Fooled Again

Ho-hum... This is me. Today. After Weight Watchers. I'm the one in front of the mirror.

I really, really thought I'd lost at least 4 lbs this week and was almost at lovely Overweight, and nearly ready to slither into the scarlet silk mother-of-the-bride frock - but no. No! No!! No!!!

I stepped on to the scales full of anticipation. Pah! One measly pound! One! Off - not on - but even so... Okay, I know the post-charity-walk hot choc and crumpets probably didn't help, but I'd walked for miles, and since then I've practically lived on homemade lentil soup... It's sooo disappointing.

Our Weight Watchers leader suggested I should cut down on my portion sizes. I snarled. I've gone down three plate sizes already. I absolutely refuse to eat from a saucer. She then suggested I did more exercise. Hah! I already walk 4 miles a day and do half an hour of dance exercises in the morning and I hula-hoop - a lot. How much more exercise can a girl do when she's got a pub to work in, and cats to look after, and a family to irritate, and a book to write, I ask you. Well, I asked her, actually. She smiled thinly (everything about her is thin) and said she thought cheese might be the problem.

Cheese is not a problem. Cheese is my lifeblood. I'm a vegetarian. Take away the cheese and what's left? She suggested the low-fat variety (I've tried it - it's like plastic and it doesn't melt) or a very thin sliver of eye-wateringly strong cheese just for the flavour. I explained that I LOVE strong cheese, the stronger the better. A thin sliver would merely whet the appetite, tempt the taste buds, drive me insane with desire, encourage me to eat the entire block. She sighed (thinly) and said I'd have to be prepared to make sacrifices...

I've made sacrifices. I've given up Toblerones. I've given up drinking. I've given up damn near everything. I WILL NOT give up cheese.

On the plus side - I have lost 5lbs in 3 weeks, which is nearly half a stone and therefore sounds like a lot. But it doesn't look any different and the m-o-t-b frock still doesn't meet round my chest or my bottom. Elle suggested I wear red underwear and a long coat. The Toyboy Trucker just sniggered unhelpfully and said no-one would be surprised to catch glimpses of me escaping from my clothes and why change the habits of a lifetime.

I'm now sulking - and fantasising about cheese...

Did It!

My poor feet will never be the same again - but despite the best efforts of the weather to scupper the charity walk, we all made it. Eventually... The rain was biblical, the wind was maniacal, the sky was dark, the route was underwater - but we did it!!!

Looking like a trail of Patagonian refugees, muffled in every type of waterproof clothing invented, we trudged and sploshed and giggled our way round the University Parks. It was fantastic fun - honest. There were sixteen of us in our group and between us we'd raised just under £3,000 in sponsorship - so again, a massive and heartfelt thank you to everyone who was kind enough to sponsor me - I really, really appreciate it. I now have a certificate to say that I managed to walk 10 kilometers (the minimum was 3 and we just kept going until our feet and the rain demanded that enough was enough...).

There were several hundred people taking part, and overall the sum raised yesterday was a phenomenal £50,000 - and we're really, really close to the target now. Apparently, once the relatives' area is up and running, any money left over is being spent on developing and landscaping the centre's gardens, for patients and visitors - to make the whole awful process of being there just a little more bearable. The centre for cancer excellence will be officially opened next month - and I'm really proud to have been a little part of making it happen. We're carrying on with the fund-raising, of course, but for me, this walk was a really big step in every sense of the word.

I did take some pics with my birthday camera but sadly have - um - mislaid the charger and the battery's flat and I can't upload them. As they'll probably be a series of dark, dank trees and heavily-muffled dripping trudgers this might not be a bad thing...

And yes, I cried. I was fine until I read the "memory cards" on everyone's chests. Far, far too much loss and sadness there. Particularly heartbreaking were three very young and pretty teenage girls all walking for "my lovely, darling mum", their cards covered in hearts and kisses... I was in bits.

While I was walking, I thought a lot about everyone who has told me they'd lost someone to cancer, and especially my dearly-missed Pat and Ali and Win and Paul and pa-in-law - and had a feeling they'd be pleased and proud but also, knowing them, chuckling a lot at my saturated discomfort - especially at my hair which doesn't take well to being rained on and wouldn't have looked out of place on Jimi Hendrix...

The only casualty was a bloke who ignored all the health and safety briefings (and the very odd mass-walker warm-up with a mad Green Goddess look-alike) and decided to run the course. He was dressed in the latest Lycra running gear, and some very expensive sports shoes - and he came a proper purler on the slippery ground, rolling down a small incline and ending up looking like a very thin mud-wrestler. After we'd helped him to his feet (he was sooo gutted and as mad as a wet hen), Elle said he looked just like the Pepperami advert...

