those topics for another time.
So, how was Christmas and the New Year? It was fine - I survived - and that has to be a good thing - a bonus - because few people will honestly admit they enjoy the season of so-called good will etc. New Year was fun, we were in Cornwall at a fancy dress party. Well, where else would you get a fairy, the phantom of the opera, Elvis, Maid Marion, a cowboy, a nun and the snow queen all in one place? It was a riot, and I bet you can guess who was the snow queen. ME!!!! I just love wearing lots of bling, and I had so much on it was quite blinding - and I actually thought I looked really good in that silver wig - but then I sobered up and realised there was no way one could go with a trolley around tesco in such a get-up! I might frighten someone.
So, here I am - I think I said that before - but I'm in my office, it's past midnight, I've had a drink or ten and thought I'd better catch up. Because I have it on good authority that certain people - Lindsey, I know it's you - are keeping a check on me. Him indoors has left me. Not permanently, just for four days. He's gone to Cornwall so I can have some peace and quiet to write, and I have been writing up a storm, and will probably continue after I've finished this. If there's one thing I've learnt over the years, it's that if you're on a roll, keep going until you fall off the end of the cliff.
Him indoors has been doing work to the cottage in Cornwall - he gets terribly bored if the weather decides not to play ball - and it hasn't this time - so he's been to the pub - several times, and this evening he met up with some people from Ross on Wye. They had attended a rather jolly funeral, judging by their demeanour, and had scattered ashes on a beach before adjourning to the Salutation Pub in Looe. Him indoors knows Ross on Wye, evidently, struck up a conversation and several pints later staggered home to the arms of Digby and Lins - who then poured unsolicited wine down his reluctant throat while holding his arms behind his back. The poor man - I can see it now - the torture!!!!
Anyway, here I am. I've said that twice now, and it's getting boring. I've worked my socks off for the past four days, not eaten much, which is brilliant for the diet - the house is TIDY - there are no shoes in the hall, lounge, kitchen, back door, front door and half way up the stairs. The laundry basket is empty. But the cat has just pooed in the hall. Welcome home Tamara - you knew he would do it one day - and tonight was the night!
So, tomorrow I'm going to sit and write until my arms drop off. NO. I'm going out again to another girlfriend's for lunch. You see, the life of the author is not always about shutting themselves away and battling with the muse - it's about getting out there, finding some stimulation and companionship - then I can write. Oh, boy, you're going to love the next book! So cheers to you, happy new year and have a good one. I certainly shall.

christmas news the way it really is!

2007-12-20T04:10:00.000-08:00

Carol’s Christmas News
I would have texted this, but the doctor said I’ve got to rest my thumbs, ‘cos my wrists are so painful I can barely open my giro without taking a valium first. Still, it means I can claim disability for a while, and the nice bloke down at the DSS helped me fill in all the right forms so I could get everything I’m entitled to. We’ve become good friends over the years, and he always sees me right when the old man’s away – and he’s been away for nearly five years, so it’ll be lovely to have him home again in February.
So, here we are with another year gone and a new one on the way. And what a year it’s been. As you all know, we had to move from the old flat because we were being victimised by the neighbours. This new estate is much nicer, with a big car-park so the kids can race their cars and meet up for a drink and a bit of mischief in the evenings, and a play-ground for the little kiddies where the Rotties can go and do their business in the sand-pit. So much easier than me having to drag them out a couple of times a day.
The older kids had a lovely bonfire on the fifth of November, with fireworks and everything. It was just unfortunate that they set fire to the community centre, but the fire brigade came and put it out eventually, so no real harm done.
The new flat is a bit small, but ever so nice, and the social has kitted it out lovely with a leather suite, new curtains and carpets and a fridge and washing machine so I don’t have to go all the way downstairs to the laundry. If any of you come up to Brixton, then pop in for a fag and a coffee. We’re on the fifteenth floor, and the lift’s always out of order, but the exercise is keeping me fit, and I managed to get into that leather mini-skirt again. You know the one – pink, with the slit up the front – my Harry will be ever so pleased when he gets out, he always liked that skirt.
I’m ever so proud of our Wayne. Not only did he organise that firework party, but he’s finally got an ASBO. He was feeling really left out, ‘cos all his mates have got one, and now he’s strutting about like a turkey cock, and there’s talk of him being the leader of his little gang. Bless him. He does remind me of his dad.
The twins, Charlene and Kylie, left school in the summer, and they’ve both got really good jobs in Soho. They’ve grown into lovely girls and their boss, Mr Smith – who owns several establishments in the area – is very pleased with them. I always knew those gymnastic lessons would lead to something, and it’s amazing what they can do with those poles. But I do worry that they’ll catch a chill in those skimpy costumes, you know what girls are like – won’t be told. Just like me at that age!
Dean is coming along with his art, and we’re all really proud of him. He did a fantastic murial on the estate walls and the railway underpass, but I had to spend three hours down at the cop-shop the other week trying to persuade them that his artistic talents should be encouraged – but they wouldn’t listen. He’s due in court in the new year, and his probation officer isn’t being at all helpful.
Apart from having Harry home soon, my other best news is that Shaz is having another baby. We can’t wait to see if it’s a little brown one, but we hope so, ‘cos that’s what she’s always wanted after having the other three. Leroy seemed such a nice bloke after the awful plonkers she’s been with before, so it was a shame he turned out to be married – but Shaz doesn’t seem to mind, and she’s got lots of other men friends calling round to the flat, so I reckon she’ll cope. Some of them are ever so generous. Her flat’s like a little palace and she’s got a wardrobe full of clothes. Her headmaster said she wouldn’t amount to much, but I reckon she’s done all right for herself, seeing that she’s only sixteen.
We’re having a real family Christmas this year – just a pity Harry won’t be here – but then he’s missed so many one more won’t hurt. The twins’ dad is coming up from Portsmouth, Wayne’s dad is bringing the booze he got cheap from some warehouse, and Shaz will bring the kids. Dean and me will visit Harry – they do a lovely spread on Christmas Day, but we won’t stay too long because Wayne and his dad get up to all sorts of mischief if left for too long, and I don’t fancy coming home to a burnt-out flat, not now I’ve got it so nice.
I hope you’ve enjoyed my news, and that you all have a lovely Christmas and a happy new year. I’ll text you when my wrists are better.
Cheers, Carol

Seasonal Greetings

2007-12-20T03:54:00.000-08:00

Hi there, long time no see, but the back is still playing up and him indoors is getting rather fed up with the whole thing. Poor chap has to lift things, hoover and dust - on the orders of my physiotherapist, and generally has to do all the dogsbody stuff I usually cope with at this time of the year. The supermarket has become a wonderland for him, but I do have to watch what goes in that trolley otherwise we'll end up with too much booze and no food!
It's very awkward being out of shape with one hip protruding to the left, the ribcage off to the right and my head telling me that yes, I am upright and straight - but hey, after the first hour in the mornings when the whole mess of muscles in my back decide to go into cramp, I ease up and so do they and I can hobble about. But everything has a silver lining and I am ensconsed on the couch with a large gin and tonic while him indoors sweats over the dinner and falls over the cat. Bluey just loves prawns and turkey and chicken and everytime the fridge door is opened, he's there, waiting hopefully. Him indoors spoils him rotten and I suspect that's the fourth packet of prawns he's smuggled in for Bluey's consumption. No wonder the pair of them are getting so portly!
Anyway, enough wingeing, it's nearly christmas, the tree is sparkling with lights and I've wrapped all the presents. with a house full of family it promises to be a happy one, so I wish you and yours a wonderful time, and I will speak to you in the New Year. With all best wishes for the season, Tamara

