Shop Girl Diaries

Collaboration with a Cat & Other Stories

2012-01-25T16:12:00.008Z

Photo by Oriol 'Oli' Benet

I’m back!

And I've got a good feeling about 2012.

My year began with the news that my short story ‘Five Pounds Short’ is to be published in the Earlyworks Press anthology. It’s about the domino effect that occurs when a woman loses a fiver.

Ironically, I shaved a thousand words off it so I wouldn't have to pay an extra fiver for submitting such a long piece.

I’ve also just spent two weeks in Barcelona working on my novel.

It’s had a few false starts and I’ve thrown away at least two novels worth of words but finally my first draft is done.

I stayed in my brother’s flat while I was away since he was on holiday and looked after his little cat.

It was the first time I’d ever looked after a cat. In my mind I fully expected it to be as easy as looking after a house plant.

The cat, called Kitty, (pronounced Kiddy due to my brother’s fiancée being American), insisted on collaborating with my novel. As soon as I began to write she’d walk nonchalantly over my keyboard.

You'll be able to differentiate our writing styles quite easily.

Her sentences read something like this: jrierhvkw;lmnvfjfjdfdm

Occasionally mine aren’t much better.

Apart from her eagerness to play at 4am, our time together was enjoyable and productive.

I wrote more in two weeks than I would normally write in two months.

Now I’m faced with the fresh challenge of editing the whole book and I expect it will take a few months

But I've lots of short stories up my sleeves and on my hard drive. I’m thinking it’s time they got together in a short and sweet compilation, a perfect little read before bedtime.

Be it the end of the world or not, I'm going to make 2012 a year of action.

By Bizarrocomic.blogspot.com

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-07T16:05:00.003Z

Dear readers

I've decided to take a break from my blog until the new year.

It's been running reasonably smoothly since June 2008, so I think I deserve a little holiday from it, don't you?

I'll be using that time to concentrate solely on my novel, which takes significantly longer than a tweet or a blog to complete!

Thank you all for reading this year. Have a wonderful Christmas and I'll be back posting blogs in the Happy New Year.

Shop Girl X

Dodgy Diagnosis

2011-11-16T22:45:00.006Z

It was my brother's 30th birthday and we were discussing aches and pains in a restaurant in Barcelona.

“I went to a chiropractor the other day and he said I’d need to see him for 6 months," my brother said. "When I said ‘no’ he messed my back up out of spite.”

“They don’t recognize it as a treatment here in Spain,” his girlfriend said.

“It hurts every morning now,” my brother said. “I was fine before, I only went because I thought it was good for you.”

The waitress came over and my brother’s vegetarian girlfriend asked if the rigatoni a la putanesca contained meat.

The waitress shook her head, “No…only bacon”

We exchanged baffled looks. Only in Spain, we all thought. His girlfriend chose a salad instead and the topic moved onto dentists.

On my last visit the dentist had said there was decay under my fillings and I’d need to replace them.

I had one nice white filling and one nasty grey filling. To spread the cost I decided to have one done now and one later.

By the time I realized he’d chosen to replace the nice white filling instead of the more obvious antique grey one, he was already poking metal instruments in my mouth and I couldn’t talk.

“When will I need to do the other one?” I’d asked, once he’d finished.

“Soon,” he’d said. “The other filling is worse than the one I’ve just done.”

The table shared my frustration and we all ‘grrrd’ in unison.

“Well when we went to the dentist he told us we had to sleep with special gum guards on,” my brother’s girlfriend said. “Apparently we grind our teeth in our sleep.”

“Can you imagine how sexy that’d be drooling everywhere when we said goodnight to eachother?” my brother said and he pretended he had the gum guards on as he leant over to his girlfriend, “Goo’ ni’ daaa’ ing”

“Goo’ niii’” she mock spluttered back.

My cousin then recounted the time when her dentist had recorded her oral problems into his dictorphone as she sat in the chair beside him.

“The teeth will return to their position after two years,” he’d said, “as the patient has a GINORMOUS tongue.”

To make it worse, an osteopath had then told her that her head was too big for her neck.

“But that’s ridiculous, what are you supposed to do about that?” I cried.

“Take steroids,” my husband said, “to get a body builder’s neck.”

My husband’s own dentist had told him when he was little, that he would need a chin implant when he got older.