We got home mid-afternoon, and ignoring the frizzed-out hair and aching feet, dried out by the fire with hot chocolate and crumpets (the pedometer said I'd used an amazing 914 calories so this seemed okay) - and all said we'd do it again - but probably not this week!!!

Thanks again to everyone who sponsored me, supported me, and sent lovely messages. I really hope that we've helped in some small way.

Now on with Moonshine. Yes, really....

Up Yours

This morning I sold my first short story to Yours! As this was also my first ever submission to Yours, I'm chuffed to bits. I'd never thought about sending anything to Yours before, mainly because they seemed to be such a closed shop. However, I always read my ma-in-law's copy when we go to visit, and the stories always seemed to be my sort of thing - blue-collar, middle-aged, feel-good, amusing... So, I did all the boring-but-vital stuff like studying the magazine inside out, working out the word count of published stories (mine ended up at about 1500 words), dreaming up a suitable plot (light-hearted look at middle-aged first-time love) and then emailed it, addressing it simply to the Fiction Editor, as I didn't have a name.

Since sending it (about 3 months ago) and deciding it was a lost cause, I've discovered the phenomenally wonderful and helpful site (ooh, I wish I'd discovered it ages ago!) - www.womagwriter.blogspot.com - and found out that the Yours fiction editor's name is Marion Clark and she likes to have a 150 word synopsis and short author CV as well as the story. Wise after the event, I reckoned my submission really didn't stand a chance.

But - whoopee - this morning, despite not getting my submission quite right, I've had a lovely email from Marion offering to buy my story. Sorry to go on - but I'm so excited by this. I'll never get over the thrill of selling a story to a new market. I'm just relieved that the story was suitable which means that Yours kindly overlooked the rest of my submission faux pas. I'll certainly do it right next time. And there will be a next time - nothing spurs you on better than a sale, does it?

And then, because it has been One Of Those Really Lovely Days, I've also sold Happy Birthday audio rights to Isis, and have been told that I'm (well, Happy Birthday) going to be a feature/review and win-a-book competition in the November 1st issue of Inside Soap magazine. As well as all this, I got an advance copy of the People's Friend Xmas Spesh - in which I have a festive feel-good story (PF readers must live in a lovely old-fashioned cosy cocoony world - and I love writing for them). To round off this lovely day of Good Writing Things, I was offered a slot (also on Nov 1st) on BBC Radio Oxford to plug Happy Birthday and promo my Happy Birthday launch party (at Abingdon's Bookstore) on Nov 8th.

Oh, there is one more down-to-earth writing snippet - I also got my UK royalty statements this morning. As predicted/expected they were nowhere near as sensational as the German ones... Sigh... Still, I did get some money (£168.63) for my five mainstream books still in print, so it was good news really - and £168.63 is a lot, lot, lot more than I'd expected and I'm going to spend it on finishing decorating the hall/stairs/landing which we started five (yes FIVE) years ago and never got round to finishing because life (and death) got in the way.

Ooh - yes! And it was Weight Watchers - and despite the Manc Lit Fest excesses and the cake tasting I've lost another 1lb this week (must all be down to the 0 points sick soup???). So only 6lbs to go to be Overweight! Yay!

I probably won't blog for a few days now because there are lots of meetings and things to sort out for the charity walk (many,many thanks again to all those who have sponsored me) on Sunday. But I'll be back on Monday - if not before - no doubt in a very sorry state, to let you know how we all got on...

Let Them Eat Cake

This is a sinful and disgusting post. So all those on diets please avert your eyes. I've been eating CAKE. Loads and loads of cake - and it was total bliss.

Elle and I spent the afternoon with the wedding cake designer - yes, designer. Not a baker, or a cake maker, or someone down the road who does a lovely light sponge - a DESIGNER.

As with everything else to do with the forthcoming nuptials, the cake has to be special. I, in my old-fashioned innocence, fondly imagined that the cake designer would be some sweet apple-cheeked old dear who had an album of photos of past wedding cakes - you know the sort of thing - "... and this is one I made for our Celia's Japonica and young Dirk last summer..." - with three pillared tiers, a nice covering of white icing, a few sugar paste flowers, with a little plastic bride and groom on top...

Oh how wrong can you be!

The designer was young, efficient, artistic and kept her creations on her laptop. They didn't even look like cakes. They looked like sculptures, works of art, things that should be exhibited in a gallery... They were stupendous concoctions - both in appearance and price. Lordy - the price! With one cake I could pay my mortgage for three months...

I kept pulling "you've got to be kidding" faces at Elle, but she was having none of it. She was entranced. I dared to mention a bit of rich fruit cake and royal icing. Elle and the designer looked at me as though I'd farted in church.

Apparently wedding cakes can be anything at all - but clearly not rich fruit and royal icing... They can be any shape, any colour, and made of practically anything edible... They are carefully designed confections to tease and engage all the senses (not my words). They are NOT white with - god forbid! - a bride and groom on top! Not unless you're being ironic.

