Stressed by relaxation techniques

Things have been a little hectic lately. Work, the other job that I can't give you the facts of, is manic. I'm editing my third and fourth novels and I'd love to reveal I'm writing the next DC Nina Foster, but that would be a lie. I don't have time at the moment.
Someone recently let me in on a relaxation technique, and it didn't involve alcohol.
I thought it would be worth a try.
The idea was to get as comfortable as possible, close my eyes and imagine I was in a canoe paddling along a stream. The sun is shining and the birds are singing.
Eventually, I paddle up to a clearing and get out of the canoe and lay on the grass and relax, taking in the sounds and scents of all around me.
This was all very well but the last time I canoed anywhere, I was eleven on an adventure holiday. The canoe capsized and I ended up soaked. The memory of this brought about the first concern I had about relaxing in this particular way. Secondly, I worried if I should be wearing a helmet and a life-jacket. I'm not one to be glib about safety.
Next came my concern that once I got out of the canoe, presumably without drowning, hitting my head or getting soaked to the skin without a change of clothes, how would I stop the canoe from drifting away? Would it be too heavy to drag up the bank? Is there a rope to secure it?
My imagination conjured up a small jetty to secure the canoe that would also allow me to crawl out to dry dock. It would, of course, be an undignified exit but I was in a deserted clearing.
Or was I?
The relaxation technique didn't specify where I was. America and Canada have bears and other animals only too happy to rip your face off. England has wasps. I'll admit they aren't as scary but I'm not sure if I'm allergic. I'm now faced with the possibility that my relaxation technique will end with anaphylactic shock and my death. Remember, the place was deserted.
Don't even get me started on where the nearest toilet was.

Love? Seriously?

I would like to warn you now that this post isn't about deep and meaningful thoughts concerning the concept of love.
I don't do that. I leave it to you to make your own mind up as I'll never do it for you. In fact, if I could tell you what it was, I would be writing lyrics.
This is about shop assistants feeling it's acceptable to call me, 'love'. It's something I really have no objection to, just so long as the person doing it isn't a foetus masquerading as a grown-up.
A couple of months ago, I went to buy a new computer. My husband was with me for the entire time that the patronising sales person was with us. He rolled his eyes when we asked if we could have a discount for buying a laptop at the same time. He squeezed out words along the lines of, 'We can't get away with the same discounts we used to give in the '90s'. This was all very well but if I had to guess, I would say that he was probably born in 1995.
No sooner had my husband left the shop to get the car, the sales wally started to call me 'love'.
Not being one to back down from a challenge, albeit a very childish one, I then proceeded to address him as 'cupcake', 'darling', 'sweetheart', and I'll even admit to throwing in a 'sonny'.
Well he started it. And I'm pretty sure that I won.

How do they get away with that?

Something I have never understood is a booking fee for tickets. The price quoted should be the price without any extras being added on.
Have you ever bought a cup of coffee from somewhere, seen that the price for a latte was £3.50, ordered and then been asked for more money? I've never had someone pass me a cup of coffee and say something similar to, "That's £5 please. Don't forget the ordering fee."
I understand that some countries add tax to the price advertised at the point of sale but where in the world adds a drinking fee or a cup fee or an ordering fee?
There is a happy note to my rant in the form of St James Theatre, 12 Palace Street, London SW1E 5JA. And yes they have a website  www.stjamestheatre.co.uk and if you're in London or thinking of paying our capital a visit, please take a look. Not only are they booking fee and credit card fee free, they'll even post your tickets in the UK for £1.00.
I'm not even sure how they manage to cover the price of the stamp and envelope.
Just as important as anything else is that it's a brilliant theatre with lovely staff.
See - I told you it had a happy ending.