“Not that I might need a chin plant, that I would have to have one.”

My husband’s chin is just as a chin should be.

“The problem is we don’t know any better!” I said. “We don’t know when they’re right or wrong.”

The rigatoni a la putanesca arrived.

At least in food we could make a correct diagnosis.

My husband looked at it with great disappointment.

The plate of pasta twirls was covered in pesto and grated Parmesan; there was no rigatoni, no putanesca and not a bit of bacon in sight.

A Cup of Wi-Fi

2011-10-27T21:56:00.004+01:00

In the olden days neighbours used to come over to borrow some salt, or a spoonful of sugar, a cup of milk, maybe even an egg.

Last week we got a note through the door from our teenage neighbour’s parents.

It went like this: ‘Sorry to ask, but can we have the code for your Wi-Fi so my boy can play X-box-live.’

Judging by the details that followed about the game in question, we guessed that the note was a forgery, and that the ‘boy’ had written it himself.

We mused that the neighbours downstairs would’ve gone for a different approach. They would’ve said their son was doing a very important assignment for school and desperately needed to use the internet for a few days. With that excuse we wouldn’t have thought twice.

A game on X-box live doesn’t inspire the same generosity of spirit. Neither does spit on the front door step, beer cans in the hallway and bits of dismantled bike everywhere.

The evening wore on and the note was left unanswered.

Then it came; the inevitable drum of teenage feet on the stairs and the tentative knock on our door.

“I wish they’d just asked for an egg!” I whined.

I was fretting because I’m not very good at saying no. I was worried that if we upset them there’d be tension and hostility and spit in our mail box.

My husband opened the door while I listened from the kitchen.

“Did you get my... (pause)...the note?”

“Yeah I did, but we pay monthly for our connection.”

“Yeah but it won’t cost you anything!” the boy cried.

“Okay then, let’s turn it around,” my husband said, calmly. “You pay for it and I’ll get it off you for free.”

“Uh...”

“Now if you want to go halves, then that’s a different story.”

The boy sounded pleased about this possibility and said he’d asked his Dad.

I felt relieved by the encounter. Even before the London Riots I’d had a pressing desire to be at peace with these neighbours, but there’d only been monosyllables and wary glances.

The following evening, we anticipated the knock on the door as we heard the telltale thud on the stairs.

The teenager was back with a five pound note.

My husband gave him the password and the deal was done.

After a year living alongside our neighbours, this was our first bonding experience.

It isn’t the romantic notion I had of neighbourly love, but in these times of turmoil you can’t be picky.

Note to Self

2011-10-19T16:54:00.010+01:00

I realise I’m procrastinating when I find myself wiping down my keyboard with a cotton bud.

Don’t try it at home. It just spreads dust from one key to the other.

When I set myself an amount of words to write, I get those words written. If I don’t set myself a deadline, no one else will.

I’m fifty words away from completing my target but I’ve stopped to play with a cotton bud.

It’s because I’m feeling hypersensitive about a comment I received on my blog.

The reader wrote that he didn’t agree with my recent views and that I was getting sloppy.

It’s good that people have different opinions and express them. In fact I wish the author of the comment would get a blog going so I could read what he has to say more fully.

Alas, not everyone has time to write a blog. You’d be surprised how many hours they take.

Which is why it’s irritating when a reader only comments when they don’t like the post.

Criticism doesn’t succeed in its aims without encouragement.

My writers group (who meet monthly) is ruthless with their feedback but when I leave, though I may want to temporarily burn my manuscript, I feel good because I know and they know it’s because I can do better.

To help me get through my novel, I began the ‘Enough is Enough Writing Group’ with a fellow writer, who was fed up of procrastinating. It consists literally in the two of us getting together every two weeks and reading through each other’s chapters.

The energy that our meetings produce and the motivation we feel afterwards is enough for us to power through to the next stage.

I really recommend to anyone struggling through a project, whatever it may be, to join forces with someone like-minded.

But choose wisely.

If you find yourself coming away from a session with them, feeling as flat as road kill in the middle of the motorway, then they are not the right people for you.

Find someone who’ll make you fight for what you want, not someone who’ll leave you pondering the efficacy of a cotton bud.

Occupy London - Day 1

2011-10-16T18:09:00.004+01:00

Photo by Elizabeth Hacker

‘There are none so hopelessly enslaved than those who falsely believe they are free’ - Goethe

Saturday marked the beginning of Occupy London.