The Toyboy Trucker and I had a nice rich fruit cake (made by his dad), covered in marzipan and shiny white icing - and yes, with a little bride and groom on top. We must have been very ironic indeed.

The designer showed us dozens of pictures and having discarded the "individual cup cakes on a Pyrex spiral" as being far too Tate Modern even for Elle - and me getting another glare for asking how any newly-wed couple actually cut a cupcake with the ceremonial knife without drawing blood - we rapidly moved on to mix and texture.

Having established that Elle and The Doctor had a fancy for their cake to be made of chocolate sponge (oooh - goody!!!), we swiftly moved on again from the content of these amazing cakes, to shape and structure. This time I kept my mouth shut about three tiers on little Doric pillars.

The cake Elle has in mind (and she's a girl who knows her mind, let me tell you) is to be huge (I cheered up here as this clearly means there'll be loads of gorgeous chocolate cake going begging come Easter...) and original and sort of like a volcanic explosion with different layers of dark, milk, and white chocolate (it gets better and better!) - with shards of carefully curled, shaved and shaped chocolate springing from it like a gigantic sunburst. The designer sketched a few ideas. Elle got very excited. I just tried not to think about the cost.

Then the really good bit - the tasting. The designer emerged with lots of freshly-baked miniature cakes in every shade of chocolate known to man. Some were just sponge, some were enrobed in thick, thick chocolate icing, some were oozing with chocolate cream, others were all three...

And this is where Elle stopped being a cool, calm and collected bride-to-be with her wedding tick-list on her BlackBerry and reverted to childhood. Okay, yes, so did I. For nearly half an hour we chomped and slurped our way through more chocolate than you'd get on an away day at Cadburys. She had chocolate all round her mouth, on her hands, in her hair and down her jacket. Me too. We giggled and cooed and groaned with greedy pleasure as we stuffed yet more gooey, gorgeous chocolate into our mouths until we felt sick.

It was absolutely fantastic. Heaven. My ultimate fantasy. And whatever cake she chooses - even if it isn't rich fruit and white icing with a little bride and groom - it'll be worth every damn penny... Although I now have a sneaking feeling that tomorrow's Weight Watchers weigh-in may be a very sorry affair indeed...

Manc Lit Fest

Well - the Manc Lit Fest has been and gone and it was a heady experience. Some parts of my trip Oop North were wonderful, others not so - but overall I had a great time.


Anyway, starting from the beginning as in all good stories - we set off (The Toyboy Trucker and I) from Oxford station (we decided to let the train take the strain as the ads say and not drive - nothing to do with carbon emissions, everything to do with not having a clue where to park in Manchester) and I'd packed the overnight bag, sorted out the cats' welfare with Elle and The Doctor, left spare keys with Vee and Em-next-door as Elle frequently locks herself out, and covered every eventuality. All the Toyboy Trucker had to do was remember a) to get some money from the ATM and b) pick up the mobile phone with all the Manchester contact numbers programmed in. And did he? Did he buggery.



We were standing on the platform at Oxford just as the train snaked into view when he confessed. Well, the money wasn't too much of a problem as we guessed they had banks in Manchester, although it meant, because I hadn't packed sandwiches, we'd have to starve/dehydrate on the 3.5 hour journey, but the phone was something else. Once we'd fought our way on to the train (memo to self - never again try to get on a train with twenty million home-going students, thirty million back-packers, and assorted pensioners on a cheap-day special) and had a bitter but short-lived row, we tried to find a seat.



Hah! Not a damn chance. We stood, cheek-by-jowl (literally in my case) with several dozen other morose passengers, crammed in the little vestibule at the rear of the train. It was that rattly, noisy, windowless bit they use for bicycles and unidentifiable lumpy packages. We all bounced against each other and bits of door handle all the way to Stoke-on-Trent. And that's a long, long time to share in close proximity with a group of complete strangers and a husband who's forgotten to do One Simple Thing.

Anyway, at Stoke we bit and scratched and kicked our way into two seats (mercifully not together) and my stomach rumbled all the way to Manchester.


In Manchester the sun was shining. This was lovely, of course, but as we'd believed the weather forecast, we were bundled in thick sweaters, boots and Peter Storm waterproofs. We were hot. Very hot. And smelly. And still not speaking. We trudged to the hotel to check in - and oh joy! We'd clashed with Man U playing at home and every United supporter in the world was checking in before us. The queue snaked three times round reception. Tersely I suggested to The ToyboyTrucker that he should go and find a hole in the wall to get some money while I checked in.