I have no idea what I'm doing

It's been a very long time since my last post. Much has happened, some of it is even interesting. I've tried to keep up with technology but I continually embarrass myself.
I miss the days of simplicity when I could take my camera on holiday and snap away to my heart's content and then on my return, take the rolls of films to Boots. Someone with a clue about life would print the pictures and I would count down the minutes until the hour was up before rushing back to get my photos.
Now, I get home and with a sense of dread, I plug the camera into the computer, turn it on and off again, swear, get some wine, run a bath, threaten the computer, shout, 'For crying out loud', or something stronger, get more wine and then perform a much less funny version of Basil Fawlty when his car broke down and he thrashed it with a branch.
We've recently got back from a fantastic holiday in Africa. I have managed to get my photos on the computer, but this has given me a new problem - I've bought a new computer.
If you're reading this (and thank you for taking the time to) and you see a picture of Victoria Falls, an elephant, giraffe or a zebra, I've had a good day as far as technology is concerned. The chances are that it was a fluke and I won't remember how I managed it for next time.

Getting away with murder

Over the last nineteen years, I've worked on a lot of murders. I can't discuss or disclose the details of any of them, of course, but I remember them all. One thought that has often occurred to me is why those who deal with murder in their professional capacity, such as police officers, crime scene investigators, paramedics, scientists, don't commit more murders.
Perhaps they do and just don't get caught. That's a very frightening thought.
I suppose that it comes down to being able to cope mentally after the deed, rather than the practicalities of planning and carrying out a killing.
How long would you be able to live with yourself if you took another life? I know that I'd almost instantly go insane but I wanted to explore the area of historic murders so I wrote the second in the DC Nina Foster series.

Remember, Remember

Have a good feeling about 2015

On the whole, 2014 treated me very kindly. There were a few minor problems along the way, one or two that sent the air around me blue at the time, and a family bereavement.

It was a busy year socially as well as all things writing-related, not to mention my 'other job'. In the last twelve months, I've been fortunate enough to attend book launches, have one of my own, be interviewed for magazine articles, been on the radio twice, taken part in World Book Night, met and spoken to readers in Kent libraries. I've been invited to book clubs, been on panels at First Fictions in West Dean and at Brighton's Dark and Stormy, given after breakfast talks, after lunch talks and after dinner talks, and I've spoken to children at their school. I was invited to all of these things, in case you were wondering. Otherwise the school one would be especially worrying.

I've loved it all and I've met some brilliant people along the way but what made 2014 particularly pleasant was two lovely holidays with my husband, the weddings of friends and relatives, my mother-in-law's eightieth birthday celebrations, friends having babies, finding a new pub and ending the year there with my husband.

The last sentence isn't strictly true as we decided that going out to see the new year in was a little bit raucous for us, so we had lunch there and were at home by 2.30pm. I make no excuses - it's been a busy year and I needed a siesta.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Never-Forget-Lisa-Cutts-ebook/dp/B00CCTWR8U/ref=tmm_kin_title_0

Scones, cream and a seal sanctuary

Last week was spent in Tintagel on the north Cornish coast. What a beautiful place it is too.

The weather held out and we sat eating many fantastic lunches in the sun, drinking Cornish beer in the evening and sampling local seafood.

Due to a dental emergency - I can't say enough good things about St Austell Community Hospital and the NHS helpline - I was dosed up with antibiotics, so spent most of the week on the wagon.

And still I managed to enjoy myself. I think it gives you some idea of what a great week it was.

One evening we met some old friends for a meal at Widemouth Bay. It has a beautiful beach and watched the sun set as we chomped through fish and chips (no, the tooth wasn't that bad). It was a great way to spend the last night of our holiday.

My favourite day out was the Seal Sanctuary at Gweek. I have a bit of a soft spot for seals and it was such a pleasure to spend some time there, hearing about the care and welfare of them. I even eavesdropped on a conversation some of the staff were having as I queued for a Cornish pasty (ok, so it wasn't that painful to eat). The staff were talking about the animals they were looking after in such a caring way, and how they didn't blame them if they bit now and again - they were only frightened.

If you're in the area and get a chance, pay it a visit. You won't be disappointed.

We stayed at the fantastic fully equipped Gilbert Lodge in Bossiney Bay, a short walk from Tintagel where I even managed to get some writing done. Information and bookings here

Blog Tour and writing processes

Many thanks to Adrian Magson for asking me to take part in this blog tour. It's something I've never been a part of before, and other than my gratitude to him for the invite, I'm also really pleased he explained to me exactly what I had to do.
Adrian is the author of 16 spy and crime thrillers, short fiction anthologies and writes book reviews for Shots magazine. In addition, he also writes a column for Writing Magazine which I had the pleasure of appearing in last April. Adrian Magson




What am I currently working on?