Fireworks are bad for backs

2007-12-04T05:03:00.000-08:00

Hello! Yes, I've not been writing this for a while and yes, I do have an excuse. You see I have a back - a bad back - or to put a finer point on it, I'm crippled and my hip has decided to go walkabout all on its own, sticking out in a most unbecoming fashion and making it almost impossible to walk. Him indoors has ideas of how to cure this problem - men are so predictable aren't they? Unfortunately if I tried doing what he suggests we could both be stuck for hours - not that he'd mind of course - but I feel it's undignified at my age, and what if we are discovered?
Anyway, I digress, as I'm wont to do. The back began on the night of November 5th, fireworks night, Guy Fawkes night, bedlam night, call it what you will. Him indoors suggested we go to a local bonfire do, but of course I had grander ideas and decided we hadn't been to Lewes in a while, so it was time we paid the place a visit. Now I should explain for those of you who have no idea what I'm talking about. Lewes is the sort of capital town of the county of Sussex. It is very old, with a castle on a hill and a very steep main street. There is a brewery in Lewes, which is why him indoors agreed to go in the first place, and this brewery has been there since about the fifteen hundreds. There is a giant chalk cliff on one side of the town, which overlooks a meandering river - which floods frequently and washes people and houses away - and lots of ancient old houses, shops and market squares. Right, so you get the picture.
November 5th is celebrated every year in Lewes, and it is customary for the different bonfire societies to burn effigies of people who have p***d them off during the past year. This can be as diverse as the pope - in memory of the bad old days when catholics were considered politically unsuitable - various politicians, Guy Fawkes himself or the odd bishop or two. This year Cherie Blair was chosen, and very fine she looked too!
These effigies are hauled up and down the streets by vast bands of people all dressed up in costumes as befits their particular bonfire society. There are marching bands, burning torches and burning barrels, and as a great deal of alcohol is imbibed, a great deal of noise.
Imagine, me and him indoors on a pavement which is thirty deep. Completely wedged in, the police are trying to push us further back because of the risk of going up in flames as the barrels and torches go past. I tell you what, if I'd been any closer to that man behind me, we would have had to get married!
The parade started - and went on for four hours. There were vikings with a viking ship, drumming bands, moors and their ladies, indians, both red and from Bombay (not really, they were Sussex people in costume) chinamen, african warriors, cowboys and canadian mounties - you name it, they were all there, and as the hours ticked by my back started to complain. Well it would, wouldn't it? I'd run out of alcohol, there was nowhere to sit, and despite the flat boots, my hips were starting to tighten up.
We finally escaped, only to discover we were again stuck because one of the biggest societies (about five hundred strong) were making their way past us again on their way to their bonfire site. Another hour. Getting thirstier - to the point I would accept water - that's how desperate it was. Then freedom. But the walk to the car took half an hour - we'd parked outside the town - and by the time I'd reached home all I wanted was a cup of coffee and a lie down. How the mighty are fallen - how age withers us and takes away the joys of life. I can remember (in my youth) of being in Lewes all night and not feeling a twinge of pain, and that wasn't due to the amount of gin imbibed either.
Three weeks down the line and I haven't been able to get straight, so it's off to the manipulator. It's most peculiar having to strip off to your underwear in front of a complete stranger - so many thoughts go through your head. Does my bum look big in these pants? Do they cover the essentials even when my left leg is being hauled up in the air? Is my bra see-through? Do my feet smell after wearing those boots to get here? But the thought uppermost, is - will it hurt? Yes, and no. He's very gentle and most polite when he asks if he may put his hand inside my knickers to get a feel of my back - but as it's all in a good cause I agree. I just want to be pain-free again, straight again. Christmas is coming and I've got shopping to do, food to prepare a house to clean.
Back from the chiropractor, and I've got to get on. Still crippled, but not as bad, and the pain is managed with pills - but the house is filthy because I've been writing and left it to him indoors whose idea of putting things away is storing them in the corner on the floor, or spreading acres of paper across the kitchen table - all in neat piles you understand, but very annoying.
Will write soon, but if you don't hear from me in a while, you'll know I've got better and have hit the shops. I love Christmas!

Taxi!

2007-10-16T07:59:00.000-07:00

Back again in England after a trip to Austria. Of course things didn't run as smoothly as they could have, but then that's not surprising - nothing ever does when I'm involved.
We left home and caught the train to London, stopping overnight to view a friend's art exhibition in Earl's Court - land of the Australians - or so I thought, the Italians and Greeks seem to have taken over - but never mind. After the debacle of the rugby world cup, I suspect most Aussies have crept out of sight until it is all over.
Anyway, I digress. The flight was on time, we got an upgrade to business which was great, so arrived in Vienna raring to go. A taxi should have come to pick us up, but we waited and waited - and carried on waiting and still there was no sign. A telephone call from him indoors who had come with me, informed us that we weren't on the taxi firm's list, so to catch a cab, keep the receipt and get the money back later. Some hope. I know the form, give the receipt to the cab firm and they will deny all knowledge - give it then to BA and they will say it is the cab firm's fault. We paid up anyway, and the receipt is still languishing in my handbag.
The hotel was very odd. The reception area was grand, as was the dining room and bar, but upstairs was a shock. The room we were given was long and narrow, with two single beds placed end to end down one wall. There was a bathroom, a wardrobe and a dressing table, with a window that opened directly out onto a busy street that had a sign pointing to Bratislava! I felt as if I'd returned to the dormitory of that nightmare called boarding school - but single beds meant I got a good night's sleep, because him indoors fidgets and snores and generally keeps me awake when we share a double.
We then discover this particular hotel is nowhere near the centre of Vienna, and that everything is shut. It is a strange phenomenon in Europe that the streets of towns seem to be deserted, we drove the length of France and Italy and barely saw a soul - and it was the same with this part of Vienna.
The next day we had to go by train to Tulln - a small town on the Danube (called the Donau in Austria for some reason) where I was scheduled to do a book signing. Him indoors decided it might be a nice idea to go earlier than planned, check out the hotel and town and then ring our friends who were going to meet us and tell them we had arrived.
The train journey was fast, on time, and the train itself was immaculate - why the hell can't BR take a leaf out of their book and at least try to appear to run a proper public transport system? Anyway, we arrive, with two large holdall, my handbag - which weighed about the same as the holdall, and one small bag which contained necessities like contact lenses, books, spare shoes, makeup - you get the drift. We exited the station, followed the sign we thought said taxis and kept walking. When we realised we were actually heading towards a park, we stopped and asked a couple of men the way. They were lounging outside the railway station which actually looked like a pub - their response was as helpful as if they'd been imbibing beer for the entire morning. They had no idea where the taxis were, hadn't heard of the hotel, and couldn't tell us where the road was where the hotel was sited.
Him indoors was getting very red in the face and pink around the ears by now. Those bags were heavy, he hadn't had a cigarette for over an hour and he was getting cross. We asked a woman with a bike, and luckily she seemed to be better informed about her town. With a mixture of halting German, pidgin English and lots of hand movements, him indoors decided he knew where we had to go and set off.
Half an hour, two roundabouts, one major road and a bewildering amount of street signs later, we see the bookshop which is supplying the books for that evening. We go in, get the most wonderful welcome, and a taxi is ordered to take us to the hotel. Bliss. My feet are killing me and my handbag is beginning to drag on my shoulder. Poor him indoors feels as though he's been weightlifting for the entire morning - and he has - you should have seen what I packed.
Well, you know what it's like, girls. A dress, a suit, a couple of jackets, trousers in case it's cold, shoes for walking, shoes for dancing, shoes that can only be worn when one is sitting down for long hours at a time but look fantastic.
Our taxi arrives, we get in and are immediately gassed by the driver's lack of hygiene. I long to open a window, but there is no handle and the driver has the switch up front. I try to hold my breath, but the journey's longer than I thought.
We arrive at the hotel, fall out of the cab, take a deep breath of fresh air - actually it's not that fresh, but better than in the cab, and stagger into the hotel with our bags, to find it is the most lovely place and the owners are delightful. Set on the banks of the Danube (Donau) it is newly refurbished, and our room is positively luxurious compared to the one we'd had the night before.
I don't want to explore the town - I want coffee and to put my feet up. Him indoors has left our friend's phone number and address at home in England, so has to look him up in the phone book. His announcement is greeted with horror - he had planned for someone to come and meet us at the allotted time, and the lady had even cleaned out her car in our honour. But never mind, he would come straight round on his bike, and then take us on a guided tour of the town.
We end up in a restaurant - where they still smoke - everyone smokes in Austria and there are ashtrays everywhere - so civilised. Strikes me as odd that we run around like headless chickens obeying EEC rules, when most of Europe don't take a blind bit of notice!
I digress. Brigitte is lovely - she is the lady who cleaned her car - she buys us lunch and takes us on the tour of the town and into the most amazing church. From the outside it is grand enough, but inside there is enough gold and murals and ceiling paintings to take your breath away.
Then it was back to the hotel, bath, change, make-up, posh frock and jacket, hair etc., to be picked up by Brigitte and taken to the evening venue. What a fabulous turn-out, and so many lovely people who were determined we should enjoy ourselves. Gerhard Fidler and his wife were great, and we got along well even though we couldn't understand a word either of us was saying, the bunch of flowers were magnificent, and the food that was laid out quite marvellous. I of course didn't have to speak, which I expect was a huge relief to everyone, but I did sign lots of books and managed to get understood by some. The wine for the evening was supplied by a reasonably local vineyard, and I can definitely recommend their chardonnay!
Next day, having recovered from the flashing of the cameras the night before, we said our goodbyes and got a cab to the station. The train took us back into Vienna, and we approached a taxi rank. Him indoors showed the driver the letter heading of the new hotel we would be staying in - and rather worryingly, the driver got out a large magnifying glass to read it! Yes, a magnifying glass - I know, it could only happen to us. We arrived safely, and he asked if we wanted him to wait just in case our booking wasn't confirmed - we assured him it was - he didn't look too certain - but he knew of a very nice hotel that he could book us into. We left the taxi and trailed into the hotel. Bliss, lovely room with balcony, a tram-ride away from the centre of Old Vienna. Twenty-four hours of doing as we please - shopping!
Vienna has lots of shops, all of them well known and mostly designer labelled - heaven for girls, not so much fun for our men. But at least he wasn't hauling heavy holdalls about. We were too late to see the Lippizana horses, but I reckon we managed to walk the length and breadth of old Vienna in those two days - our feet were proof of our labours!
The taxi was supposed to arrive at a quarter to five - this is the same firm who had lost us on their list when we arrived - this time we made sure we were on it and phoned them up beforehand. I digress - again! They were supposed to come at quarter to five. We had walked Vienna, were sitting down for coffee at four, and they turned up - hurry, hurry, must get to the airport. No chance to argue as our bags were loaded up and we were firmly shoved into our seats.
Arriving at the airport three hours early, we tried to get upgraded again, but BA were having none of it. The flight was then delayed - and again - and again - and five and a half hours later we flew out of Austria. I was hungry and so was him indoors, and when the smiling stewardess handed us a sandwich and a chocolate biscuit, we both stared at it in horror. Two glasses of wine eased our hunger pangs, but we weren't happy bunnies.
Arrival at Heathrow, caught the coach to Gatwick by the skin of our teeth. Arrival at Gatwick, missed the southern train by one minute and had to wait for an hour until the next one. It was now close to half past eleven at night, and we'd been on the move since four. I managed to feed him indoors with a cornish pasty to keep him quiet.
Arrived at our local station at five to one in the morning. Guess what? No bloody taxis!!!!!
Found the nearby taxi office, sat down and waited for three quarters of an hour for a taxi. Got home at one thirty in the morning - knackered, in need of coffee, food and sleep, not necessarily in that order. Fridge empty, milkman hadn't delivered milk - but the bed was made-up and looked most inviting.
Thank you Tulln for a wonderful chance to see your lovely town - my advice is to move that sign which seems to say taxi, and organise a rank outside the station. The people of Tulln are lovely, helpful and oh so nice, and we had a great time. But next time we visit we will go by car, then we can be assured of not having to walk everywhere!