Cutting a long story short here, things did get a bit better after this. He got the cash (eventually - but only after he'd had to call out someone because he'd used the wrong pin number three times and the machine swallowed the card - but as it took over an hour to fight my way through the Man U fans to check in I wasn't aware just how long he'd been gone and he didn't tell me this bit until later...), I got the key, the room was lovely. All we really needed was the mobile phone to be able to contact the Lit Fest organisers to let them know we'd arrived and David at the Writers Bureau (http://www.writersbureau.com/) who was taking us out for a meal. Of course we could have gone down the old-fashioned route and used the room phone to call people if only we'd had their numbers.


We had another row in which The Toyboy Trucker reminded me cruelly of our trip to the Isle of Wight lit fest when I'd forgotten to pack any underwear...


Fortunately, Writer's Bureau David was far brighter than us, and knowing our hotel, turned up there to collect us. From then on things got soooo much better. David took us out on a tour of Manchester's night life and we visited old pubs and modern bars and had the most fantastic meal ever (sorry Weight Watchers!) at EastzEast (simply the most gorgeously decadent Indian restaurant in the world) where I'm sorry to say I made a proper pig of myself (well, I hadn't eaten all day, okay) and chomped steadily through the most glorious vegetarian menu I've ever encountered. Then we went for more drinks, and a wander round some of Manchester's lesser-known historical areas (I LOVE all that Gothic architecture) and ended up in an outdoor bar watching a multi-cultural late-night music festival. It was total bliss (thank you David - you're a star!) and about as far away from life at home as it was possible to get.

Then on Saturday it was the Lit Fest, and no-one seemed to mind that I hadn't phoned them to confirm I'd be there, and I had a ball. I forgot to be nervous because it was all so glam and swish and I was so excited. My fellow-panelists, Penny Jordan and Mavis Cheek (yes, I was in awe!), were lovely, as were the organisers, and we had a riotous couple of hours in Tiger, Tiger extolling the virtues of romantic writing in all its many hues, and our novels in particular, to a very appreciative audience (thanks, Pat!). I must admit I always feel such a fraud at these things because they're so far removed from my Real Life, but everyone seemed to enjoy it and they laughed with me (not at!) and we all sold and signed books at the end, so a good time was had by all.

Then, talking to each other again, we were back on the train (complete with seats!) and arrived home just before midnight to a rapturous welcome from the cats and a note through the letterbox from Elle to say she'd just locked herself out and couldn't remember if I'd left a spare key anywhere but not to panic because it was after she'd fed the cats, oh, and did we realise we'd forgotten the mobile, and she and The Doctor had gone for a night out in London and not to wait up...

And now it's over, and it was wonderful, and I've got to get back to reality and writing and barmaiding and forget about my glamorous couple of days living the high life Ooop North. Sigh....

Only Kidding

Ooops - sorry - this has been sitting in "drafts" for almost a week. I was so excited about gearing up for the Manc Lit Fest that I completely forgot to post it before I left, and now I'm back and it's a bit out-of-date if you see what I mean...


Clearly, I'm in danger of turning into an archetypal Bad Blogger - so to rectify things here goes...


Believe it or not, this picture actually isn't me after today's Weight Watcher's weigh-in - although it's close, of course... In fact if you saw a photo of me next to it you'd probably not be able to tell us apart...

And, because I promised to be honest about my WW weigh-ins, I lost 3lbs this week!!! Now I only have 7lbs to go before I leave Obese and become Overweight. I was so thrilled that I'd lost weight, I tried on the Mother-of-the-Bride frock this afternoon and bits of it do up! Result! Just need to get the rest of it to comply before Easter...

However, the Weight Watchers meeting was slightly odd today because Nikki and Shaz from the terrace turned up. They're both considerably younger (and a lot thinner!) than me so I was a bit surprised, but they said they wanted to lose weight in the run-up to Christmas. As I thought they usually went to Bums and Tums in the community hall where they could wear very tight things in Lycra, I did wonder at first why they'd enrolled at Weight Watchers where the opportunity to display your body is fortunately fairly limited...

Then, while we having the post-weigh-in meeting (learning about the calorific value of various types of delicious cottage cheese while fantasising about doughnuts and Toblerone) it came to me. Of course! Both Shaz and Nikki are banned from Bums and Tums after the unfortunate incident with Jessica, the instructor, and Shaz. Well, it was unfortunate for Jessica that Shaz caught her giving her Dave (Shaz's Dave, that is, not Jessica's - Jessica didn't have a Dave of her own because she'd muscled in on Shaz's if you get my drift) a bit of private tuition behind the community hall's disabled parking bays. And Nikki, being Shaz's friend, weighed in (clever linguistic usage there!) with her fake Radley handbag...


Anyway, Shaz and Nikki enjoyed Weight Watchers, but sadly used an entire day's points when we stopped off at the kebab van on the way home. I was boringly virtuous and just had pitta and salad and a diet Coke.

I have a feeling this saintly frame of mind might not last as no doubt I'll eat my (considerable) body-weight in lovely things while in Manchester - and then next week, Elle and I are going for a tasting session at the wedding cake designers...