Remember, Remember is the second book in the Nina Foster series and is due to go to print on Tuesday 27th May 2014. It has been intense finishing the editing straight after completing Never Forget but worth the hard work. I am thinking of starting another police procedural series, but have to confess, I've done no more than think about it. I'm certainly not leaving Nina Foster behind. She's here to stay.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

As a serving police officer who investigates murders for a living, my books have an authenticity about them. Everything that happens in the books could happen in real life, and if I was working on an actual murder, the working practices and procedures I use in my job as a detective constable, are the same as the ones I write about in my books.

Why do I write what I do?

Murder investigations are fascinating and people are intrigued about the work of police officers. I wanted to write accurate crime fiction with believable police characters, and most importantly of all, I was desperate to show the team work involved. It's not about one lone detective doing everything, but a team of dozens and every murder investigation will involve in excess of two hundred police officers and police civilian employees to bring it to a successful conclusion.

How does your writing process work?

I have to make myself sit down and get on with it. Working full-time and often unpredictable hours means that I write when I find the time. It's never been a case of setting a target for a number of words or writing on particular days of the week or times of the day.
Once I have the first draft, I ask my husband to read it. He's good at spotting errors and will say if something doesn't read quite right. It's then a matter of taking a deep breath and sending it to my publishers to wait for the editing to begin...


Next week Caroline Mitchell is taking over. She is the author of the fantastic Paranormal Intruder, a true life story of paranormal activity in a family's home.
You can catch up with her on her blog here.

The President's Wife is a Cheeseboard

My hearing has always been good. Granted, I am often lost deep in thought and conversations take place around me with little notice on my part. When I am paying attention, I am all ears. Therefore, it surprises me when I frequently mishear the odd word. The situation has everything to do with the quality of listening, and not only the acoustics. The setting prepares you for the type of conversation you're likely to have or witness going on around you. Sometimes, you're just not prepared for what you're about to hear, largely because it's so out of context.
Visit any city or large town in Western Europe or the US (I can't comment on the rest of the world as my travel to these places is limited) and the chances are that a coffee shop, bar or restaurant may well be staffed by those from overseas. This is never an issue when there isn't much background noise, the waiter/server doesn't have a strong accent and I'm sober. A combination of all three is bound to end in confusion.
A very pleasant dinner in a New York restaurant was topped off by the waiter asking if myself or my husband would like a dessert. It's true that we had consumed a few drinks, it was busy and I don't think the waiter was a local either, but in answer to our boozy nods, he informed us that, "The President's wife is a cheeseboard."
I still have no idea what we ordered.

One of the reasons why my husband needs a job.

When my husband retired three years ago, we decided that it would be a good idea if he took over the running of the house, including the housework. This suited me down to the ground, as apart from never having to clean the bathroom again, I had more time to myself on the weekends.
Within a year of his retirement, I'd started to write and so I was even more grateful for my lack of household chores.
Lately, I've wondered if he should seek some form of employment. It's not the money, although a few extra quid here and there would come in handy. My change of heart is more to do with his reaction whenever the phone rings. He seems quite excited to talk to whoever's on the other end of the line. Mostly, the callers are trying to sell something or tell us about the compensation we can claim for an accident we've been in. Neither of us have been in an accident for about ten years and I do take exception to people ringing me at home, disturbing my time to sell me something I don't want.
My husband takes this one step further by goading them. I must admit, it's pretty funny.
So far, I've heard him refuse to confirm his name, meaning that he couldn't take part in a survey. His reply was, "So, let me get this right - if you can't confirm who I am, you won't let me take part in your survey. You mean the survey I don't want to take part in anyway."

He seemed surprised when the caller ended the call on him.
Hardly a day goes by without him having one of these calls. It seems to be his new hobby. I suppose it's cheaper than golf.

