Not goodbye, just au revoir

And yes, I’m afraid it’s a journalistic-style lunch (ie, one where you drink too much and don’t bother going back to the office in the afternoon). As I’m sure it’s patently obvious from my shocking lack of posts recently, at present I really don’t have time to blog, so I’ve decided to let myself off the hook and have a break from it.

(My excuses for this, if you’re interested, include various things such as moving house, my need to get on with book 3, crazy busy-ness at work and rather more depressingly, not really having much of interest to say.)

For those of you who remain interested in the minutiae of my life, please feel free to follow me on Twitter.

I will be back, one day, I promise!

For Apprentice fans

Worryingly, the first section was the hardest…

Another meme, because life is all hectic at the moment so I don’t have time to use my imagination. I stole this one from Emily, whose blog Doing the Compossible is so well-written and amusing that I suffer from serious blog envy whenever I read it. So, this is called ‘8 Things’ apparently…

8 Things I Like
- Mobile phones without stupid touch screens. Mark my words, the humble button WILL rise again
- Clean sheets
- Talking to my friend Amy in the kitchen at work, over tea and pilfered biscuits
- Super-early nights (like 8pm… Woo, what a joy!)
- Walking along the Thames on my own, with my iPod on loud
- My best school-friend Lilly’s four kids: Max, Sophia, Liza and Thomas. They are the most adorable children in the world (see photo above for proof)
- My sister’s dress sense
- Learning new things, esp techy things

8 Things I Did Yesterday
- Met a Polish man by Hammersmith tube to sell him my old phone (£180! God bless the Gumtree)
- Spent a fair portion of the £180 on lunch at the Blue Anchor. Put the rest in my knicker drawer
- Went to B&Q to buy paint and a pattress box (not as interesting as it sounds)
- Dropped off the paint at my house and said hello to my Mum, and the bunnies
- Squabbled furiously with The Musician about various things, including but not limited to: whether or not we want to buy the Saab 93 convertible we test drove on Saturday, where to put up his new smoke alarm, whether or not he should sell the yucky leather sofa his ex-girlfriend left him, what we will both dress up as for my friend’s ‘Whores and Deviants’ flat warming on Saturday
- Ate two bowls of muesli – one for breakfast and one for dinner
- Fell in love with the new Fiat 500
- Arranged lunch with my friend Julia

8 Things I Wish I Could Do
- Play the drums
- Motivate myself to write more
- Make confident small talk with strangers/friends-of-friends at parties and work colleagues in lifts
- Use the phone without getting nervous (I have serious telephone-obia)
- Eat cheese without getting ill
- Afford to buy a big house in Battersea
- Afford to buy a holiday home in Dartmouth
- Stop looking back and over-analysing everything

8 Things I Don’t Like
- Sitting with my back to the room in a restaurant. This is a serious phobia, I HAVE to have my back to the wall or I break out in a nervous sweat (apologies to all my dear friends who put up with this idiosyncrasy)
- Violence against animals or old people – or violence in general really
- Liars
- People who stand behind you on escalators and put their hands up so high on the rail you can see them. Freaks me out. What are they trying to do? Hug me from behind?
- People who get in lifts to go up or down one floor – GRRRR, lazy lazy lazy
- Having cold feet and hands, which is sadly often, even in summer
- People talking to me at work when I’m concentrating on something. I can be woefully anti-social
- Being disappointed by a book I thought would be great

And now I tag: anyone who also has a blog and a lack-of-imagination problem.

Post-holiday chirpiness

Hello! I’m back from my wonderfully relaxing week of Doing Nothing in Mykonos, and am feeling uncharacteristically positive and happy and pleased about stuff. To understand why, take a look at this:

What a view, eh? It was so awe-inspiring that I only managed to read four books – such was the challenge of tearing my eyes from the scenery. (If anyone is interested, my favourite book of the four was a chick-lit one – shock horror! 50 Ways To Find a Lover is both funny and cute and realistic and not annoying and stuffed full of great writing and original metaphors. Read it!)