So, that's my weighty story - and there's not much else to say about today really. No more exciting influxes of unexpected money, or sales or rejections - but I have written a whole chapter of Moonshine - and NOT eaten anything fattening - yet...

Ra-Ra-Royalties!!!!

This morning - this wonderful, glorious, splendiferous morning - I have received royalties. Now, you might think for a writer this is nothing to make a song and dance about - but for me it's a BIG, BIG deal. Royalties have been sadly lacking in my life. I was, I'm sorry to say, sadly misled about royalties.

Having learned everything I knew about royalties - the magic money that allegedly appears "just like that" in your bank account every six months - from a Jilly Cooper novel where the heroine received her royalties in just such a way (yes, I know it was fiction, but I knew no better and I believed it, okay - oh, and I was also under a similar misconception about VAT payments courtesy of a Dick Francis novel but that's another and infinitely more painful story), when I first had a book published I assumed that's what would happen to me. That every March and September for the rest of my writing life some massive amount of money would be deposited in my account. Enough money for me to live a life of idleness, gluttony and hedonistic sloth until the next royalty payment was due.

Oh, those heady, innocent days...

As no-one in authority (here I mean my agent or publisher or anyone else slightly grown-up in the writing world who should have known that I was a total dill-brain) disabused me of this notion, and also because my first novel - Going the Distance - had a titchy advance and sold loads of copies courtesy of the WH Smith Fresh Talent promo thus providing me with a four-figure royalty sum just six months after publication, I was convinced that my Jilly Cooper idea was in fact correct. That for every book sold, you, the author, received 10% of the cover price. That my life of grafting in the pub and panicking about the overdraft was a thing of the past. So, come the next book and next royalty period, I simply expected the same amount to arrive. Hah! March came and went; so did April. Not a sniff of a royalty sausage.


I remember, to my everlasting shame, ringing my agent to enquire where my royalties were. When she said there weren't any I had a temper tantrum. No, I did. Honestly. I roared and screamed and drummed my heels on the floor. What, I enquired loftily, did she expect me to live on?

Oooh - the embarrassment when she explained (way too late in my opinion) how the royalty payment system works... Simply, you have to sell enough books to earn out your advance and then you get percentage royalties (read your contract, poppet) on every copy sold after the publisher has clawed back what you've been paid. Oh, the mortifying shock! The pain of realising that, even once I'd sold enough copies (about 27 billion) to pay back the (tiddly) advance, I'd then receive a small percentage of the cover price of each book. So, after the massive (and non-existent) 27 billion sales I'd get something like .05p per copy if I was very lucky...


And then, it was explained, that if books went into supermarkets the publisher paid to have them on the shelves, ditto the bookselling chains especially if your novel was to have a prominent position like at the top of the escalator or an end-on shelf-display - and don't talk about promos or windows! Just don't! So, those sales cost the publisher dearly, didn't cancel anything off your advance payment debt, and earned you, the author, sod all. But think of the kudos, poppet - the joy of seeing your book on the shelves in all those famous shops...

Bugger the kudos! Kudos didn't butter no parsnips in this house I can tell you. What I wanted - nay - expected - was hard cash. I wanted royalties. And there weren't any. And there never have been. Until today...

Today, much to my incandescent joy and surprise I've been paid loads (well, okay for me it's loads - for other authors it probably isn't) of dosh from Germany. Royalties. Real royalties. For Sommernachts-Zauber. This is the German version of Love Potions, and it came out (fabulous floral cover, by-the-way, which sadly I couldn't paste on here for some reason) in May this year. They paid me an advance of 5,000 Euros for it (which was lovely and made us and the bank manager very happy) last year, and the royalty period was only up to the end of June - and - bless its lovely flowery little cotton socks - it's earned me 7,000 Euros - IN A MONTH!!!!! Which means, I suppose, that to have earned out the advance, it must have sold tons of copies in Germany (although no-one has actually told me this and of course it might be some huge mistake) and right now I don't care because I've got ROYALTIES!!!!


And yes, I am going to sponsor myself and everyone else on the charity walk with lots of it because - well - because I damn well can!!!

P.S. I've just read this through and I know if I read it on some other writer's blog I'd go "smug cow" - so please, please don't think this was written to brag or show-off - I'm so skint and I was just so thrilled and excited!

These Boots Were Made For Walking????

Much as I think these boots are the most gorgeous things I've ever seen, there is - for once - a serious reason for me using this particular pic of fabulously coloured boots that probably were never made for walking, and - again for once - a serious reason for this post.