Don't let your husband retire unless you want to hit yourself on the head with packets of tea

Perhaps I should explain that my husband is tall and I am short. This will come in handy later to get the full understanding of my plight.
Three years ago, we moved house. As is often the case with most couples, I arranged the kitchen and placed the most frequently used items where they were easier to reach. This also included anything brought out only on high days and holidays remaining on the highest shelf, but still within grasp of my stubby little fingers.
All that changed when my husband retired and took over the running of the house. My carefully thought out plan of what went where in the cupboards was abandoned. In came his idea of where everything should go.
Many aspects of this new arrangement appealed to me - no more supermarket shopping for a start. The problem with this setup is that currently I have no idea how much anything costs. The price of everything has gone up so much too since I've been relieved of my food shopping duties. This means that I'm clueless whether 80p is a fair price for a pint of milk or not. Fear not though as I'm completely aware how much I should pay for a bottle of decent red wine.
Frequently, I perform daredevil feats in my own home by flicking packets of teabags from the top shelf with the tip of a steak knife. Too lazy to get a chair, I much prefer the excitement of whether the serrated knife will pierce the bag and leave a dusting of tea everywhere. If I'm having a slow day, the object will sometimes land on me. I've yet to drop the knife on my toes but it's bound to happen. The wine is kept at grab level and the corkscrew's in the drawer. Think you can see where I'm going with this...

If bees make honey, do wasps make jam?

The answer to that, is clearly, no, they don't.
Last Sunday, I took my dad along to a village in Kent for a one day bee keeping course. It was a belated birthday present for him but I admit, it was my suggestion, due to my own interest in all things bees.
Wasps frighten the life out of me. I have a hatred of them. Anyone with an ounce of environmental knowledge, will tell you how vital they are to the natural order of things. Aside from their lack of jam making, they still sting and hurt like heck. Bees do that too, I'm well aware, but the downside for bees is that they die when they've stung you. Give me one-sting-wonders any day over multi pain inflicters. Add to that the bonus of honey bees providing one of the tastiest natural products known to man (and insects) and I'm much more prepared to face the hives.
I'm not scared of bees - honest but if you're going to walk towards the home of hundreds of them and then take away their food, it's a good idea to be prepared. A bee suit is essential, along with an attached face mask, Wellington boots and gloves. It doesn't make a particularly attractive outfit, but style was the last thing on my mind.
What I did have, however, were several bees on the face mask and a few on the suit. It wasn't particularly unnerving when they were on me, as it was protective wear at the end of the day. The odd part was feeling them land. I hadn't expected that.
All that aside, it was a brilliant day, looking at a number of bee hives, learning about honey bees and how to take care of them if you are seriously thinking of beekeeping.
What made it even better, was the fantastic food and refreshments provided and honey harvested from the bees on the day. I'm glad to say, the organisers had the job of leaving the hives with the honey and my suit was well and truly zipped up until we were a very safe distance away.

Fantastic day and thanks to Nick and Jennifer Mengham at www.mrbumble.biz

My husband's trousers fell down. Shall we retrace our steps from there?

So they say, if you've lost something, you should work backwards and try to recall what you did with the missing item. What if it's your sanity?
Tonight, my husband lost his trousers in the garden. What happened before that? That's right - I was at Sainsbury's Canterbury and met some lovely people, including one lady called Nina. I was particularly pleased to meet her as my protagonist is called Nina. I'm not sure she believed me but she was kind enough to stop for a photograph. We sold seventy books to the good folk of Kent and I met lots of brilliant people. Some were courtesy of my friend Elizabeth Haynes who was kind enough to tell them I was in Sainsbury's signing books.
A few days before that, I was on the Pat Marsh BBC Kent radio show. That was amazing and I was made to feel very welcome. I was nervous for the usual reasons but mainly because my friends and colleagues from work were listening in - just in case. I'm satisfied I didn't disgrace them or myself.
Before that, I found myself in Alfriston, East Sussex, having been asked to join in with a question and answer session relating to all things publishing. Apart from meeting some enthusiastic and charming people in the audience, the owners of Much Ado Books, Cate and Nash, gave me a very warm welcome. They have a truly gorgeous bookshop.
Oh yes, and before that, I was at my book launch. It was arranged by Myriad Editions, my amazing publishers who booked me a Pizza Restaurant venue. In my line of work, a pizza is a thing of beauty. I couldn't have asked for more. If I had, I would have been granted a wish of about 100 friends and family helping me to celebrate the release of my book and buying numerous copies, just before I made a speech.
Oh that's where I left my sanity. I was so worried about walking away from the microphone to grab a drink, by the time I'd finished talking, my top lip had stuck to my upper teeth. It's not a look I recommend to anyone.