My cousin and I sat alongside thousands of other people in front of St Paul’s Cathedral.

A People’s Assembly was set in motion.

These assemblies have been taking place in Spain and Greece since spring.

They discuss the reasons why we are there and the practicalities of occupying the space.

With only a weak loudspeaker, it was difficult to hear so people echoed the speaker and passed the words through the crowd.

Why were we all there?

For some people the catalyst was the bail-out of the banks, others have been feeling uneasy about the system for much longer.

What unite the protesters are the questions and answers they are waking up to.

Is our democracy a real democracy?

Does our government work for us or for financial corporations?

We’re told that cuts need to be made to our public services because of massive national debt and yet there’s no law in place to stop an estimated 18 billion pounds being lost in tax havens ever year.

The Assembly suggested splitting into different groups: Shelter, Toilet, Food and Drink, Internal Affairs, External Affairs, Media, Legal Advice and Liaison.

“This movement is about empowering each one of us,” a girl said, in our group.

On one level, the message is simple. We need to take care of each other.

“People over Profits!” the protesters chanted in America.

Across the world people from of all walks of life came out to protest.

‘This is the Ethical revolution,’ a sign said.

My cousin and I didn’t camp out at St Paul’s. We were ill-equipped and went to leave at 6 o’clock.

Three lines of police refused to let us go home, though there were only a handful of us in the alley way.

“It’s not kettling,” one snapped at us. “It’s containment.”

It looked more like a power trip to us.

We waited patiently, knowing that if we were calm, they would have nothing to react against.

“Why did you come here?” one said to us. “You know protests all end up with you all getting kettled.”

“Contained,” his colleague corrected.

My cousin quickly reminded him that, without protests, we wouldn’t have the rights we have today. She reminded him women may not have got the vote.

“Women got the vote but they still can’t drive,” the second policeman scoffed.

“It was new back then,” the first policeman said, referring to demonstrations. “Now it’s old hat.”

“I just don’t know why you came,” the first one said.

His statement summed up what he thought a protester was; a scruffy, aggressive, negative, trouble maker whose actions were uncalled for.

In the demonstrations in Barcelona, I saw a sign that read, ‘You don’t have to have dreadlocks to join this revolution.’

This is a global movement. It is open to and for all humanity and no one should feel intimidated if they choose to show their solidarity.

Frankly, I hope standing up for what you believe in never becomes old hat.

Demonstrations around the World on 15th October:

SPAIN - Madrid

PORTUGAL - Lisbon

USA - New York

Death of a Sales Mouse

2011-10-07T11:47:00.003+01:00

We found him under the floorboards, without a head.

At the time we were decorating the rooms above our shop. Alfie was laying new floor and I was painting walls.

He might have been there since the 30’s when there were still trams running through Tower Bridge Road.

He wouldn’t say. He was a vain mouse and he didn’t want to admit his age.

He looked at me, with his tail, and sighed.

“Don’t look at me like I’m the odd one. You’re entire world has lost its head.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Money,” he said. “You’ve lost it all. The banks are empty and they want it back.”

Alfie didn’t have time for a talking mouse skeleton and put him back under the floorboards.

But perhaps the mouse knew something.

Yesterday the prime minister came close to telling us we should all pay off our credit card debts.

At the last moment he was warned that such absurd advice was a threat to the country’s economy and he must reword his speech at once.

The economy depends on growth and to grow we must spend money, even if we don’t have it.

It doesn’t want us to fear debt.

The economy would like us to hunger for possessions so that we’ll use our credit cards and pay five times the value of the item in interest.

The advice Cameron was supposed to give was: Be greedy, go out and buy like you’ve never bought before.

If you worry, if you can’t sleep at night because of nightmares full of machete wielding credit cards, then you should be happy that at least you’re helping the economy.

“Beware! It is a trap.” From beneath the floorboards I heard the Sales Mouse whisper. “Who is benefitting from this system? If you don’t ask questions you could lose your head!”

“What?” I cried, as my paintbrush dribbled duck egg blue onto my jeans. “Tell me the answer!”

But he did not reply. He was quite dead.

It was up to me to seek it out.