On Sunday 26th October I'm joining the "It's Not Just A Walk In The Park" to raise money for Oxford's brand new custom-built cancer centre. And because I'm useless at asking for money and want to get the begging bit out of the way - I have an online sponsor site, open now until January, under my married name (Jones being my maiden name) as the whole family are taking part. It's at:

www.justgiving.com/christinamarshall

- and I'd be so grateful if anyone would/could pop along there and sponsor me. Thank you!

I've never taken part in a charity walk before but I do walk at least 4 miles a day as part of my exercise regime so I should be okay... The cancer centre is absolutely state of the art and the reason we're fund-raising is to provide, furnish and equip a dedicated relatives area. Sadly, having lost so many friends and close family to cancer in very recent years, I know how desperately important it is for relatives and friends to have somewhere to go during procedures, stay near-at-hand overnight, or just to - well, wait.

There are hundreds of people taking part, and I'll be walking with The Toyboy Trucker, Elle and The Doctor as well as all our friends and most of the people from our estate (which should be - um - amusing...). We have a choice of T-shirts (I think Debs had this dilemma recently too) that are either obscenely tight or like marquees... Think, given the current Weight Watchers outing, that mine will have to be one of the latter! Anyway as we have to wear the names of the people we're walking in memory of emblazoned on the front of the T-shirts, mine will need to be large...

So, on Oct 26th I'm going to be walking in sad-but-proud memory of my best friend Pat (bowel cancer), my sis-in-law, Ali (leukaemia), my substitute mum, Win (bone cancer), my lifelong biker friend Paul (oesophagial cancer), and my dad-in-law Don (stomach cancer). They were all a huge part of my life and I loved them all very much and their deaths broke my heart.

I know this blog post is a bit downbeat, but the fund raising really does mean an awful lot to me and even more to those who are currently undergoing treatment as well as their friends and families.

Thanks for reading this...

When You've Got A Minute, Love

"When you've got a minute, love..." Those six words are the drinker's mantra and the barmaid's nightmare. Whether you work in a city bar or a country pub, you'll hear them over and over again. They'll be uttered by dozens and dozens of people a night, all with leery grins and empty glasses. You'll hear them in your sleep. They'll become the most irritating words you've ever heard...


And as I'm definitely a barmaid who writes rather than a writer who works in a pub, and because yesterday was a pub day, I thought I'd expand a bit on the other side of my working life.



I've been a barmaid on and off since I was eighteen. I've worked in cocktail bars, nightclubs, fancy restaurants, posh pubs and complete dives and I love it. People are funny. People in pubs are even funnier. There's nothing like working behind a bar for people-watching and I get loads of inspiration for my writing from my barmaiding. Barmaids are mother-confessors, lovers, mistresses, best-mates - all things to all men. The punters seem to forget you're a real person with a life outside the pub, and they regale you with the most hair-raisingly intimate details of their lives, never dreaming that they'll suddenly meet you face-to-face over the frozen peas in Tesco.

We've got two pubs on the estate - The Weasel and Bucket (which I lifted lock, stock and - er - barrel - how apt!) for the pub in Seeing Stars, and Hairy Harry's which became The Barmy Cow in Love Potions - and I work in both as and when needed.

This week, as well as the fair and Weight Watchers and the writing (what writing???) I've been needed in both and yesterday had to dash between the two. First it was a very busy lunchtime shift in the Weasel and Bucket. My near-neighbours, Maudie and Wilf, came in for the pensioner's special. It was goulash. Sometimes it's curry or chilli depending on what colour it turns out. We always serve it with rice and chips and bread and butter and a pudding, and for three quid it's quite a bargain and very popular among the older estate residents.



Well, Maudie and Wilf were halfway through their goulash, when who should walk in but their son Jerome with Nancy from the end house. Together. I don't mean holding hands or anything, but together none-the-less. Tracy, who was on lunchtimes with me, couldn't stop giggling. She's very young and not as used to Jerome and Nancy as we are in the terrace. Because it was sunny and autumnally warm yesterday, Nancy was in a pretty floral shirtwaister and peep-toe sandals but her moustache totally ruined the look. They ordered two pensioner's specials which Tracy was all for serving them, but I stepped in because neither Nancy or Jerome are a day over 45.



In the end Nancy settled for one full-price spag bol and asked for two forks. Maudie and Wilf got a bit worried over Jerome having a fork (probably because Jerome's social worker doesn't like him having pointy things in case he attacks his electronic tag or an innocent bystander) and no dinner, so I gave him some bread and butter and a spoon. This came in handy for his pudding which was yellow and lumpy so it might have been something and custard. Then they went and joined Maudie and Wilf for a game of shove ha'penny and, by the time I left, everyone seemed very happy.



And, yes, it bothered me afterwards that none of this seemed remotely odd to me...