Two weddings, a leaving do and a birthday party.

I doubt I'm the only one who enjoys a bank holiday weekend. Last weekend was spent in Oxfordshire, helping friends celebrate their fantastic wedding. An extra day off helped energy levels return to normal before I set off towards the working week.
Within days I was at another wedding reception and looking forward to the end of another week. This brought with it a leaving do, lunch with a friend and my dad's birthday party. All this within eight days really should have been my warning to make Sunday a day of rest as intended. Instead, I had the great idea that as the sun was shining, I would make a start on the garden.
In theory, it was a good idea. I bought plants, gathered pots and as shown by my dad and Monty Don, (one in person, the other via the television), soaked the plants in preparation for their new homes. Feeling pleased with myself, this was the point I made my way towards the multi compost bag. I hate wasps. It's important you know this. It's also relevant that you know I've done little gardening in the last twelve months. Do you know that if you leave an open bag of compost for long enough, wasps will make a nest in it?
I wasn't aware of this until I went to put my hand in the bag.
After ten minutes of running towards the bag, attempting and failing to extract compost from it, then legging it in the other direction from attacking wasps, I gave up. The dog thought it was great fun. Monty Don's dog doesn't trip him up, but then in fairness, I've never seen Monty run like a girl smacking his arms and shouting, "Is it on my back? I'm sure it's in my hair."
Fortunately, when my husband stopped hitting the bag of soil with a rake, he saved the day by going to the shops and buying me some more. That bit probably gets edited out of 'Gardeners' World' every week.

Lost for words

That's not a good title for someone who says they are a writer. I've been trying to find something to blog about for the last week. I should have no problem as I do a very interesting day job (but I can't write about it here), and I've just come back from a fantastic week in Norway, cruising up and down the fjords. Please don't misunderstand my choice of words as the ship's captain took care of the logistics of it all - I was merely along for the view, food and drink.
Since then, so much has happened that it all seems a little surreal. We drove back from Southampton docks, stopping at the services to buy June's issue of Writing Magazine containing a new author profile about me and my novel. It was fantastic to read, but a bit strange to see a photograph of myself in such circumstances. My book, Never Forget, has gone on sale airside at WH Smith shops in airports ahead of the publication date of 11th July.  Plus my launch date and venue have been confirmed, lots of family and friends are attending and I've actually signed a couple of copies for people who have been kind enough to buy them. Oh and then someone at work flew from Heathrow and bought a copy, and to top it all, Sainsbury's are stocking the book in 90 stores in the south east of England.
Thankfully, I drink, or it really could all be too much.
There's so much going on at the moment, no wonder I'm confused. I was supposed to meet a friend today at the gym but I had a siesta instead. I thought about telling fibs when I failed to show up. I am writing fiction after all, but then I figured to be a good liar, you need a good memory. I've forgotten two birthdays this week. I have no chance of subterfuge. Just cough up - makes life so much easier.

Why does the weekend fly by so fast?

True, it often involves too much wine so some of it is forgotten or indeed, not remembered in the first place. My husband suggested going out on Friday night when I got home from work, so a short taxi ride and ten quid later, we were in a pub. It started there and ended in a fantastic Gurkha restaurant.
The bill was reasonable. Pretty much a fifty fifty split between booze and food. I definitely paid. I have the credit card receipt to prove it.
The cab ride home is very hazy.
This morning we felt a little jaded but as it wasn't the dog's fault, LG the lively Lab, got his walk. We even indulged him in a game of 'Throw the Stick'. The only rule is once he cocks his leg on it, we find another stick.
Feeling a little bit more together, we decided to go out for a late breakfast to Tenterden. It's a lovely place in Kent with several good places to eat. We found one serving breakfast which like the Gurkha restaurant on the night before, was fantastic.
When we got home, I opened the door to find LG cowering and shaking on the floor. Don't get me wrong, he's a good guard dog and had barked as I approached the house but on realising I actually had a key, he knew he was in trouble. Concerned as to why he was behaving this way, we checked the house but couldn't find what he'd done wrong. It seems that he just automatically worries now when we come home.
Made me think back to our return home the previous night after falling out of the cab. Whatever he may have been told off for then, he's managed to get away with it because neither of us can remember that either.

