Keep in touch - it's always sincere...

Bit sad that I still get a sense of excitement when the postman delivers letters to my house. It's usually short lived: a leaflet enticing me to sell my old clothes by the kilo (I'm sure I've got a heavy, itchy cable sweater somewhere) and an array of bills. The initial feeling of 'ah, someone's written' is replaced by 'blimey, when's payday?'

That excitement over with for the day, I then turn to my email to see if anyone cares and wants to say hello.  Like many people, I get a lot of emails, many via Twitter, and these I love reading. Turning on my computer and checking my spam, is a different task. Today, I had 45 spam emails. My life expectancy wouldn't allow for me to need that many pre-approved credit card applications, dates with men that the internet swears are all gorgeous, todger enhancement, AND parcels that someone had tried to deliver but couldn't so would I just provide all of my personal details via email for its redelivery?

Problem is, I'm not expecting a parcel. Unless of course it's the member extension I ordered via the internet. These people would have to get up really early to catch me out.

Presents under the tree are tempting even at my age

Like many others, I'm looking forward to Christmas. Today, however, the excitement was taken up a notch when my husband wrapped a number of presents and placed them under the tree. I refuse to take all of the blame for being a big kid and wanting to rummage around the gift-wrapped goodies - I've just recovered from flu. That's my excuse and I'm sticking to it.
Aching limbs, headache and a need to fester in bed have killed any kind of the usual build up of festivities for me. Last week, I even missed my office Christmas do. That really was a shame. There was not a chance I could have managed to be there but even so, I was miffed that I missed out. Many of my colleagues and friends were saddened that I wasn't hanging around their necks telling them, "I really love you" at two o'clock in the morning. I was of course, sorry to disappoint them all.
The way things stand at the moment, I have written my cards, purchased and wrapped the presents and with the exception of one or two gifts, they have all been distributed to family and friends. We have a freezer and cupboards full of yuletide food, so we're just about done.
Why then have my husband and I, twice, had the saddest conversation, plotting our outing to the supermarket to buy the last chance milk, bread and vegetables?
Every year we mock those who panic purchase in the shops, saying "But they're only shut for two days. They'll be open again after Boxing Day. What's the problem?" And what have we done? We've conspired to get the better of every other shopper with our Christmas Eve consumables manoeuvres. The suggestions so far consist of getting up at 5am as the supermarket opens at 6am, or one of us circling the car park waiting on the other buying the goods for a quick getaway, or we settle for frozen everything.
Living in the Garden of England stops me opting for the latter so I've decided that next year, I'm planting my own spuds and sprouts to have with the turkey. Though to see the plan through, I'm going to have to find room to build a bread oven and keep a cow. That will definitely take the stress out of Christmas.
Have a peaceful and happy Christmas and prosperous 2013.

Florida and its top shelf

A couple of years ago, my husband and I were on holiday in Florida. At that time, my husband still smoked. Fear not, I put an end to that avenue of pleasure shortly after the holiday. As we perused the shops on a wander through mall after mall, we stumbled upon a store which appeared from the doorway to sell all things tobacco related. From memory, the premises was fifteen by thirty feet but was most definitely staffed entirely of people aged at least seventy.
Bored out of my mind, I followed my husband into the shop, past the wire racking inside the front door. It hadn't registered with me as I entered the premises that the shelving was facing away from those looking in from the outside.
As we made our way around the walls in an anti-clockwise direction (I've no idea why I still recall the route we took), I glanced at tobacco, pipes, boxes of cigars, sporadically saying hello to the septuagenarian shop workers until once more, I reached the front door.
Only at that moment did I see the full extent of the merchandise on sale, strategically placed away from innocent eyes. The wire racking feet from the shop front was full of porn.
I will admit that it slightly threw me. America is a land of enterprise and opportunity so why not sell someone a pipe and something to while away the evening between smokes? That wasn't the part that caused me to stop and take stock.
The thing that will always stick in my memory was the handwritten sign suspended above the porn that read 'If you don't see what you require please ask a server.'
Is this why so many Brits go to to Florida for their holidays?

Shopping - the final frontier

Browsing the shops, picking out costly but pointless bric-a-brac used to be a favourite of mine. Lately, I can't say I've been particularly bothered about wandering the High Street, searching out bargains.
Could it be the economic downturn? The double dip recession? (No, I don't fully understand that one either but figure it must mean that now I'm really, really broke instead of simply really broke.)
It's true that like many people, I haven't had a pay rise for some considerable time but it's not solely about the money. Shopping is stressful.
It begins with traffic queues and trying to find a parking space. Parking in much of the UK is a skill. I feel that we missed out in the Olympics and should have introduced this as an event. I'm sure it would have won us another gold medal. Having spent many holidays in both the USA and France, the ease of parking always amazes me. With the exception of the centre of main cities, parking is often free of charge in these countries. I do realise that there is more space than we have here per person but it does mean that a shopping trip is made that little bit easier.
I'm more in the mood to spend money I don't have when the trip has started on the right foot. Having driven through a congested town, queued for the entrance, patrolled around the dingy car park all eagle-eyed, shouting 'there's one' when I spot an empty parking bay with the enthusiasm that should be reserved for seeing a leopard in Kruger National Park, I usually feel momentarily delighted when I reverse in. Yes, that's right fellas - when I reverse in.
I never pull into a parking spot without taking the trouble to leave it facing my direction of departure. I never know when I'll have to make a quick getaway. It's one of the rules I have. Another is that I use my debit and credit card as often as I can. My rationale for this is that you should always leave an electronic trail. It gives the Police something to follow if you're murdered.

Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking...

Several months ago, my dad asked me to attend a Freemason Ladies' Festival with him. He asked if as the President's Lady, I'd mind delivering a speech.
I said, "Yes, not a problem, dad."
The weeks flew by and the weekend was upon us. Until last week, I think it's fair to sum up my knowledge of all things Freemasonry as nil.
Several members of my family were in attendance as well as about 50 complete strangers. I like both a challenge and the chance to get involved in new situations, so I was more than happy to be there and be part of something completely different. My lack of research, however, was to come back to bite me.
It really was a great weekend, spent in the early autumn sunshine when such weather feels like you've cheated nature in some way by avoiding October winds and lashing rain. The two days were filled with good food, fantastic company and enough alcohol to quench anyone's thirst. Not knowing what to expect of the weekend, I had no preconceived ideas. I was given a very warm welcome by the North Star Lodge and the other guests, and would like to thank them for their friendliness and encouragement.
My big moment came when I stood up to give my speech. It seemed to go without incident and they laughed in the right places. Relieved it was over, I was able once more to down some wine without having to worry about slurring and making a fool of myself. Or so I thought.
This was where my lack of fact-finding prior to the event took more of a chunk than a bite out of me.
"Ready for the first dance with your dad?" asked the Toastmaster.
"My what?" I asked.
"Can you waltz?" my dad asked.
"No," I said.
I didn't stand a chance. Following three embarrassing sweeps of the dance floor, I asked, "Can't I just do the speech again? That was less humiliating."
Not to worry, I think only about 50 people were watching.

The curly edge of friendship

This year has seen large scale celebrations in Great Britain along the lines of the Queen's Diamond Jubilee and the Olympics. My own celebrations were on a much more modest scale with six close friends enjoying a day out in London yesterday.
Thirty years ago, hideous brand new blazers on our backs, we all set foot in our secondary school for our first day. Good fortune put us in the same class. Over the next couple of years, we became friends sharing the ups and downs that accompany being teenage girls, though it was missing today's complications of Facebook, texting, instant messaging and cyber bullying. A Walkman taking four AA batteries was an object of desire in the 1980's.
The seven of us realise that despite living farther away from each other than we used to, despite the husbands, children, jobs and geography, it's something unusual that we're all still friends and remain in touch. As well as other gatherings, every five years, we arrange a day out and yesterday to mark our 30th anniversary, we met up to laugh and talk our way through the afternoon and evening.
After meeting in a pub along the Strand for a libation we then headed to a nearby hotel for afternoon tea (I said it was a celebration - I never said that we were hell-raisers). It wasn't a cheap day out for any of us and I was dismayed to find that after waiting some time for the sandwiches the size of postage stamps and a glass of champagne at the princely sum of £35, the bread was hard. Two out of seven of us had been given food clearly on the turn. We complained. Very un- British but thirty five quid is thirty five quid.
Fairness to the manager, we all got replacement sandwiches. The other five had eaten their allotted trio of tiny triangles so a row was on the horizon. After thirty years, we're not worried about shouting the odds over an egg and cress sarnie. Squabble quashed by the careful dibs of the unexpected treasure, we carried on with the cakes and scones.
Heading off to another bar, high on a sugar rush, we drank some more and wandered in the direction of our next instalment in the form of 'Rock of Ages'. Before we disappeared into the theatre, we tried to come up with a date for our next get-together. Diaries and planners at the ready, we crossed off one weekend after another before coming up with the next available date that all of us could manage - Friday 4th January 2013. Hope wherever we book doesn't make the sandwiches too far in advance.

Writing without any pressures isn't for me.

Having moaned like heck and told everyone how hard done by I was that I didn't have time to write because I was under pressure, had too many distractions (our hefty Labrador climbing on my lap for a start when I write), work, you know the usual excuses, Dr Who is on the telly, I thought that my week at West Dean, Chichester would be just the ticket.
In short, it's a fantastic place with beautiful scenery, fantastic people, a relaxed atmosphere and incredibly good food. I was lucky enough to have won a week's residential stay courtesy of Myriad Editions back in May and took my week's stay two weeks ago.
I arrived on Sunday 16th September and was allocated a room in the Old Vicarage. I couldn't have asked for a better room. Its double doors gave me great views of the gardens but I was far enough from the main building so that I was completely undisturbed. I think that this may have been my problem.
My first afternoon, I got to my room, unpacked, opened the doors to the garden, got my laptop out and  prepared myself to write. There was only one problem - without the pressure of 'I must write now while I have an hour', I couldn't think of anything to write.
The plan was to start on book two. It was looking like more of a pamphlet at this stage. My progress was slow until the next day when something clicked into place and I got cracking. I'm even pleased with a lot of the work I did. I wrote 20000 words and spent two days working on my third lot of edits for All Fall Down. This may not sound very impressive but this was on top of three meals per day, morning coffee, afternoon tea and the bar opening at 6pm. All in all, I think that I did pretty well.
Perhaps I've hit the nail on the head - it was the pressure of having to be at the dining room five times a day that inspired me to well and truly pull my finger out and get scribbling. That's my excuse for a tea break sorted then.