Anyway, a week of looking at that, and it’s IMPOSSIBLE to feel down. So, before this wears off, as it undoubtedly will after a week’s worth of tube commuting, I have decided to share my ‘I’m so positive and happy and determined to take control of my future’ holiday resolutions with you. Et alors, from now on:

• I will get up at 7.10am on weekdays so that I am no longer the last person on our team to arrive at work, huffing and puffing as I leg it from the tube. Also, I will not hang around Hammersmith tube station in the mornings watching train after train depart in the vain hope that the next one will magically have a free seat, which I will magically secure despite the masses of competition. It never happens.

• In order to get up at 7.10am on weekdays and not be in need of intravenous caffeine injections in order to stay awake at work, I will go to bed no later than 11pm on school nights. No exceptions are allowed. Not award ceremonies, or press parties or impromptu drunken nights with workmates in the Refinery bar.

• I will work on my edits for book 2 for at least an hour every day. I will not waste this hour on WriteWords or Facebook or other people’s blogs or BBC News or StatCounter or stalking people I shouldn’t be stalking. In fact, I might even turn off the WiFi box for the duration of said hour (NB: emphasis on ‘might’).

• I will inject the heroine of book 2, Holly, with an effervescent-yet-endearing personality to stop all my beta readers from saying she’s a whinging bore they can’t sympathise with.

• I will make sure The Musician finishes the screenplay version of my first novel, which we will then sell to the BBC as a three-part drama, for a six-figure sum, making us both rich. And then I will insist on a writer’s cameo as a guest at Lucy’s wedding (don’t worry, tis a non-speaking part).

• I will resist the temptation to slope up to the canteen at 10.57am every day in search of a Wispa or three.

• I will persuade The Musician that despite him never realising it before, his true heart’s desire is actually to live in Wandsworth, as close to the river as is fiscally possible, near to all my friends and my work and my beloved Battersea.

• I will make more effort to promote my blog, to (hopefully) increase my rapidly dwindling comments-per-post tally.

• I will email my agent once my edits are underway and be positive and happy about my writing and make her remember why she took me on in the first place.

• I will declare a ceasefire on London cyclists, despite their incessant determination to mow me down. But bear in mind this has to work both ways, you helmet-heads.

Wish me luck!

Britain’s got talent?

No, don’t worry, I’m not jumping on the Susan Boyle bandwagon.

However, against my better judgement, I have indeed succumbed to the televisual drug of heart-wrenching backstories and countless replays of R Kelly’s I Believe I Can Fly. Yes, I am now one of those people who let out pathetic squeals of excitement on Saturday afternoons because they remember Britain’s Got Talent is on later. I think I might even prefer it to the X Factor. But thanks to my ridiculously empathetic nature – I can’t even watch fights on TV because they make me cry, despite people reminding me over and over again that ‘it’s not real’ – I’ve realised that I genuinely only enjoy watching the acts that are good. The awful, sad, delusional ones leave me mystified, horrified and like many people I’m sure, hiding behind my hands. How can it be? Surely they know they’re terrible? Surely, surely, surely? Do these people have no friends at all? Not even a family member prepared to do the ‘cruel to be kind thing’ and stamp on their dreams to save them from national humiliation? I can’t understand it.

Once the audience get going too, shouting ‘Off, off, off’ and punching their arms in the air, I find the whole thing just unbearably painful to watch. I imagine it’s the 21st century equivalent of the gladiatorial games, except, obviously, no one dies at the end. Well, not on stage anyway. But how many of them go away wanting to kill themselves? Maybe none. Maybe the thing – a total and utter lack of self-awareness – that makes them go up there in the first place is the very thing that makes them completely immune to the name-calling and the sarcasm and the sniggers. I dunno.