Wrap up warm: it's an English Easter

Last Sunday was my forty-second birthday. It was a great day, beginning with walking the dog, followed by opening presents and cards. The excitement over, I read a book and had a siesta. Well, it was my birthday. To complete celebrations, that evening, we took a taxi to town, had a meal and then got another cab straight back home. The intention had been to venture to a pub after eating but we decided to call it a night. We were indoors before ten o'clock. Yeah, I know - we're hell-raisers.

It certainly was a bonus to have my birthday on Easter Sunday so I could take full advantage of the four day weekend and devour an Easter egg in one sitting.

The one thing I hadn't expected was the weather to be so cold.

I'm aware that you feel the cold more as you get older but I'm not sure turning forty-two means that I have to wear a hat, scarf, gloves and coat to go to the shops from now on. The high point of my week off was my publishers, Myriad Editions, informing me that my book, Never Forget, was on press. This was great news and I even loosened my woolly scarf in celebration, although the mittens I was wearing hindered me slightly.

My other news, not nearly as exciting as this, but still, I think you'll agree, quite an event, was the discovery that the car we've owned for two years, has a heated seat function. Now that was worth finding out. Reading is one of my favourite pastimes so I'm looking forward to sitting in the car with the seats warming my posterior while I read one of the books I was given as birthday presents. The only flaw in my plan is that I'll have to be sober when sitting in the driver's seat. On second thoughts, it's not that cold in the house...

Singapore Slings and Skype

Friday night was spent in the company of some very good friends. One, sadly, couldn't make it due to work and 250 miles between her and us. Not to be deterred or show our age, we Skyped her. Admittedly, the link cut out about four times and technology hasn't moved on enough to allow her to join in the Singapore Slings or very fine meal cooked by our host. To show my appreciation, I ate two helpings. I didn't want to look like I wasn't enjoying myself, did I?

We're now in our thirty-first year of friendship. You'd have thought that we'd have ran out of things to say, but no, we covered a number of topics and there was never a lull in the conversation. Even with generous amounts of food and a dessert (I abstained in case I exploded), there was little break in the conversation.

One of the many things we talked about was that my friends are very much looking forward to my book launch. Some of them have pre-ordered 'Never Forget' on Amazon. I was quite touched by that. Just hope that I live up to their expectations. No pressure then...

It's all about the vowels.

Listening to someone's accent can distract me from the business of hearing what they're saying. It comes down to the way someone is speaking being more important than the content. Despite that, I always listen intently to every word from my friend from Belfast, who despite having lived in England for some twenty years, has not, to my ears anyway, lost her accent. Everything she says, brightens my day.
Hearing her say 'darling' or 'film' in her Northern Irish accent still make me smile. I was especially pleased to have her tell me one of her latest tales involving her midwife's appointment weeks ahead of her baby's arrival in March.
"There was a bit of a communication issue regarding accents," she told me.
"Oh," I said, "where was the midwife from?"
"She was English," my friend replied. "It was my accent that caused the problem."
I promise that I have her permission to tell you the misunderstanding that followed.
"I asked her if it was normal for there to be so much pain when I'm walking for more than a couple of minutes?" she told me.
As soon as I heard my friend say this, I started to laugh. If you don't have the good fortune to have a Northern Irish friend, try saying 'pain' but emphasizing the a and doubling the vowel sound.
The midwife's response was to tell her to practice her pelvic floor exercises and marked her notes up as 'stress incontinent.'

Good luck to you both next month. xx

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.