My Blog Mojo

2011-09-27T22:46:00.005+01:00

I’ve always said, rather smugly, that I don’t believe in ‘Writer’s Block'.

You can always write, just sometimes it’s total rubbish.

Real 'Writer’s Block' requires a boxer in between you and your laptop.

Yet lately I’ve been squirming as the time lapse between my blog posts grows.

Have I lost my blog mojo?

After three years of writing weekly here on Shop Girl Diaries, it’s getting tough.

It doesn’t help that we’ve closed our shop where all the stories came from.

I could blame twitter.

Being on twitter is like standing in a room full of people shouting out random facts.

Some are yelling about human rights violations, mocking politicians, analysing the economic climate and calling on fellow tweeters to stage demonstrations around the world.

Others are constantly updating me with publishing news, author events, blogging tips, writing competitions and book reviews.

In the middle of it all, someone dull tells me they’ve just had a cup of tea.

(I delete them).

Faced with such overwhelming information, I ask myself, is there anything left to say?

Perhaps the problem is that I’m writing more than ever.

Offline I’m fully immersed in my new novel. It’s cooking slowly and steadily like stew and I can’t wait to dish it up.

But meanwhile a blog can’t sit around getting dusty.

The clock is ticking.

I’ve got a week to find my blog mojo.

The Olympic Pressure Ride

2011-09-16T09:39:00.007+01:00

Picture from Cycle Info

Thanks to the Mayor of London my life is at risk.

Tube fares are due to increase by 8% which means I’ll shortly be forced to ride a bicycle.

My last memory of being on a bike, I was about twelve years old and struggling up a hill behind my brother.

The pedals were clearly cemented in position. I was going so slowly my bike was falling to one side.

‘Leave me here! I can’t go on!’ I sobbed. ‘Just go! Save yourself!’

My teenage brother had to deal with my whimpering for a good hour. It was the longest journey of his life.

In a city of eight million, hills are the least of my concern.

Cars scare me and buses scare me. Even confident cyclists scare me.

But most of all, Elephant & Castle roundabout scares me.

Crossing this roundabout as a pedestrian is a feat in itself as you have to orientate yourself through its underbelly of spooky subways.

I shudder when I think of going around it on wheels.

Today I saw a government poster encouraging the public to get back into cycling.

The poster showed three smiling children and their smiling father, cycling up a tree-lined pathway. I don’t believe there is a tree-lined pathway linking my house to any of the places I need to go on a weekly basis.

The price rise is to fund transport improvements in preparation for the Olympics.

I have never been bah humbug about The Games coming to London, but this crippling increase doesn’t seem fair at all, especially since the majority of Londoners were unable to secure tickets.

Frankly, in the spirit of the Olympics, visitors should have to run everywhere.

London transport is already the most expensive in Europe.

If it goes up any more then we must take a stand. That won’t be hard in rush hour.

Mental Block and the Extraterrestrials

2011-08-31T23:12:00.005+01:00

“It’s all a learning curve,” My Mum says.

I had rung her in an emergency, hoping she could offer me the verbal cure to mental block.

If writer’s block leads to a failure to produce anything new, mental block leads to a failure to do anything at all.

Mental Block hit me today as I stood under a smoky bridge on Old Street.

I had 250 flyers in my bag to promote my workshop and I didn’t want to move.

The sky was a dull white blanket again; the worst August since the beginning of time.

Like being in a depressed person’s head, a friend described it.

All around me there were bars and pubs and café’s. All full of potential people who might reject my handsome flyer.

Mental block naturally sees a glass half empty. In fact, it sees a half empty glass as a glass with a little dribble of backwash at the bottom.

So there I was, rooted to the spot, utterly frustrated by my metamorphosis into a complete wuss.

What was it? Had all my childhood shyness come back to haunt me?

All I wanted to do was to go home and lie under my duvet for the rest of eternity.

My life flashed before me, not only what had been, but what would be.

I envisioned myself with grey hair still talking about Shop Girl Diaries at parties, the one and only book I would ever write.

And as I was sinking into despair, I saw two extraterrestrials walking towards me in the distance.

They were green and blue and fluffy and at least 6 foot tall.

As they drew nearer I saw they had human eyes and human noses sticking out of gaps in the techni- colour fabric.

And on their backs were string bags...

loaded with leaflets!

Oh god, I thought, I could be wearing that!