winter warmer

2007-09-26T08:41:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in my office, waiting for inspiration. It's cold outside, actually, it's cold inside, because I have the window open. I could turn the heater on, but it's a bit early in the winter to do that, so I'll wait until I can't feel my feet and nose, and then do it.
I seem to have spent most of my writing life sitting in the cold. When I began this writing lark, way back in the dark ages of the late eighties, I was as poor as a church mouse, and couldn't afford to turn the heating on at all. I would sit at my desk wearing a very odd assortment of clothes - not fashionable, and certainly not sartorial - but they were WARM! Slippers, socks, leggings, trousers, two t-shirts, one jumper, a jacket, and a scarf, and if I was lucky, a warm purring cat on my lap to add to heat. Those were the days - actually, nostalgia isn't all it's cracked up to be - I was horribly miserable, cold and usually very hungry!
Why was I poor, I hear you ask - it is a long story, but suffice it to say I was in the middle of a divorce, bailiffs were banging on the door, not for me, but for HIM, the house was in negative equity and there was a recession on which meant I couldn't sell it because there were no buyers. Luckily for me I didn't have to feed, clothe and heat my children, for they had flown the nest and were living the life of Riley in London. One thing about poverty though, it keeps you slim, and boy, was I slim - but then I was on a baked potato and a bit of greenery once a day, so it's not surprising. Whoops, here comes that nostalgia again - if only I had the will power to avoid chocolate!!!!
Talking of chocolate, has anyone out there tried the Green and Blacks bitter cherry dark chocolate - heaven.
But I digress. Writing is what I do, and I prefer to do it in the winter. There are just too many distractions in the summer and spring, and my excuse is that although I appear to be lying on a beach, I am really doing all kinds of research in my head, plotting stories and dreaming up my characters and what they look like. When the first sign of autumn appears you will find me locked away here in my office, looking out of the window at the garden as leaves are blown from the trees and the horses in the paddock whinny in disgust as the sheep try to stand firm against the howling gale that threatens to bowl them over. I am not dressed in the rag-bag collection of those past years, but I have resorted to jumper and boots, and there's a coffee machine on the windowsill to keep me perked! Now all I have to do is WRITE. I do not have the company of a warm, purring cat, poor old Woosie is long gone and I miss him. Blue, his replacement is a surly sort of chap, with ginger and white fur and a bad attitude. He doesn't do laps - not unless it belongs to him indoors - and certainly regards spending any time in my office a great burden - unless he's nipped in overnight and nicked my chair to sleep in when it's raining outside. All in all, Blue is not the most sociable of cats, and although I love him, I have been seriously considering getting a female tabby to call my own. I feel outnumbered.
Must get on, the story awaits, my office grows colder and there's the promise of a bit of chocolate after supper as a treat for being so fabulous. I know, I know, but someone has to say it, and I'm sick of waiting for anyone else to do so. If you want a job done, do it yourself, is what I say. I'm off, the characters are waiting for me impatiently, as I've left two of them in the middle of the outback of Australia, two of them in the middle of an argument, and one of the children facing a dragon of a housekeeper. Bye. Tamara

Writing's not for Sissies

2007-09-18T05:49:00.000-07:00

So, the second part of the Oceania Trilogy has finally gone off to the printers, and my editor and I have sighed a deep breath of relief. Not that it was particularly hard going, but because 'experts' added their fourpenny worth and things had to either be explained, added to, deleted or changed - a job no author really wants to do, but then there is always the clever person out there only too willing to point out that the author got it wrong! And we do, quite often. Not because we're careless or ignorant, but because during the writing of a book the author is so taken up with the story and the way it is being told, that minor things (or even some major ones) cease to be really important in the scheme of things. But then of course I am supposed to be writing the history of Australia, and should know what I'm doing. But as the months of writing are followed by months of editing, page changing and chapter fiddling, things get lost or missed in the furore, and not even the most dedicated author or editor can really be blamed.
Enough already! I get things wrong, I admit that!
So book one is out, book two is at the printers and book three.... Well that is a work in progress, or at least it should be, but I seem to be stuck at about fifty pages in. Not because I've suddenly lost the power of imagination, and not because I have writers' block - but because of outside influences which seem determined to knock me off balance.
First there was a birthday party - not mine, but a young relative's - and this involved a house full of youngsters who came in at five in the morning, got up again at ten, ate hugely and went off to the pub to start all over again. This lasted for four days, and although I barely touched a drop they seemed to weather the storm far better than I did. You should see the bags under my eyes!
Secondly I discover I am expected in Austria.
The suggestion was made at the beginning of the year that I might like to attend a book and art presentation in Tulln, which is about half an hour outside Vienna. Okay, I said in a mad moment, thinking what a good chance it would be to actually visit Vienna for the first time and have a bit of a break.
I heard nothing from January to September, so assumed - always wrong to assume anything - that the whole idea had been shelved. Then I get an email on Friday - in German - which includes a programme of the event. Heck! Now I've got to stir myself and sort out flights, car hire and hotels, and I've only got a couple of weeks to do it all in. The problem with dealing with people from other countries, is that I'm incapable of any language other than English, or at least the Australian version of English, and therefore unable to communicate with them. There are questions to be answered. What am I expected to do at this presentation? Who is organising it? Why won't anyone answer my urgent emails? And has anyone thought to arrange for some of my books to be there? I'm not lugging hundreds of books onto a plane, and anyway, they'd be in English, which is a fat lot of good in Austria, where it appears no-one can speak English. I have passed over the problem to him indoors. He teaches English as a foreign language now he's semi-retired, and most of his pupils are Austrian, so perhaps he will have better luck than I.
Not really, as it turns out. His contact's English is about as good him indoors' German, and as he tries to write down addresses as they are given over the phone I can tell he is rapidly losing his patience. The reddening of ears is a sure sign!
Anyway, he will book the flight this afternoon, and we shall arrive in Vienna on 9th October, barring tsunamis and the crash of the Bank of England. If anyone wants to join me at the Buchprasentation und Vernissage, Wustenrot-Beratungsstelle Tulln, Frauentorgasse 87, 3430 Tulln, they will be made very welcome. The event will start at 19:00.
I hope there will be some of my books there - the German translation - and I will be delighted to sign them for you. Other than that I can't promise what the evening will bring.

