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A Room With A View

 Recently, I spent a fractious morning rearranging my writing room. Fractious, because it involved removing everything from the room to another room, making decisions about where stuff would be relocated, and then moving it all back again. Normally, I would enjoy this kind of activity but Bambino insisted on helping, too. He isn’t a help. But I did it, and this is the view I have before me this morning…  I am lucky to have a writing room. Over the years, I have written whilst sitting on sofas, in the corners of bedrooms, at dining room tables, in my car and on park benches. I tried writing in a library once but it was too annoying, what with people coming and going and making a lot of noise whilst trying to not make noise. As a teacher, I’ve written in my classroom and whilst sitting at the back of really boring and pointless staff meetings. But it isn’t until recent years that I’ve had, as advised by Virginia Woolf, a room of my own in which to write. Virginia Woolf had a tow...
Recent posts

Winkle Pickers

 Things I have learned this week (and it’s only Wednesday - just think what treasures the rest of the week could reveal!):  1) Frozen dog poos are easier to scoop up than unfrozen ones 2) My brother has NEVER watched the TV series ‘Gavin and Stacey.’ NEVER! A whole array of literary allusions have been lost to our conversations. This revelation came about because he’d bought a new set of oven gloves and I said, ‘Are they like the ones Mick showed off to Pete in ‘Gavin and Stacey’?’ and he said, ‘I don’t know of what or whom you speak.’ I was gobsmacked. I said, ‘You’re missing a treat.’ He said, ‘I’ll get over it.’  3) According to my recent reading of the books ‘Women Living Deliciously’ by Florence Givens and ‘Meditations For Mortals’ by Oliver Burkeman, I’ve been doing life all wrong for the past fifty nine years, two months and six days. I intend to set about rectifying these errors immediately, and then some.  4) The photograph on my new driving licence looks wa...

Twixmas

 Nell, waiting for Godot… The thing about writing a Christmas story every year is that I don’t get to record on the blog all the other stuff that happens in December. I could add in extra entries, I suppose, but I wouldn’t want anyone to become confused and think we actually have talking chickens in the house. We might. But we might not. I like to maintain an air of mystery.  Anyway, during December the drafty bathroom turned into a sleek shower room. Not by any magical mystical means á la pumpkin into Cinderella coach, but via the hard work of Ian the Plumber who is of the old-school plumbing type and, therefore, did a cracking job. He was amiable, neat and conscientious, and I can see why he never needs to advertise and gets all his work by word-of-mouth. Big house job ticked off the list - marvellous!  I went to see the new ‘Paddington’ film with Heather and Oli. It was good, and Olivia Coleman was hilarious as the comedy nun. It was also only an hour and a half long w...

A Right Royal Return!

  It is Christmas Eve. It really IS! The Lady Author has caught up with her narrative timeline at just the right moment, almost as if some planning had been involved all along. (It hadn't...) Also, you’ll notice that this final episode is headed by an original drawing of King Charles, Miggins and Pumphrey created by Lord Malarkey himself. How lovely!  Anyway, the lady hens are gathered for a final breakfast in Buckingham Palace before they begin their journey to Sandringham House for the Royal Christmas Day celebrations. ‘I thought I’d wear this to church tomorrow,’ says Mrs Pumphrey, parading around in a rather attractive plum velvet duster coat with flashing fairy light trim. ‘Very nice,’ says Mrs Slocombe. ‘But my big concern is the King’s Christmas Day speech broadcast. Is Kenneth going ahead with the recording as planned?’ ‘He’s still in bed,’ says Mrs Miggins. ‘Something about having to rest his exhausted artistic temperament and can we take him up a few crumpets a...

A Right Royal Revelatory Riot!

  In the Throne Room, the King Phantomime is stationed on his throne, ready to pull the crocodile pit lever as soon as his rescue is secured and the Grand Duchess Yekaterina tips him the wink. Anna Kissed and Nick Louse, a.k.a the Santanarchist, are playing a tetchy game of ‘Whose Veggie Stew? – the Deluxe Version’. The Granarchist is pacing the floor, annoyed that there still hasn’t been a response to the ransom note. ‘I don’t understand,’ she says. ‘I thought the British public would be in uproar that their King has been kidnapped.’ ‘Per’aps not,’ shrugs Anna Kissed. ‘Per’aps they are, at last, taking the lead from l’histoire de France, and are growing tired with the ‘ole pomp and circumstance of Monarchy. Per’aps they are sharpening Madame Guillotine as we speak,’ and she lets out a slightly maniacal French titter. ‘Mwahehehehe!’ Nick Louse, who is finding his Santanarchist outfit growing increasingly hot and scratchy, suddenly looks up from studying his hand of cards wher...

A Right Royal Trigger Point!

  ‘What on EARTH is going on?’ says Mrs Slocombe, as she and Mrs Pumphrey return to the party with two trolley-loads of fish and chip suppers. Spending time amongst the warmth and lovely smells of a British fish and chip shop has improved her mood enormously but that good mood takes a nose-dive when she finds the Not Forgotten Party in total disarray. The Palace Staff are marching around the edge of the room chanting loudly and waving a few hastily scrawled banners made from table cloths and linen napkins. The guests of the Not Forgotten Party have barricaded themselves in the centre of the room, using all the tables and chairs as a make-shift fortress. There is a lot of shouting going on, mostly about chickens and being hungry, although the Lady Author hastens to add that the two are in no way connected. ‘It’s all gone a bit mad,’ says Mrs Miggins, who is perched high on a side board and defending herself with a pair of rather fine silver Georgian candlesticks. ‘The staff is r...

A Right Royal Party!

  The Not Forgotten Party guests are arriving at Buckingham Palace. Mrs Miggins and Mrs Poo have joined Mrs Pumphrey and Mrs Slocombe, and they are busy taking coats, pointing out directions to the toilets and asking who would like a nice cup of tea. Mrs Miggins is taking fish and chip orders, which the guests are thrilled about, because who doesn’t like a nice fish and chip supper over tiny sandwiches and nibbly things on sticks? ‘I’m always a bit suspicious of those can o’ peas,’ says one guest, a chap of elder years who insists on announcing to all and sundry that, ‘I’m eighty-three, you know.’ ‘Canapés?’ suggests Mrs Slocombe. ‘That’s the badger,’ says the elder gentleman. ‘They’re very small. When you’re eighty-three you need something chunky that won’t get stuck in your dentures or make you choke. Fish and chips are just the ticket!’ Mrs Slocombe is very pleased, because at this point in proceedings, fish and chips are the only option. ‘Right,’ says Mrs Miggins, app...