And then, of course, there’s the other category: the people who are OK. Nothing special, nothing outstanding or jaw-dropping, but above average at whatever it is they’re undertaking. A bit like the aforementioned Susan Boyle – let’s be honest, if she didn’t look the way she did, if you shut your eyes and listened to her voice, you wouldn’t think she was anything that extraordinary. A pretty good singer, but there are a heck of a lot of people out there who can sing. It was only the preconception people had when they first saw her that made her stand out from the rest. The Musician once said that the ‘cream will always rise to the top’ (I hate this expression btw. What cream?! And what’s it rising on?!) but I’m not so sure. There are plenty of incredibly talented people who don’t make it, and plenty of people who quite frankly aren’t but do. Surely the only thing dividing them is a little bit of luck?

But anyway, since I’m now stuck in the depressing quagmire of a massive re-write/overhaul/deconstruction-reconstruction of book two, I’ve begun to wonder if maybe I’m deluded about my aspiration to become a published author. I know I can write well enough but who knows if I’ve got enough talent or luck to stand out from the crowd and get a publishing deal? I guess the only way to find out is to stick myself up there and wait to be judged, but sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if ignorance isn’t bliss, and maybe I’m better off just writing for myself instead of for my agent and, further down the line, editors.

I’m lucky because I truly enjoy writing for writing’s sake, and perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps all those terrible singers, appalling drag acts and hopeless musicians and clumsy jugglers and mal-coordinated baton-twirlers forget what Simon Cowell and his cronies said, and go home and carry on doing what they do in front of the mirror, enjoying it just as much. I hope so anyway.

I love this

Had forgotten quite how much!

Procrastinatory navel-gazing

Like any author with a serious re-write to undertake, I’ve lately become the master of procrastination. And the most recent distraction I’ve used to push my novel to the back of my mind is this:

Myers-Briggs Personality Test

Apparently I’m a ‘Counselor’ or an ‘INFJ.’ Here’s a loooong description of what that actually means (at the top of the results page was a pic of Gandhi. I’m not quite sure I’m in his league somehow, but am feeling rather smug about this nonetheless):

Counselors have an exceptionally strong desire to contribute to the welfare of others, and find great personal fulfillment interacting with people, nurturing their personal development, guiding them to realize their human potential. Although they are happy working at jobs (such as writing) that require solitude and close attention, Counselors do quite well with individuals or groups of people, provided that the personal interactions are not superficial, and that they find some quiet, private time every now and then to recharge their batteries. Counselors are both kind and positive in their handling of others; they are great listeners and seem naturally interested in helping people with their personal problems. Not usually visible leaders, Counselors prefer to work intensely with those close to them, especially on a one-to-one basis, quietly exerting their influence behind the scenes.

Counselors are scarce, little more than one percent of the population, and can be hard to get to know, since they tend not to share their innermost thoughts or their powerful emotional reactions except with their loved ones. They are highly private people, with an unusually rich, complicated inner life. Friends or colleagues who have known them for years may find sides emerging which come as a surprise. Not that Counselors are flighty or scattered; they value their integrity a great deal, but they have mysterious, intricately woven personalities which sometimes puzzle even them.

Counselors tend to work effectively in organizations. They value staff harmony and make every effort to help an organization run smoothly and pleasantly. They understand and use human systems creatively, and are good at consulting and cooperating with others. As employees or employers, Counselors are concerned with people’s feelings and are able to act as a barometer of the feelings within the organization.

Blessed with vivid imaginations, Counselors are often seen as the most poetical of all the types, and in fact they use a lot of poetic imagery in their everyday language. Their great talent for language-both written and spoken-is usually directed toward communicating with people in a personalized way. Counselors are highly intuitive and can recognize another’s emotions or intentions – good or evil – even before that person is aware of them. Counselors themselves can seldom tell how they came to read others’ feelings so keenly. This extreme sensitivity to others could very well be the basis of the Counselor’s remarkable ability to experience a whole array of psychic phenomena.

Must admit I was a bit cynical at first, but the reference to writing got me, and the bit about loving working on my own, and needing time on my own, is VERY me! Plus I’ve always fancied myself as a little bit psychic. However that stuff about being incredibly private, as you are probably aware by now, definitely ain’t ringing true. Ah well, something to work towards I guess.