I'm a legend, and it's official!

2007-09-10T15:26:00.000-07:00

During my research in Cornwall I discovered something rather wonderful. It was after I had given a talk in the Looe Library, and we were sitting about having a cup of tea and a chat, that one of my guests told me about the legend of Tamara. Well, you could have knocked me down with a ferret - I was a legend - or at least named after one. But Tamara is a Russian name, or so I thought. How on earth could the legend be Cornish? Unfortunately my informant didn't know very much about the story or how it had come to be, so being an author, and very nosey, I decided to investigate.
It took me a year to unearth a book that actually told the legend of Tamara, and here is the story.
The lovely nymph - yes, nymph - Tamara, was the daughter of earth spirit gnomes. Born in a cave, she loved the light of day. They chided her for visiting the upper world and warned her against the consequences of ignoring their advice. The giants of the moors were fearsome, and they wanted to protect their child from them.
Tamara was beautiful, young and heedless (just like the author of course) and never lost an opportunity to look at the sun. But Tavy and Tawrage, the sons of Dartmoor giants had seen the fair maid and longed to possess her. Tamara led them a right dance, over mountains and moor in playful chase, she teased them mercilessly.
She was hiding under a bush one day when Tavy and Tawrage decided it was time to make her choose between them. They used every persuasion, though what they were is unclear, but I suspect they flattered her - it usually works.
Now Tamara's parents realised she was missing from the cave and went in search of her. They found her seated between the sons of the giants whom they hated. Her father cast a spell on the two young men and they fell asleep. Then he tried to persuade Tamara to return to the cave.
Tamara, being stubborn, refused.
With a terrible curse, her father cast another spell. Tamara dissolved in tears, which became a beautiful crystal stream that flowed to the ocean.
Tavy eventually woke from the spell. Tamara was gone, and he fled to his father to tell him what had happened. The giant, wanting to ease his son's torment, transformed him into a steam. That stream rushed over rocks, ran through morasses and glided along valleys. Tavy still goes seeking for his lost love Tamara - his only joy being that he runs by her side, mingling their waters as they head to the eternal sea.
Tawrage also woke, and realised what had happened. He went to an enchantress, and he too was changed into a stream. But he mistook the way Tamara had gone, and onward, ever sorrowing, he flows away from her forever. Thus originated the Tamar, the Tavy, and the Taw.
I hope you enjoyed that little story, and if anyone knows the origins of the tale, or how the name Tamara seems to have travelled from Cornwall to Russia, I would be most interested.

Summer holiday? I've come home for a rest!

2007-09-10T14:28:00.000-07:00

Hello there. I'm back! So, you didn't notice I'd been anywhere? Well, I have, and now here I am sitting in my office in the middle of the night listening to him indoors snoring. It's not conducive to a good night's sleep, listening to that racket, so I thought I'd write my blog and tell you about our month away in Cornwall.
We set off to drive to Cornwall to the sound of furious yowling from the cat who was firmly locked in his travelling basket. We've been prepared for this ever since the first time we took him for such a long journey by car, and we know that he will shut up once we get to Worthing, which is about an hour away. Whether he goes quiet because he's bored, or because he's got a sore throat, or even because he realises there's no escape from the hated basket until we arrive at our destination is unknown to us. All we do know is a huge sense of relief when he packs it in and goes to sleep. We have also learned that he hates us being overtaken by lorries or noisy motorbikes, and absolutely detests him indoor taking corners too sharply. This proves a problem when we drive through Chichester, Worthing and Bournemouth, for the powers that be in those towns seem to have a fetish for roundabouts, and him indoors can't resist pretending to be a racing driver at each and every one of them.
Cornwall is ablaze with sunshine, the garden is overgrown and him indoors has a glint in his eye as he checks his chain-saw. Oh, no - it seems the lumberjack fetish has struck again. What is it about men and machinery? The cat is just delighted to have arrived, and heads straight for the place where his bowl is - well it would be - but we haven't unpacked the car yet! To sharp howls of anguish, we swiftly attend to his needs. Two seconds later the plate is empty and he's gone exploring. How's that for gratitude. Not many cats have a second home in Cornwall for goodness sake! Doesn't he realise how privileged he is?
As the sun is shining I've dared to put on shorts - yes, I do have the legs, but the rear-end is a little suspect, so I add a long t-shirt. Gardening is a great therapy and I soon get stuck in, weeding and hoeing and generally fighting the ivy and tangled creepers that seem to insist upon strangling anything that's attractive in the flowerbeds. Him indoors has revved up his chain-saw and has set about a massacre of the nearby hedge. He's planning to replace it with a fence, but I don't think our neighbours are going to be too delighted to have their sunny days shredded by the noise he's making.
The decking has been extended - but not enough - and him indoors spent the rest of his time - after the chainsaw massacre, banging nails, swearing at bits of wood and his tape measure, sliding down the bank as he tries to dig holes for the uprights and generally having the time of his life. This is his decking, and his summer house - and when it's all finished, he's promised me he will sit down and enjoy it. But not yet. There are more important things to consider. Like there's now electricity in the summer house, and he's the proud owner of a two-ring gas burner - and he has a kettle, a frying pan and even fridge so the beer will keep cool. You've guessed it. Him indoors is now the proud possessor of a shed - every Aussie man's dream - Pom's too, I've realised. Each morning, before the sun rises and I'm still in the land of nod, he sneaks out to this shed and sits on the deck watching sun come up. It soon becomes a meeting place for several of our neighbouring husbands, and they could be found drinking coffee and eating bacon and eggs as they watch the sun rise and discuss the pros and cons of football, cricket, rugby and any other sport which involves muscle, sweat and muck. It has to be said that we wives were quite grateful. It let us off breakfast duty, allowed us to snatch another hour under the duvet, and gave us a chance to have our coffee in peace in the kitchen.
I say we went for a rest, but actually it turned into a marathon. From breakfast on the deck, to lunches on the deck, to afternoon teas and evening drinks and supper on the deck - to full blown drinking session that just managed to avoid getting out of hand. But we had fun. Now I'm going to detox for a month just to get over it.
I suppose the most memorable day we spent - off the decking - was when we went out on a friend's boat. The sea was like glass, the sky blue, the coastline etched in all its splendour against the turquoise. We motored out into deep water so the men could go fishing, and there just a few yards away was an enormous pod of porpoise. There had to be twenty or so, diving in and out, chasing the vast school of whiting that were feeding off the bottom. Needles to say the men pulled in their lines and the only thing we caught that day was a camera full of memories. Absolute bliss.
Sailing into Fowey - pronounced Foy - the Cornish make a habit of cutting out the middle bit of any name - a quirk I quite like - we joined in the armada of boats gathered there for the Fowey Water Festival. As the sky darkened this armada was lit up with coloured lights, flags and lanterns, and accompanied by music from a band on the quay, the fun began. There were huge fishing boats, little fishing boats, row boats, canoes, sailing boats of all sizes, speed boats which caused chaos, and one small dinghy that seemed to be going backwards. It was chaos, with everyone getting in everyone else's way, nobody going in the same direction and some very near misses. As they finally cleared the river and found anchorage the fireworks started, and what a display, superb.
Now, I have a fear of heights. It's not a fad, not something I put on to seem interesting or different. I simply hate heights and freeze rigid if I have to be more than a foot off the ground. We left Fowey that night in thick fog. As we headed at speed towards Polperro harbour I could see the fog coming across the land, and feel the wind driving us on. The tide was against us, and we were forced to tie up in the outer harbour. The wind was battering the boat against the grey stone wall of that outer harbour, and it was a struggle to keep the fenders in place to stop the boat from getting damaged. It was then that I learnt that I two choices. Sit it out until three in the morning when the tide would allow us to creep into the inner harbour. Sit it out until two when we could ease our way through the larger boats moored in the outer harbour and boat hop to the shore - or climb the metal ladder that we'd tied the boat to, to get up onto the harbour wall.
I looked up at my nemesis. The ladder was metal, old, slimy and covered in rust. It was so high I couldn't see the top of it. No way. I'm not going up there. I'll sit it out until two, three, I don't care. But I will not climb that thing.
An hour later and I realise I don't actually have any choice at all. Boat hopping is now not an option as the big boats are in danger of squashing us as the tide rises along with the wind. It's pitch black, and the great points of rock on the left of the harbour are sticking out against the night sky like something from the Hound of the Baskervilles. There's even a full moon. It's the ladder, or sit here until morning, and I'm starting to feel sick.
Him indoors is very understand. He's promised to stay behind me all the way, just in case I fall, freeze, or have a coronary. I make up my mind. I'll do it. Now. Before I have a chance to think any more.
Edging along the narrow side of the boat my host takes my hand and I step out over the abyss of churning water to place my foot on the iron rung. I'm wearing sandals - not the best footwear for mountaineering. I daren't look up. I don't want to know how far I will have to climb, and I know it's a long way because the top is still out of sight. Neither do I want to look down. It's pitch black, and I can hear the sea crash against the wall.
I grab the ladder and put the other foot on the rung. Him indoors is now outdoors and right behind me. He makes some daft remark about the fact I'm wearing trousers and not a skirt and I want to punch him, but all my concentration is on my feet and hands. One rung at a time. One hand, one foot, another hand, another foot. My foot steps on my husband's hand and I swear at him. He backs off and waits - wise man, I'm a woman on the edge of a nervous breakdown and if I stop I'll never move again.
The climb feels endless as I continue, and then I'm at the top. I stumble to the safety of a lovely flat, broad quay and know just how the Pope felt when he kissed the ground every time he got off a plane. I don't look down, don't wave to our hosts - I just want to go home. Five minutes later my legs go weak and I have to lean against a shop window. That was quite an achievement, I realise - a first. I will have to write it down in my blog. See I was thinking of you all the time I was going through that torture - no I wasn't - my mind had gone numb!
So with all the heroics, the dinners and lunches and teas and the drinking and sailing, porpoises and mountaineering, the holiday was certainly not boring, but I've had to come back home for a rest.
Well, actually, no. I have a ton of work to do. A ton of research to get to grips with, and I've had to hit the ground running to keep to my writing schedule. Him indoors is going back to Cornwall with his mother for a whole week. Yippee, peace, quite, no snoring, no worrying about dinner and breakfast and lunch - who the hell eats lunch in a working day anyway? I'll miss him, but it will mean I can work all day and all night if I want to and the brain holds out - can sleep til ten, write until two am, watch all the soaps and get really stuck into the third part of the trilogy. I know the ending and the beginning, it's just the middle bit that's a tad troublesome.
Who ever said life was easy? It certainly wasn't an author. But at least this author has conquered a fear - well almost - I probably couldn't have done it in daylight - and certainly couldn't have managed going DOWN the ladder!