Then last night I had to do three hours in Hairy Harry's. Fortunately this shift went without incident - unless you count old Arthur Pedley (yes, he was my template for Slo Motion but as he doesn't read anything other than The Sunday Sport I don't think he'll ever realise it and try to sue) being caught trying to beat the smoking ban (still) by having a crafty fag in the gents. As he loudly and fairly aggressively refused to relinquish his cigarette, I put it out by dousing him with the remains of a pint of cut-price Amber Ale. Arthur dropped the dog-end down his singlet in shock and smouldered for ages. We had to close the gents for an hour as the smell of burning pensioner and warm beer is never a good combination.

Hopefully I won't be needed behind either bar for a while as I must, must, must write Moonshine - but after yesterday's double-whammy, at the moment all I can hear in my head is the plaintive cry of "when you've got a minute, love..." Aaaargh!!!!

Weighty Matters

Well! This is it then - this will be my staple diet for the next - oooh... forever and ever I suppose (or at least until I can fit back into the scarlet silk mother-of-the-bride frock...). Yes, I've done it. Gone back to Weight Watchers - and ooooh noooo! It was far, far worse than I'd even thought... I now need to lose 10lbs just to get out of the scary "obese" zone and into the much more friendly "overweight" area. And 20lbs to get back to where I was when I reached my WW goal earlier in the year.

And yes, Mags, I blame YOU! Best friends DO NOT force other Best Friends to eat their body-weight in ice cream (so many flavours, so little time) in one short week's holiday, or stuff toffee apples and candy floss to explosion point in a mere 48 hours... It wasn't even as if I had any say in it, was it? You asked me, and, as a good friend, I had to do it... It had absolutely nothing to do with that family-sized box of fun-sized (not very funny now, thank you very much) Toblerone I had for my birthday and ate in three days, or not being to keep my hands off the cheese, or the fact that a meal's not a meal without something gooey, sweet, syrupy/chocolatey at the end of it... I shall post my WW losses (and gains - oh, the shame!) on the blog every Wednesday to frighten myself into sticking to it.

The trouble is, overall it's not such a huge amount to lose before Easter - but there's Christmas in the middle - so, the plan is to stick to it before the festivities, eat myself silly for a week, and then become a diet-bore again until I can shimmy into the scarlet silk. Watch this space...

Other ramblings - the fair was lovely. I had a great time. Monday was dry and cold, Tuesday was wet and warm - and both days I was joyously working on the toffee apples and candy floss (the least said about the amount I ate the better) stall. I'm allowed to do this as I'm the proud owner of a Food Hygiene Certificate. I got it as part of my NVQ in Hospitality. The brewery I'm employed by insists on all bar staff having an NVQ in Hospitality - we spent a weekend in a country house hotel trying not to kill each other or poison the guests, and learned all sorts of exciting things and did team building which went well until Naomi ran off with one of the waiters and we were a person short. Anyway, sorry, I've digressed - the fair was fun, the stall was snug, and it was great for people-watching. Nothing funnier than watching the one-day cabinet ministers and judges and minor royalty from our local boys public school, let out for the occasion, down burgers and chips like there was no tomorrow and then leap on to vomit-making rides like Body Count or Meteor Strike and - well - vomit...

Oh, and I've heard back from My Weekly about the serial. They are still accepting serials (but only short ones) but are pretty well stocked at the moment. However, they're considering Back-to Back, but only if I rewrite it to make it more family-friendly and less edgy. So while Woman's Weekly found it old-fashioned, My Weekly want it more cosy. And MW didn't think it was contrived, but intriguing and exciting. And I always thought MW and WW aimed for the same market - still, I'm delighted to be given another chance with it so will try my damnedest to turn it into something saleable.

Now starving and going to slink off to bed with a tomato and GK Chesterton.

Swings and Roundabouts

I know the title could well be about the ups and downs of being a writer - but today it isn't. Today it's really apt because I'm just about to take my annual skive from the desk, and the pub, and the cats, and Elle and The Toyboy Trucker, and I'm going back to my fairground roots (see Stealing the Show...).

Monday and Tuesday sees our town's annual Michaelmas street fair (the longest street fair in Europe apparently) which is loved by the town's youth (and those not-so-young, actually) and loathed by all the newcomers (they all bought posh and eye-wateringly expensive flats in the old brewery/old cinema/old mill house and somehow no-one mentioned the fair and they now have paratroopers and waltzers outside their bedrooms for 48 hours each October and keep having petitions about it...) but as it's a charter fair and been going since the 1400s only the Queen can revoke it - and somehow I can't see that happening anytime soon.

So, because my godparents will be here with their dodgems and gallopers and other more scary hi-tech rides and their candyfloss/toffee apple stall, and because they're quite old now, I go and help out... Well, actually it's nothing to do with them being quite old - it's just because I LOVE it. I shall be doing whatever is needed - but as the weather is very cold, very wet and very windy, I hope they'll be kind and give me a job taking money in a nice snug pay-box...