It dawned on me then that it wasn’t so bad. I was doing this for myself!

I read our Stim.u.lus workshops motto and remembered what it was all about.

U-inspire U-motivate U-create U-develop U-stimulate

U don’t give up under a polluted London railway bridge and retreat back to bed.

U pick yourself and U get on with it because if U want something U have to be proactive!

U got it? I did, eventually.

For more info on the blog workshops visit StimulusWorkshops

Stimulus Workshops in September

2011-08-30T18:33:00.004+01:00

Limited View

2011-08-17T23:05:00.003+01:00

I have some issues with my local cinema.

Firstly, the majority of viewers come to eat rather than to watch the film.

A surround-sound of shuffling and crackling packets makes it impossible to hear what anyone is saying for the first twenty minutes.

As the trailers begin I’m already thinking, “If I was a dictator…”

But of course, if I were a dictator I’d have more important things to do than ban noisy eaters from cinemas.

My second issue is the existence of Premier seats, those indulgent armchair seats that cost extra and take the best part of the cinema.

For me, these seats are a symbol of all that’s wrong with our society. Every square inch has a price. You can no longer have a decent seat for just turning up early.

Must every little comfort really incur a charge?

Will we soon be paying an additional charge for sitting down on a bus, and eventually for clinging onto the bar?

Next there’ll be tracks in Oxford Street. The lane nearest the shop windows will be the most expensive and the free lanes will veer in and out of the traffic.

Oh we’ll never allow that, you say.

But not so long ago we had a tax on windows. If you couldn’t pay they’d come along and brick them up.

These charges will creep in so we barely notice them, until one day we wake up and submissively pop a pound in a metre for the first breath of the day.

(Breathe)

(Ping)

Last week the Premier section at my local cinema was completely empty.

A staff member sat in the aisle guarding its emptiness from people that assumed, wrongly, that their ten pound ticket entitled them to a normal position in the cinema.

Nope, ten pounds gets you a seat at the back or at the front.

It seemed churlish to stop people enjoying those seats when no one else was coming for them.

Frankly, Premier seats give me the creeps.

Elitism doesn’t belong in the cinema.

Shop Girl Diaries - The Audio Book

2011-08-12T18:10:00.005+01:00

You're on the train, squashed in between an armpit and a rucksack.

A pony tail tickles your nose.

It belongs to a woman in front of you, who's talking (too loudly) about a wild night out.

You want to tell her it's too early to be talking about these things, but she's wearing new trainers and you're afraid.

More people squeeze in.

Even the smug people with kindles can't raise their arms to read.

You close your eyes and breath deeply.

You're so glad you decided to buy it on I-tunes.

Leaning a little on the rucksack behind you, you dig into your pocket and press play on your mobile.

The lively voice speaks into your ear... telling you a story that makes you forget where you are and where you're going.

The Audio Book has arrived.

Enjoy and please give it a good rating!

The Current Moo-d

2011-08-07T22:21:00.007+01:00

I’m in the mountains.

It’s where we’ll retreat to when the system crashes.

We’ve already decided how we’ll survive. We’ll get a cow in here like we did the sofa. We’ll hoist it up a four-storey building and keep it in the spare room.

We won’t eat the cow. She’ll provide the milk for our tea.

Tea is essential in a crisis.

Additional protein will come in the form of woodworm. There’s a bout of it going around the village, the man in the paint shop has never sold so much spray.

My father has one eye on the news at all times. He’s mostly interested in the stock markets, which I have yet to understand.

Meanwhile, the 15M movement that sparked the protests in Spain has spread to Israel.

In Tel Aviv 300,000 people took to the streets today in protest against high living costs.

The appeal of these movements is that it brings opposing sides together; right, left, religious, secular, Arab, Jew.

If we can transcend our differences so we can begin to listen to each other, then all the better.

Twitter went mad with tweets in Hebrew and Arabic.

Only one stood out in English: “To Israelis: when you demand your rights, remember that there are Palestinians with no rights & no voices to demand it”

Well, that’s all very well, but perhaps is too easy to point the finger at the general Israeli people.

What about the military missions of our own government? By the same judgement, we are also to blame for occupation and the murder of innocents.

Meanwhile the Pope is coming to Madrid.

Frankly, he might do better going to Somalia, which has been pushed aside to fit in all the other news. At least it might attract some media attention there.