a proud day

2007-08-03T04:24:00.000-07:00

I've been working hard, which is why you haven't heard from me in a while. And although work has been the most demanding thing during the past few weeks, there have been some lovely incidents that I want to tell you about.
Him indoors got all romantic and booked us into a smart hotel just outside Le Havre for three days to celebrate our wedding anniversary. Great - or it would have been but for a couple of minor glitches. It was raining, not a light drizzle, but stair-rods coming in off the sea horizontally. But when you're feeling romantic, what is a little wet weather? Fine. Only problem was, he'd booked us in for dinner on the first night - he likes his food - and the restaurant is highly recommended, with a very interesting menu. Shame. The ferry was cancelled. We could get another one, but it didn't leave until after seven that evening, which meant we would get to our hotel late at night.
Off we set, the crossing was fine, I'd taken my tablets so I wouldn't go green around the gills and ruin the entire journey. We arrive in France at close to midnight. We don't know how to get to the hotel, for we have been deposited in Dieppe, which is at least an hour further east than we'd wanted. The rain was coming down, him indoors - who was driving - I don't do the left-hand thing - was getting redder by the minute. I can always tell when he's losing it, his ears go pink.
We arrived to find the poor owner sitting waiting for us. The room is wonderful, the view from the balcony lost in the black of night and the rain. We go to sleep.
Next morning, it's still raining, but we can see the sea, and a wonderful gothic house perched right on the shore. It has turrets and tiny windows, little round rooms sticking out, and iron birds hutched at the pinnacle of rooftops. Weird, and a little eerie, if the truth be told, but as an author - or simply someone with a heated over-imagination, I began to think up all sorts of stories about this house. There was a tiny window in a small round turret that could have come from a fairy tale. Think Rapunzel and all those poor fair maidens who needed rescuing.
I needed rescuing, and so after breakfast we visited Honfleur, which was gorgeous, so gorgeous that it actually stopped raining. Lots of wine later, and with far too much good food inside us, we came to our last day. Or what should have been our last full day. The ferry was cancelled again, so instead of leaving La Belle France at eight thirty in the evening, we had to race to Dieppe to catch the lunchtime one - it was either that, or a much later boat to Portsmouth. Still, we had a lovely time, and although it was a bit of relief to get home, the romance was still in the air, so some good came of it all.
My proudest day came shortly afterwards. My daughter had passed her diploma course in psychiatric nursing, and her graduation day loomed. Mother, father, father's new wife, mother's new husband - we all turned up in our best clothes to celebrate. The Corn Exchange in Brighton was the venue, and we shed tears, drank champagne and generally had a wonderful day. The four of us left her to it and caught the last train home, happily tired, rather tipsy, but still with tears of pride in our eyes.
I'm off for a while now, leaving my desk for a bit of rest and recuperation before I begin the third part of the Oceania Trilogy. Have a lovely summer - keep everything crossed that the rain has stopped, and that we will really have a summer at last - and send me your comments. love and fluffy things, Tamara

Meet the author? Maybe.