What about you? Go on, join me in my time-wasting…

It’s up to you…

Click above to see more pics!

So, I’m back from my whirlwind three-day city break to New York. Twas good to go again, as the last time I went was with five friends when I was young and foolish and reckless and carefree (well, 23). Being impoverished at the time too, we naively decided to accept an offer of free accommodation from a friend. One bedroom flat, we were told, with a double bed and a sofabed. We all brought sleeping bags, figuring it would be like an extended slumber party. Fun right? What we weren’t told is that most one-bed flats in New York are the size of a small kitchen. So it was a little squashed and close for comfort to say the least. Not to mention the horror and queues involved with five people trying to use the most minuscule bathroom ever…

But anyway, this time it was just me and my sister going, and we managed to get a lovely four-star hotel right on Madison Avenue for a stupidly low price (gotta give the credit crunch credit for that). It was lovely to get away and we had a fab time shopping and sightseeing, but like most holidays, it did result in a few musings, the best I will share with you now.

1) Every time I book a trip to the States, something weird happens. I completely forget about the customs process. This selective amnesia must be akin to the way women forget the pain of childbirth afterwards, ensuring they go on to get pregnant again and we aren’t left with a world full of scary, weird only-children (sorry, but the majority of them really are a little bit strange). Anyway, in the excitement of booking my flights/hotel, I always completely forget about this agony. And then when I land, I’m always greeted by the MILE LONG queue and the knackered, sticky passengers standing in line, green forms and passports in hand. And then I always think, why do I bother? I’m coming to your stupid country to spend money you idiots! Let me in!! We landed at about 9pm, and for some inexplicable reason, the passport control room had been heated to about 300 degrees. There was one pathetic fan in the corner, blowing stuffy air at the scariest-looking guard bloke. Queuing for over an hour in a boiling hot room at the equivalent of 2am ain’t the best start to a holiday. Plus those fingerprint reader machines must be the most germ-ridden items in the world. Yeuck.

2) Something strange happens whenever my sister and I go out in public together. On our first morning at breakfast, the hostess lady seated us at a table for four, and then after a few minutes asked how long it would be until our parents joined us. My sister was later asked by someone else if she was on a school trip. Both incidents, however, marginally fail to beat last year’s humiliation: when we got on our Easyjet plane back from Majorca to be told by the stewardess that we had to move because only over 18s were allowed to sit in the emergency exit rows. It used to be flattering, but actually, it’s just annoying now. I’m nearly 30 for god’s sake!

3) If you decide to go to NY and treat yourself to the Sex and the City tour, which let’s face it, you should do as it’s right up there with the Empire State Building IMHO, then don’t do it at 10am on a Sunday morning. This can only be described as the graveyard shift. I feel so, so sorry for our poor lovely tour guide, who tried her very best to inject some life/enthusiasm into the motley crew of hungover/sleepy tourists she was landed with. She was so frightfully American – I don’t mean this as an insult, she was just so LOUD and HAPPY and everything was AWESOME and she spent every five minutes imploring us to SCOPE OUT THE TALENT on the street (?!) and every time someone sneezed she joyfully shrieked GOD BLESS YOU with a sympathetic smile on her face that was entirely genuine. I’d love to meet an American with guile. There must be some surely? I felt for her, I really did. I’m pretty sure the questions she fired at her half-asleep audience weren’t meant to be rhetorical, poor cow. HANDS UP WHO LIKES AIDAN BEST? NO ONE? ANYONE? OKAY THEN, WHAT ABOUT BIG? NO? NO ONE FOR BIG? WHAT ABOUT THE SAGGY ARSE GUY? REMEMBER HIM? NO?! WHAT WAS UP WITH THAT?! AWESOME!

4) You may need to remortgage if you decide to visit the Rainbow Room. Beautiful though the view and the toilets are, I’m not entirely sure they’re enough justification for the $24 price tag attached to one meagre cocktail. Plus the free nuts were rubbish.