And finally, London is burning.

So, you can see why I’m hiding away in the mountains.

I just need to find a cow.

You're the Ones that I want! (ooh ooh ooh dammit)

2011-07-25T16:09:00.002+01:00

After watching another piece of depressing news last week, I decided to embark on a change of lifestyle.

No longer did I want to be part of our greedy, all consuming society.

From now on I wanted to live simply.

I pictured recycled trainers, homemade jeans and potatoes growing steadily in saucers under my bed.

There is a saying: when you make a decision the whole world conspires to make it happen.

This is not so if you live in London and you’re decision is not to spend any money.

My intentions were good.

I genuinely felt I didn’t need anything and that, at least, made me happy.

And then I received a reminder e-mail for a hen party

The theme was ‘Grease meets Moulin Rouge’.

I opened my wardrobe and found nothing inspiring.

“I’ll buy something from a charity shop,” I said, confidently.

I bought a top from a charity shop once.

I never wore it. A month later I gave it back to them in a bag of old clothes.

Some people love digging around in second hand shops.

Personally, I don’t like the musty smell.

Still, I thought I could change.

I headed to Camden on a mission to be resourceful and creative.

After an hour of digging through bargain baskets and rails of hideous corduroys, I’d had enough.

I’m not a patient shopper.

When I saw a whole stall dedicated to shiny leggings my heart soared.

I would look like Sandy after all!

I picked up an awful pair of leatherette leggings.

“Fifteen pounds,” the stall holder said.

It was more than I had in my account.

But I did have cash... and it was going to solve all my problems.

“Twelve?”

“Fifteen.”

“Twelve?”

“Fifteen.”

It wasn’t the best bartering I’d ever done.

I handed over the money.

It hit me as I walked away that I had seriously failed in my mission.

Not only had I not managed to buy something cheap, recycled or second hand, but I’d bought something that I’d probably only ever wear once.

I felt miserable as I ruminated on how my fifteen pounds could have fed half the planet.

Then I tried the leggings on.

They were deliciously dreadful.

I started to feel better.

There is a saying: You can’t do everything at once, but you can do something at once.

I decided that for today, that something would be to lighten up!

An Extract from my Novel

2011-07-18T12:09:00.015+01:00

‘The “Discovery” of America’ by Beny Quintero

Columbus’ spirits soared as they neared land.

He’d spent a good part of the voyage worrying whether they’d find it again.

It would’ve been terribly embarrassing to return to Spain having failed to disembark for the third time.

But God Almighty had smiled upon his knackered compass.

Below fish nibbled at the ship; fish which Columbus had also discovered.

“What shall we call this new land?” called Jose Maria de la Vega, self-proclaimed champion toreador (in the children’s category) and now sailor.

“We shall call it Colombia after me!” Colombus cried.

They anchored the ship and approached the inviting beach in small boats.

It’d been an appalling journey and their bodies were broken.

They were hungry, thirsty, stinking, lice-ridden and their teeth were falling out. They threw themselves onto the sand crying with relief.

“HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAALT!

The voice had been projected through a curled up palm leaf which belonged to a short, dark-skinned man with a very round face. The sailors scrabbled to their feet, their hands instinctively reaching for their rusty knives.

The little man was suddenly joined by a large gathering of men with spears.

To the shocked Spaniards, they all looked identical.

The leader of the group marched towards the new arrivals with a brooding face.

“Right, what are you doing here?” he said. (He’d learnt the Spanish tongue from a small boy who’d miraculously appeared on the island a few years before and had become one of them.)

Colombus stepped forward, outraged at being greeted as such.

“What do you mean? I’ve just discovered this land!”

“Well that’s just being silly isn’t it? My ancestors lived here before your mother was an egg.”

“Now hang on a minute!

“Papers please.”

“What do you mean papers?”

The leader stared at Colombus frostily.

“You must have some sort of permission to be on this land. A written letter from one of the locals inviting you to a wedding perhaps?”

“No but...”

“A visa allowing you to work here because there’s absolutely no one else in the country who can do your particular job?”

Columbus sunburn grew redder as he stood there paralysed with rage.

The leader looked passed him and squinted out to sea.

“I hope you don’t mean to park that ship there forever.”

“Where else am I going to park it? We need to bring our belongings ashore.”