2007-07-09T02:48:00.000-07:00

When I first started out on this writing lark, no-one warned me that not only would I have to produce wonderful books that had to be sure-fired best-sellers to even stand a chance of being published - but that I would have to turn my skills to pr and promotion, self-publicity and public speaking. By nature the writer is a solitary being. She or he sits alone for hours staring at a computer, or lost in a world that only they can inhabit. Their world is in the imagination - the real one either doesn't come up to scratch, or they simply prefer the one they've invented because with the press of a button someone really irritating can be erased. Therefore it is daunting to be faced with the prospect of meeting strangers, or standing before an audience who have come to listen to your words of wisdom, and hopefully not start chucking things at you when they get bored. This hasn't happened to me yet, although an elderly lady did once drop off to sleep and fall off her chair with a mighty crash in the middle of a women's institute talk that I did. It took some time to get her off the floor, and luckily she wasn't hurt, but it brought a dramatic end to my talk as everyone went off for a cup of tea.
I have been in this business for almost twenty years now, and have learned to take deep breaths, to remind myself that I am giving a performance, and that the audience is there because they want to be, and not just to chuck eggs and shout derision. I find it fascinating that people actually want to hear what I have to say - that they are interested in my travels and my research, and in the influences that have inspired me to become an author. But there are pitfalls, and when doing a 'meet the author,' session I have learned that I should never take anything for granted - to show no reaction such as shock or dismay, and to smile sweetly however sorely tried by the one person who tells me proudly that they have never read my book, let alone any other, but they want to talk endlessly about an idea they've had for a book of their own. This is where bookshop managers come in very useful, steering them politely to one side after a few minutes so that others can take their turn.
I have done signings all over England and Australia, and have discovered that the only thing I can expect is the unexpected. Here are some examples.
Alice Springs is a pleasant little town in the heart of Australia. The main street still looks much as it did in the early days, with the locals sitting in the shade of the trees and passing the time of day. I had driven down from Darwin on my way to Uluru - Ayers Rock - and was asked to do a book signing in the large bookstore on the main street. I arrived on time, suitably attired in a cotton dress which kept me cool in the blistering heat. The manageress met me with a smile and a long glass of iced water, but there was an edge to her smile, and she looked a bit shifty as I glanced around at the empty shop. Where is everyone? I asked, for I had never seen a place so deserted before - I thought I might get one man and his sheep dog, but no sign of either. 'Oh, they won't come in now you're here,' she said breathlessly. Her blue eyes were definitely avoiding me now and she seemed desperate to tidy up the already neat pile of books stacked up on the table.
I tried not to look too stunned by this announcement, but I knew my smile was faltering. 'Why?' I dared to ask - knowing I shouldn't, but unable to resist.
'People are shy around here,' she explained. 'They feel intimidated by someone famous like you. But they're all outside somewhere, just waiting for you to leave so they can come in and buy your books.'
Okay, I've heard it all now. I peer through the window, spot several likely looking customers hanging about and wonder what they would do if I suddenly shot out of the shop and approached them. I decide it's too hot to do anything so rash, sign all the books she's put out for me and take my leave. From the safety and anonymity of my car I watch as a slow trickle of people emerge from surrounding shops and cafes and from under the trees to go into the bookshop. The trickle becomes a flood, and I'm gratified to see that when they re-emerge, they are carrying plastic bags that are obviously filled with books. I just hope they were mine.
The Outback is a wonderful place, filled with marvellous people who love the peace and tranquility and live out their lives in one of the harshest places on the planet. They are shy, yes. Friendly and warm once you get to know them, and I can understand why they might find me a bit odd - for goodness sake, my husband finds me odd at times, so why shouldn't they?
On the tablelands of Queensland, up near Kuranda, I had been asked to speak to a group at the library. It was summer, and of course there had been tropical rain falling gently onto the verdant palms throughout the night and that morning. With overcast skies and the humidity steadily rising, I drove to the library expecting perhaps five or six people waiting to hear what I had to say. I was met by the librarian who was in a definite twitter. 'Would you mind waiting for a bit? Only the Mayor and the town council are in session and they want to come and hear your talk.'
I begin to feel nervous, something all too familiar. They offer me a drink, and I decline. Nerves and the necessity to give a speech don't mix well with alcohol - but I have to admit, a gin and tonic would have gone down very well by then. The library is new and vast and fantastically stocked - but outside in the garden there is a shock waiting for me. Row upon row of seats have been placed on the patio. A lectern and microphone put carefully at the front. The nerves are really kicking in as the Mayor and the counsellors arrive and photographs are taken for the press. I can hear a low hum of noise coming from outside, and as the Mayor, who was very gallant, steered me towards it, I realised that there had to be two hundred people waiting for me. Thank goodness I didn't have that drink. Two hours later I finally come to the end of the talk and the questions that follow. Almost dropping with nerves and the adrenaline that has been pumping through me, I realise that actually I enjoyed it - that the audience enjoyed it - and that I'm getting the hang of this public speaking at last. But oh, for the safety, silence and solitude of my office where I can dream and drift and let my imagination run riot.

A Soggy Interlude

2007-06-29T07:35:00.000-07:00

After the euphoria of the book launch, I went with him indoors up to Edinburgh. It was very lucky that we took a plane, because the floods in the midlands would have made the journey impossible.
We flew into Scotland and drove straight out again, heading for Berwick on Tweed. It was raining. The reason for our visit was to celebrate a friend's sixtieth birthday, and he didn't know we were coming.
Found the campsite - yes, I was going to have to camp for three days, and him indoors knows that can only spell trouble where I'm concerned. Give me a hotel any day. It was still raining, and there, hiding beneath the awning were our friends. The champagne was open, the beer flowing and the rain chucking it down with a vengeance. Much later, after a game of pool - not the watery one, but the one involving long sticks and coloured balls - we retired to the caravan. The rain was thundering on the roof, and I actually found it rather soothing, for I began my life in a caravan on a site at Bluff Beach in Devonport Tasmania, and the sound of rain on a caravan roof took me back to my childhood. Enough of that soppy stuff. It was chucking it down so loudly you couldn't even hear him indoors' snoring - but then perhaps that was a blessing.
Morning dawned. Actually, it didn't. It was still raining. Nothing for it, but to sit in the awning and drink even more champagne.
It stopped raining. We got everyone together and headed for the beach. The beach? In this weather? Only the English would be mad enough. So, off we trot. It's blowing a gale and there's definitely more rain in the offing. The sea is broiling, crashing onto the sand, rising in great plumes on the rocks and almost dwarfing the lighthouse that stands so precariously on the end of the jetty. A quick walk. Several photos. An ice-cream. Yes. Well. This is England, and I'm as mad as the rest of them. Back to the caravan. The rain has returned with a vengeance. There's mud everywhere, and I'm sure the caravan was further up the hill when we left.
More champagne, more beer and then a stagger through the downpour to the clubhouse for a steak. Greatly refreshed, and somewhat unsteady on our feet we emerge back into the rain. Horrors. The caravan has shifted. In fact we can see it slowly descend into the mire. Him indoors and his mate wrestle with it, shoring it up with anything that isn't already soggy, and after stating that it won't dare sink any more, we retire to bed.
The rain is thundering, him indoors is snoring - as is his mate - and I feel the soft, but steady sinking feeling that only comes when a caravan has had enough and has finally collapsed up to the fender under the deluge. I snuggle back under the blankets. It won't go any further now - it's as low as it can go.
Come morning we discover said caravan has slid several feet down the gentle slope and is resting quite peacefully against a tree. Much swearing and sweating goes on as it is hauled back and tethered very firmly - which of course means we have to open even more champagne to cheer ourselves up and replace used calories.
Camping's a weird practice. You get out of bed and dress so you can walk across a field in the rain to a bathroom where you get undressed, shower, dress again and walk back, getting even wetter on the way. I had warned him indoors this was not my thing, but because we were staying in a caravan he didn't class it as camping. I'll just say this. If I'd been forced beneath canvas for those three days I would have killed him - unless the rain drowned the pair of us first.

Book Launch Blitz

2007-06-29T07:25:00.000-07:00

The sky is darkening as the day finally succumbs to clouds and the threat of rain, and as the final pale tendrils of light disappear beyond the horizon comes a sound that is older than time. The deep, reverberating throb of the didgeridoo and the enticing beat of the African drum breaks into the stillness of the garden and silences the chatter the hotel. One by one we emerge into the night, drawn perhaps by the primal urge of the music that our ancestors once heard.
A blaze of flame soars into the sky - and then another. Two dancers appear with their flame-sticks and so begins the courtship of night and fire and music. Sensuous, mesmerising, their slight figures weave in the flames as they juggle and dance. It looks so easy, so effortless - and yet we know it's not.
Several of the male guests are taking lots of photos - hardly surprising as the girl is scantily dressed and almost feline as she dances with the poi. The ladies of the party are eyeing up the young man beside her. He's tall, dark, tattooed and shall we say perfectly proportioned. All in all, everyone enjoyed watching them both.
So now it is over. I can breathe a sigh of relief that I could manage to get into that skirt. That the rain held off. That nearly every guest arrived, and that I sold lots of books and had a very good time.