Oh, and on a writerly note, I see in this week's My Weekly that they're running a three-part serial. I thought they'd stopped having serials??? Anyway, nothing ventured and all that, I've just sent them my three-parter, Back-to-Back, that was so cruelly rejected by Woman's Weekly. I've no idea if they'll like it or even want it, and maybe they'll think it's contrived and old-fashioned too (oooh, please - not that!) - but as I can't think of anywhere else for it and as I always try and send stuff out over and over again, it seemed daft not to give it a whirl.

I'll let you know what (if anything) happens when I'm back from all the fun of the fair...

I Am A Real Writer. I am! I am! I am - I think...

The blog is mostly going to be about writing stuff today and - phew! The My Weekly interview has just finished and it was lovely! I don't mean my part in it was lovely (I waffled and giggled and flapped and repeated myself as always), but Wendy, the interviewer was wonderful. She asked such great questions, made it all so easy - like chatting to a friend. I'm so glad it's over though - I hate talking about myself. Well, you feel such a show-off, don't you? And I don't think I have anything remotely earth-shattering to say (although I'm really good at remembering those clever little quips, sparkling witty anecdotes and humorous gems the minute it's over...) - so again, hats off to the lovely Wendy for making it a breeze.

Also this morning I've sold a short story to Allers mag in Sweden. Yippee! This was one I'd had published in People's Friend a couple of years ago - so maybe this is a good writing tip? Anything suitable for PF might well be worth subbing to Allers to sell Swedish mag rights? I shall certainly try them with some more...

And I'm thrilled to discover that the online romance site Cata-Network are going to review Happy Birthday on their Single Titles list - so more good news, well, hopefully, unless they absolutely hate it of course, in which case I'll probably cry.

Now all I have to worry about is if I'll finish Moonshine in time... if the Telegraph are still laughing their posh socks off over my first love revelations... if the Daily Express are ditto-ing their less-posh dittos ditto over my childhood... and if I'll ever be brave enough to face the audience at the Manchester Literary Festival on Oct 18th... I've just been sent the details of my slot (a romance panel with the mega-famous Mavis Cheek and Penny Jordan - think I must be the token chav) and it sounds great if only I could convince myself I was A Real Writer...

I am A Real Writer.. I am A Real Writer... I am A Real Writer...

First Love

Today I'd intended to write Moonshine this morning, then go to the lunch time session of Weight Watchers, and then (after the crying had stopped) be dutiful, and spend the afternoon alternately writing and concocting inedible (see Fine Dining blog entry!) little lo-cal meals to pop in the freezer.

As always with my higgledy-piggledy life, this didn't happen.

What did happen was a) My Weekly rang and asked if I'd like to be a feature in their Christmas Special. I misheard this and thought they'd asked me to write a feature, so we talked at cross-purposes for ages and I made a bit of a prat of myself, frankly. Anyway, once we'd sorted out that they wanted someone to interview me about my writing life (WHAT writing life???) and they'd be ringing me to do this on Friday, and I'd got all excited and a bit big-headed, there was just time to grab a small Toblerone (eaten standing up so the calories wouldn't count for Weight Watchers) and head off to the spare bedroom. Then b) happened...

b) was the Daily Express. They wanted to do a feature too. (Think that the lovely and efficient Little,Brown publicity girl is working overtime - bless her. I've never been so popular - and certainly never had TWO national publications approach me on the same day). This time it's going to be on my childhood. And I had to provide them with notes so that when they rang me we'd all know what we were taking about. Well, they might - I never do.

So, by the time I'd stopped preening and showing-off and smirking smugly, and rapped out a few notes about my youth and emailed them, it was too late for Weight Watchers and I hadn't actually even opened the Moonshine file. So I ate two more (small) Toblerones. And then there was c)...

c) was the Sunday Telegraph. And my admiration for my publicity girl knew no bounds!!! They wanted a 1,000 word article on My First Love (human, not animal - otherwise it would have been my cat, Smokey Seaward, at the age of 7). And they wanted it today. And that's where the rest of the day has gone... lost in blissful dewy memories of Being A Teenager In Love. 1,000 words wasn't enough! I got goose-bumps just thinking about how we met, and all that starry-eyed obsession. Remembering all those lovely, wonderful, mad, never-to-be forgotten moments... Writing and deleting and writing again about how it feels to be madly, truly, deeply in love for the first time ever... Re-living every glorious minute, hearing the umpteen "our tunes" in my head, picturing his face, his smile, his long legs and Hendrix-hair... I sent it just now, smiling nostalgically, but oh, it's been a wonderful way not to write Moonshine or find out how fat I am...

Now I have to go and be a grown-up again and feed the cats and find a suitable pierce-and-ping for The Toyboy Trucker's tea and I'll probably be able to force another Toblerone in there too - but at the moment I'm still 17 and wildly, dreamily, soppily in love...