“What belongings? They’ll have to be inspected by customs. You can’t just bring anything in here... this is assuming you have permission to be here at all. If not, we might confiscate everything. ”

“Look here!” Columbus yelled. “This is how it works. I’ve discovered these lands and now you’re going to help me find all the gold, jewels and tobacco, which I'm then going to take back to the Queen and maybe I’ll take you with me too as my personal slave!”

“That temper isn’t going to get you any favours.”

“Give me my gold!”

“You need a license to import and export.”

“It’s my God-given right!”

“It’s not about right, it’s about licenses.”

The heat was making Columbus dizzy. He needed to kill this irritating little man but his sword was currently in the pile of flea-infested clothes which he’d ripped off in a frenzy as soon as they’d reached land.

“You must repent!” he cried, feeling faint. “You are heathens! You owe the pope gold and tobacco and strange fruit for your crimes against God!”

The leader wiped his nose then looked at his hand and frowned.

“We will have to detain you all, for illegal entry to the country, failure to supply any trading licenses, religious extremism...”

His nose was starting to run furiously. He wiped away the dribble on his upper lip.

“You will be fined and sent back home....aaargh...why is my nose doing this!”

The leader sneezed. Columbus looked at him grumpily.

“You’ve just caught a common cold, that’s all” he said.

The leader looked at him in horror then down at his hands.

“Shit.”

Then he keeled over and died.

I'm Sorry But...

2011-07-07T14:47:00.008+01:00

I have a terrible confession.

Don’t

Poetry.

(Winces)

I’m telling you this now because I’ve just read an article on 'poetry phobia' in a writers’ magazine.

It’s a relief to know there are other writers out there who have the same ‘problem’.

I’m not frightened.

I know the words aren’t going to jump off the page and push my head in an oven. That only happens to the people who write them.

To me, poetry is like one of those math’s problems.

If George left his house at four o’clock walking five miles an hour....

It’s giving me a headache already. For god’s sake just tell me when George will get there!

Should I blame it on English A level?

The emphasis was always on wrenching five different possible meanings from each verse.

It was even worse if the poem didn’t have any verses.

Sometimes it looks like the poet has just thrown a bunch of magnetic letters at the fridge.

‘Work that one out,’ he smirks at me, like an evil magician.

Seamus Heaney wrote a poem about his Dad doing some digging.

I argued with my teacher because I didn’t see why there had to be so many levels of meaning in it.

Why did the mud have to symbolise the turmoil of his inner life?

Why couldn’t the mud just mean mud?

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat!

There's no need to ruin it with analysis.

Now I really didn’t intend to quote poetry in my blog. But what a bunch of satisfying sounds from Heaney.

Perhaps if we hadn’t had to look so hard for the hidden meanings I might have enjoyed poetry at school.

There's a section in the article on possible treatments for poetry phobia.

I start to read it but I'm instantly agitated.

No, I don’t want to be flooded with poetry! That's a curse not a cure!

And, anyway, I’m not scared.

just

don’t

it.

There is a difference, isn't there?

The King Wants Our Last Potato

2011-06-29T22:36:00.007+01:00

Mum is flicking through a posh catalogue of LED lights.

They come in a roll much like sellotape. You can cut off a strip and stick it where you like.

The catalogue shows a kitchen plunged in near darkness, with a blue glow coming from under the cupboards.

“You’d have to stick them around your head to see what you’re doing,” Mum says.

What they’re lacking is a bright, sparkling chandelier – we still make them, but from upstairs.

I’m a Shop Girl without a shop.

As there’s no shop, this blog will have to change.

“You’re not going to start writing a political blog are you,” someone tweeted worriedly. “Because I think you shine more in your other stuff.”

Pity.

I’m excited by the buzz of people coming together in solidarity.

It gives me hope after last week’s The Apprentice where Lord Sugar showed his approval for the ‘tiger’ Melody.

She ‘eats them up and spits them out,’ he said, (‘them’ being her fellow colleagues), ‘that’s why I like her’.

It’s a value system that will be difficult to change.

A new democracy would require us to evolve into nobler human beings.

Lord Sugar...How very feudal it sounds.

Our democracy has a feudal air to it too.

We have ‘Lords’ that rake money in to feed a gambling habit.

They win a lot, then suddenly lose a lot.