Life Gets Really Complicated

2007-06-21T02:09:00.000-07:00

You'd think a day at the races would be a simple pleasure, wouldn't you? WRONG! It takes organisation, travelling, worrying about hat, shoes and handbag never mind the dress, Jacket etc., because I'm talking the first day of Ascot here, and that is never simple.
Having agonised over what to wear, I changed my mind a dozen times, then saw a hat. THE hat, which of course didn't go with anything, so, oh, dear, had to go off and buy a dress and shoes to go with it. Finally sorted, I was wizzed up to London to a lovely B&B. The day of the races dawned, and the promised rain has been banished by a blazing sun. Breakfast is eaten, and I wait to be picked up. I carry on waiting. And waiting. Three quarters of an hour late, my hostess arrives in her usual state of panic and we're off. No we aren't. Have to drop the dog off first, go to another friend's for champagne - and then we'll be off. No we aren't. A last minute panic over hair. Up, down - what. Tights, no tights. Which handbag - what about the shoes. Hair again - hat - you get the picture. I feel I must have forgotten something as I sit in a lovely garden with a glass of champagne. I check. Hat, shoes, bag, dress, jacket, nails done, camera, money - yes all seems in order.
Two hours later and WE'RE OFF! A bit like Frankie De whatsit, we're tearing down the motorway, the people carrier working like a thoroughbred as we head for Ascot. Traffic jams and the air conditioning doesn't reach that far back into the car and it's stifling. This is not helped by the perfume being sprayed liberally about and the smell of different makeup as it is applied along with the nail varnish that had been forgotten earlier.
We're here! At last. Two glasses of champagne and we head for the Royal Enclosure. Uh, oh, someone's already got blisters, so what should have been a quick trot across the field turns into a stop go affair. The gate we need is in sight - I can smell the strawberries and pimms. But we aren't going in there, someone has decided that we HAVE to go in the front entrance, which involves a mile trek over lumpy ground, dodging all kinds of nasties on the way. Not easy in high heels.
We've made it. Champagne again, sun beaming down - and the sight of so many hats and some bizarre outfits is wonderful to see. I do love people watching.
We were supposed to get a place by the bridge where I could see my Queen - I am a loyal Commonwealth subject of hers, and I know she would have been pleased to see me - but the champagne took over and we nearly missed her as she arrived in a coach. I got a photo, but she's so small, she's almost invisible.
The weather got hotter and hotter. The viewing stands in the Royal Enclosure were full so we couldn't watch the race, and I managed to pick the one horse in each race that came in last. But the champagne was good, and after waving to Frankie and getting a whoop of delight in return, we repaired to the car and had our picnic. There were some very sore feet and we were all hobbling by now, so as we sat on the grass there was a collective sigh of pleasure as bare toes were wriggled in the sun. No, wait a minute, the sun has disappeared. Oh, Gawd, it's starting to rain and if this hat gets wet it will be ruined. Back into the car - back onto the motorway - back into traffic jams and a return to my host's house for more champagne. There will be sore heads in the morning - but that doesn't matter. We all had fun, and the memory of daft hats, corny outfits and men sweltering in top hats and tails, plus waistcoats, will live with me for years. Now, what do you think I ought to wear next year?

Book Launch Trials

2007-06-14T05:25:00.000-07:00

Don't let anyone ever tell you that the life of an author is easy. There is very little time to sit about and contemplate your navel - no time to dream away a warm afternoon thinking about what to wear for the launch party - and definitely not a minute to spare to go to the gym so that the body is toned so that the new dress will fit! Telephone calls, missing books. Fire eaters who might or might not turn up. Didgeridoo players with asthma. You couldn't make it up. Did I want sandwiches, canapes or a four course dinner? Are there vegetarians or vegans expected? Will everyone really need a bottle of wine per person - or can we get away with less? My head is spinning, my inbox is overloaded - I know how it feels - and all in all I wish I hadn't started this. But it's too late now, the party is a week away and the steamroller that is the organisation is way out of my control! Who said a book launch was a doddle - it certainly isn't in my book. That was a pun, sorry, but the brain is in overload. A launch should be simple, and usually is. A group of people are invited to come and drink cheap plonk and eat soggy sandwiches or stodgy sausage rolls while they stand about talking nonsense, or trying to outdo each other in one-upmanship. This usually happens in a back room of a restaurant - can't have authors making a show of themselves - the middle of a very busy book shop where the customers stand about open-mouthed wondering what all the noise is about - most writers seem to be able to make a great deal of noise, must be all the time we sit in silence, so that when we get the chance we rabbit on and on! I decided long ago that if I'm going to invite people to a party, then give them a party, and so of course that means having to sort one out. I've had dancers to do a cabaret, even him indoors sang for the karaoke we had one year - he and his son did a dodgy version of House of the Rising Sun - but we prefer not to discuss it. I've had mad DJs yelling and dancing and generally overacting, with music so loud the ears are still throbbing six hours after it's all over, school bands which were brilliant and discos that brought back all the lovely memories of those days when the feet didn't hurt, the head didn't throb and the skirts could be as small as pelmets over a tight little bottom. Days long past, unfortunately. Anyway, to move on to this year's bash. I decided that because this is the first part of a trilogy, and because I have a lovely new publisher and a fantastic couple of editors, I would really push the boat out.
Now the first thing is the venue. A lovely hotel in the heart of the Sussex countryside, with antique houses leaning about on all sides, an ancient church and a river running through. Perfect. Books are an integral part of the launch, goes without saying. We very nearly went without - but after a fraught three weeks and far too many telephone calls, glasses of gin and tonic and a promise of a heartattack, we have the books ordered with a promise they will arrive on time. Entertainment. It's the longest day of the year, so why not have fire dancers to bring in the sunset? With the sound of the didge and the drum in the background, it should be awesome. Music? They don't have their own music. Sound system at hotel? No. Oh, Gawd, I give up. I'm off to the pub for a drink, him indoors has just come home and I'm in need of G&T and TLC> Bye.

Cornwall

2007-05-31T01:40:00.000-07:00

Having written myself to a standstill, I decided to leave the office here in Sussex and go down to our cottage in Cornwall. Him indoors - the one who doesn't really know what's going on but is game for a laugh - came with me, and we were both accompanied by our cat, Blue. Now, it isn't easy travelling with a cat, but Blue is getting used to it, and by the time we reach Worthing he's given up on howling and being pathetic, saves his vocal chords and goes to sleep. Mind you, he has been known to suddenly wake up, vent his fury on basket and blanket, and yell his head off which makes us jump, but on the whole he's an okay cat.
Blue has featured in several of my books - he's a wonderful subject, funny, brave, cowardly, belligerent, snooty and sometimes as naughty as a spoilt child, so he's good copy! Blue is a ginger tom with attitude, and the minute he arrives in Cornwall he sets about sorting out the local felines and checking out the bird status. There are a lot of seagulls in Cornwall, and from the first moment, Blue decided they were bigger than him and so leaves them alone. Unlike the cock pheasant that strutted across the lawn one morning.
Blue got down, poised to pounce, tail flicking, ears flat, bum twitching. He advanced, slowly, carefully - then.... That's a big bird. Not only does it look strange, it doesn't seem to be frightened. Think I'll back off. Slowly though, carefully, because I know I'm being watched and I don't want to look like a fool. Backing off, slowly standing upright, the nose up, the ears perked, and with an air of nonchalance, Blue departs. He didn't want the bird anyway. He was only messing about.
The cottage in Cornwall sits on the side of a hill - there are many hills in the west, which involves a great deal of clambering up and down, which is supposed to be good for you, but actually it's just exhausting. It's a tiny cottage with two connecting bedrooms upstairs, and a lounge, kitchen and bathroom downstairs. The beauty is that we have a good garden - on a slope of course - on which we have decking that affords us a magnificent view over the sea to Rame Head. It is said that if you can see Rame Head it will rain, and if you can't it's already raining. That was sorely put to the test during the past ten days, but on the whole we managed to escape the worst of the weather and basked in sunshine.
My husband, him indoors, was out of doors playing lumberjacks. We'd had tree branches cut off some pine trees at the back of the house, and these had been left in heaps all over the bank. Chopping, sawing, swearing and sweating, him outdoors was heroic. Mind you, the author - me - had to risk life and limb to hold logs as the chainsaw went through them. I never realised how much sap comes from pine, or how sharp the needles are. But they burn magnificently, and with the neighbours joining us in several glasses of sloe gin, we warmed our cockles and watched the blaze. Blue was not impressed and sat grumpily on top of a fence and looked snooty - but then he's good at that.
Cream teas, pasties, delicious sea food in lovely restaurants, sunshine, sand and sea - I've come back four pounds heavier but relaxed and ready to rock and roll. Now for Ascot, the book launch of Lands Beyond the Sea, a Rod Stewart concert and a polo match before flying up to Scotland. June is going to be a very busy month - and amid all the partying, I have another book to write. I'll keep you posted.