5) Another selective amnesia: the fact that prices in the US are a big con. $25 for a t-shirt? Sounds reasonable enough, right? Then you go to the till all smug and happy thinking you’re getting a bargain, and they go and whack on the stupid sales tax. And don’t get me started on tipping…

6) On a more positive note, if you completely run out of money, hours of fun can be had for free, watching the undoubtedly huge television in your room. Adverts every five minutes could be annoying, but the saving grace is that they’re all so hilarious. Our personal favourite was for a company called ‘Cash 4 Gold’, who apparently, yep, you guessed it, would send you cash for your gold. All you had to do was post it to them and they’d send you a cheque. Post it?! I’m sorry but really?! Would you do this? Stick your precious, presumably valuable jewellery in an envelope and send it off to some random company? Imagine my surprise and delight when I found the advert on YouTube (see below). God bless America!

25 things…

…about me. How eminently fascinating! For me, in any case

This one’s been doing the rounds on Facebook for a while now, and I’ve been tagged by several other bloggers, so thought I’d post it here too:

1 I secretly think I’m an amazing singer, but no one else has yet seen fit to confirm this

2 The most insulted I’ve ever been is when a four-year-old I was babysitting asked me what was wrong with my face. There was nothing wrong with my face

3 I passed my driving test first time with no minor faults, and then drove my car into a wall the following week

4 I believe in reincarnation

5 I got married when I was 25 and divorced when I was 26 and now I’m not sure how I feel about marriage, which is unusual because I’m usually very black and white about things (read: stubborn and opinionated)

6 I fear the hairdressers more than the dentists

7 I have a really good memory for most things except people’s names

8 Generally I am a rubbish liar, but every now and then I convince myself something is true, and then I’m fantastic at lying about it

9 I spend all the money I earn, but I never get in debt

10 I think it’s incredibly important to treat people the way you would want to be treated

11 I hate my profile but I quite like my face

12 I’m an atheist

13 I’m terrified of the sea, and hate going on boats, but I love aeroplanes and would love to have flying lessons one day

14 I am not very good at losing touch with people, which is annoying because there are several people in my life I could do without

15 My Mastermind subject would be Anne Frank

16 I saw ET when I was four years old and ran out of the cinema screaming. Now whenever I see a picture of his horrible brown face and skinny long neck, I have nightmares for days

17 I cannot fail to be happy if I’m in Dartmouth

18 I hate France

19 Exercise has never brought me anything but injury

20 I’ve had eleven rabbits. In order of appearance: Tawny, Flopsy, Sooty, Chalky, Muffin, Ed, Ed 2, Lucy, Lottie, Rupert and Ruby

21 The only alcohol I really like the taste of is gin

22 I’ve been in love three times

23 But I suffer from the eighteenth-month itch and have never sustained a relationship for much longer than two years

24 I have a pathetically low pain threshold. Plucking my eyebrows makes me cry

25 My sister is my best friend and possibly the only person who completely understands me

Plug plug plug

Just want to draw your attention to something, if I may:

My dear friend Rebecca Connell’s first fabulous novel, The Art of Losing, is out now, so make sure you go and order a copy.

Here’s the blurb to whet your appetite:

Haunted by childhood loss, 23-year-old Louise takes on her late mother’s name and sets out to find Nicholas, the man she has always held responsible for her death. Now a middle-aged lecturer, husband and father, Nicholas has nevertheless been unable to shake off the events of his past, when he and Louise’s mother, Lydia, had a clandestine, destructive and ultimately tragic affair. As Louise infiltrates his life and the lives of his family, she forms close and intimate relationships with both his son and his wife, but her true identity remains unknown to Nicholas himself. Tensions grow and outward appearances begin to crack, as Louise and Nicholas both discover painful truths about their own lives, each other, and the woman they both loved. Told alternately from the perspectives of Louise and Nicholas, and moving between the past and the present, The Art of Losing is a stunning debut novel that shows how love, desire and loss can send out more complicated echoes across our lives than we can ever imagine.

It’s a seriously good read – beautifully written and a real gripper so don’t miss it!