Not Crocodile Dundee

2007-05-17T14:46:00.000-07:00

Well hello again. It's late, Mel Gibson's on the tv - a film I've seen before, but he's still lovely to look at - but I'm knackered after working all day.
Now you may think that sitting in front of a computer telling stories is a doddle, but believe me it isn't. There's the research to do, the putting down of the tale clearly and with as little waffle as possible, and that's all after I have worked out how to use the computer. There are times when I could throw this infernal machine through the window. Why is it that when it's needed the most it goes off-line, crashes, has a menopausal day, or simply just doesn't like Mondays? Better not push my luck, it's working today.
I was going to tell another story, but as it's late it will have to be short.
I was in the Northern Territory in Australia, travelling down from Darwin to the Alice, when I stopped at a servo - petrol station - to fill up the car, get a good slug of coffee and something to eat. Like all good Aussie servos the place was spotless, with plenty of tables and the delicious smell of coffee wafting in the air. There are two girls behind the counter, and one man in front of it - but he's not a customer, for he's wearing a badge which says manager.
I order coffee and a sandwich and pay for the petrol.
The man eyes me and winks. 'Reckon you must be a Pom.'
'Not really,' I say with a smile. 'Born in Australia, but lived in England for so many years I learned how to talk like them.'
'Jeez, you musta come a long way. Why you over here?'
This is the point where my husband pipes up. 'She's a writer. She's over here to do her research for her next book.'
There are times I could kill him, so after kicking him hard on the shin, I smile sweetly and try to ignore the man who is now wide-eyed and eager to talk.
'Jeez, you must have to know a lot of words to be a writer,' he says.
The plump face and beady eyes are glistening.
I nod. I have to know how to spell them too, I think, but concentrate on my coffee.
'I wrote something once,' he says proudly.
Okay, so I'm going to play along. 'Really? How lovely? What did you write?'
'I wrote a story for the local paper,' he says. 'It was going on the front page and everything.'
I'm delighted for him - a fellow writer, who has managed to get front page coverage. Now that's impressive. 'That's brilliant,' I reply - and mean it.
He shook his head, his expression doleful. 'It didn't happen though,' he said sadly.
'Why?
He shrugged and stuffed his hands in his pockets. 'Cos some bloody woman got eaten by a crocodile and they put her story on the first three pages and I didn't get a bloody look in.'
There's no answer to that, is there? I try to look sad, but actually I daren't meet my husband's eyes, because I'm about to collapse with the giggles.
'Reckon I betta get back to work,' he says gloomily, eyeing the girls who so far have managed very well without him behind the counter.
'Nah, you're right, Vern,' one of them calls. 'We aren't too busy.'

He shakes his head and smiles. 'Lovely girls,' he says admiringly. 'But it's better I go and keep an eye on them, they can't really manage without me.'
We say our goodbyes and watch as he strolls back to the counter and leans against the wall. The girls raise their eyes heavenwards and get on with what they've been doing while they walk around him. Poor Vern.

2007-05-16T04:50:00.000-07:00

Hi there, apologies for not writing before, but life and work has made its demands, and I've been up to the ears in trying to sort out both. I have been told that certain aspects of my writing life would be very interesting to read, so this blog will be a sort of diary of the pitfalls, the adventures, inspiration and funny events in the life of an author. I hope they amuse and entertain you - if they don't - let me know!
I live in England, in a tiny village that is nestled in the South Downs of Sussex. It is peaceful here most of the time and the perfect environment for an author to settle down to work with a pastoral scene beyond the window. But writers do have to leave their desks occasionally, otherwise the broad beam we are all famous for will only get wider! I'm lucky, for I escape my office and Sussex and shoot off to Australia most years to do my research, visit the family, show my husband how wonderful my homeland is, and get inspiration for the next book.
My husband doesn't always come with me, so I've taken my daughter, and a girlfriend. It is the holiday spent with my girlfriend that I will tell you about first - as I think you might enjoy our strange and rather frightening experience with a Russian cab driver in Sydney.
The driver is Russian. His English is appalling and as he's only been in Australia for a matter of weeks, has no idea of how to get to our destination.
He sits in the cab as my girlfriend and I struggle to get her large suitcase in the boot. I stick mine on the back seat and clamber in beside the Russian. The conversation turns out to be similar to one I'd had a few days before with Syrian cab driver - but this time I'm prepared.
I talk slowly and clearly and give him the name of the industrial estate where my car is waiting to be collected. I even have a rough map of the area with the Transport Company clearly marked with a big black X.
I needed have bothered.
We set off at a great pace, going in the wrong direction. Screeching to a halt at the traffic lights he peruses his own map of Sydney, realises what he's done, and when the lights change, crosses three lanes of traffic so he can do an illegal U-turn and go back the way we came.
We pass our hotel and head through the early morning traffic towards the airport.
Now, I have a bad sense of direction - rather like this Russian - but I could have sworn we should have turned left back there. But I keep my thoughts to myself. Surely he can't be that wrong?
He is. We've done another U-turn, have passed the hotel for the second time, and are now heading away from the airport and racing through suburbia.
'I know where is,' he says, rolling his r's and eyes. 'I just forget one moment.'
'That's all very well,' I reply. 'But the meter's ticking and I'm going to have to pay you for getting me lost.' I check my map. 'Turn left here.'
'I drive this car,' he says, lifting both hands off the wheel to emphasise the point. 'You English, you know nothing.' He goes straight past the turning, drives for a mile, pulls up at the kerb and looks at his map.
Oh, God. This is the drive from hell. Now he's roaring off in the wrong direction again.
'Turn the bloody car around, go back to those last lights, then turn bloody right where you should have turned bloody left.' The Australian accent has returned and I'm losing patience.
He eyes me belligerently, turns the cab around and does as he's told.
'Now right,' I say, my finger firmly plastered to the spot on my map. If I'm wrong about this he'll have me sent to some gulag - he looks mean enough.
He obeys, obviously realising you don't mess with a woman who's been, literally, driven around the bend.
Straight down her to the roundabout and then take the third exit.' I'm getting quite excited at the thought of seeing my car again. It will be a relief not to have to deal with cab drivers.
He takes the third exit far too fast and we shoot past the entrance to the Transport Company and through an open gate into - a wasteland.
'Stop.' It's a shout from the heart from me and my friend.
He slams on the brakes and glares. 'Is nothing here,' he mutters.
'That's because you've come down the wrong track,' we shout. We're women on the edge of reason and he's in dire danger of being hit over the head with our handbags.
The dockland area is awash with rain, the deep pits and holes in the tarmac lurking to entrap any unwary driver and snap their crank-shaft. A railway line snakes between the silent warehouses and our Russian is drawn to it like a moth to a flame - it seems he's been gripped by a death wish.
'No!'
It's too late. The cab is now running smoothly along the railway lines - and we're heading for a tunnel.
'Get off - now!'
'Is wrong way,' he mutters, shaking his head. 'Is wrong, is wrong.' He's almost in tears.
At least he's finally been right about something today. 'Stop the car, calm down and get us off these lines.'
He yanks the wheel, rams his foot on the accelerator and we career off the rails - and into a pot hole. The shriek of metal crunching on something hard means he's probably lost part of his exhaust. Undeterred, he keeps his foot to the floor and we are again tearing over the potholes - but in the wrong direction.
'Not that way,' I tell him through gritted teeth.
He does a turn that Nikki Lauder would have been proud of and sets off, the cab bumping and jolting and rattling its way over the rough ground. He's obviously furious, and so are we.
He takes a right turn.
'Left!' we shout in unison.
'I know which way,' he shouts back. 'Is here, here - see?'
It isn't here. In fact it has now disappeared and is way behind us. 'Turn round, drive slowly and I'll show you exactly where it bloody is.'
He lifts his hands from the steering wheel, and with a great sigh and much rolling of eyes does as he's told.
'I'll pay you when you get the cases out of the car,' I tell him as he finally pulls up outside the Transport Company Warehouse.
He meekly unloads the cases, grunting as he lifts my friend's - it's huge and weighs a ton.
I pay him two-thirds of the fare.
He looks at me with soulful eyes - but I'm not moved. 'You not pay me right money,' he mutters.
'You not know where you going,' I reply.
The Russian climbs back into his cab, slams the door with all the venom he can muster, and roars off - in the wrong direction.
My friend and I look at one another and burst out laughing. It could take a while for him to get back to Sydney, for he's heading for the railway lines again.

Welcome

2007-03-27T09:51:00.000-07:00

Hi, welcome to my blog. It's new, and hopefully you will find it interesting.