The ‘King’ needs their support and approval, so to keep them happy he makes sure the peasants get their wages cut and hand over whatever’s left. He doesn’t spare the old peasants either, who are already living on one turnip a week.

The peasants hand over their last potato.

But the Lords whine and say it’s not enough. They are accustomed to at least one million gold-plated vegetables and can’t stomach the idea of less.

The King asks for more.

The peasants hand in the mud that clung to their last potato.

A few Lord’s increase their salary because of the stress. They toss and turn on their 100% Egyptian Cotton bedspreads and worry they’ll have to postpone the purchase of another golden goose.

The King asks for more.

The peasants are high on hunger and indignation. They gather together and sing peaceful protest songs.

The King doesn’t listen.

“If they don’t have bread. Let them eat tiramisu,” the queen says.

The peasants throw rocks and are hanged for treason.

And meanwhile, the King declares war after war on any country that doesn’t copy his own, and watches everyone kill each other, while making millions through corruption and an autobiography.

But I digress.

This is obviously not a political blog.

I am just an intrigued Shop Girl.

Come the revolution I’ll be pinning crystal beads together.

It Began in ***land

2011-06-17T15:49:00.014+01:00

I’m behind with my revolution updates.

I keep meaning to buy a newspaper to catch up with things.

I pick up a freebie on the tube and am delighted to see they’re actually covering the Spanish protests.

Oh no, my mistake.

It’s just a few ‘gentlemen’ having a brawl over some ladies at Ascot.

But the #greekrevolution has made it to the headlines at least.

Not in Greece, but here in England.

The Greek media are reportedly treating the protestors like naughty children e.g ‘Hush hush, give back all your toys and stop being silly.’

When it’s not money it’s usually oil that lures international attention.

Evidently the olive variety doesn’t count as events in Spain are still being largely ignored.

The disgraceful leader of the Catalan police, Felip Puig, won’t resign despite thousands of petitions against him.

Last week he even handed out medals to his men for doing such a great job.

A great job of beating unarmed citizens with batons that is. Well done guys!

Puig has also ordered that the undercover videos of police brutality be taken offline.

Mysteriously, videos that previously had thousands of hits have now less than a hundred (though they continue to have thousands of 'likes').

“I’m probably the only one who understood what happened on the 27^th of May,” he said.

That should give him an inkling that something went very wrong.

What era does he think he’s living in?

Can someone remind him that Franco died in 1975 please?

To add insult to injury, telemadrid are trying to manipulate the public by showing videos of fighting Greek protestors and pretending they’re Spanish.

‘Not such pacifist are they? Judge for yourself,’ the smug presenter says, happy to ignore the obvious Greek flags and Greek police in the video.

On the bright side, the beatings by the Mossos d’ Esquadra, probably injected a fresh batch of energy into people, who may have felt their spirits dwindling after a week camping in the city.

The demonstrations will continue.

This Saturday 19^th June people are set to take the streets once again all across Spain.

It's coordinated by Democracia Ya (Democracy now), which has composed a manifesto for 'real democracy'.

Their web pages include long lists of participating cities across the world.

I’m curious to see how the day will unfold. Will it be covered by the newspapers?

Mostly, I hope it's peaceful.

Peaceful demonstrations are powerful.

Look at Iceland.

The extraordinary People’s Voices movement led to Parliament being dissolved in 2009 and elections being held.

The Icelandic government didn’t bail out the banks.

They held a referendum and the people voted against it. Their government drafted up a new constitution which allowed citizens the opportunity to be involved in its writing process through social media.

The Spanish press is still being criticised for keeping quiet about that story.

Fortunately in these times of internet it is harder to keep people in the dark.

“When we grow up, we want to be Icelandic!” the Spanish protesters cried when they took to the streets on 15^th May.

It's harder to keep things quiet now, but judging from the mysterious disappearance of online videos and eye witness accounts, it's not impossible.

We must stay switched on!

The Video from Saturday 19th July

by Oli Benet

Stimulate Your Writing - with Stimulus!

2011-06-13T13:16:00.007+01:00

I’m very grateful to this blog.

Without it I wouldn’t have got my first book published.

Or been asked to write a film script and witness it come to life.

I wouldn’t have gained such encouraging readers and I wouldn’t have been contacted to write articles for other publications.

And of course, without the blog, my husband would never have proposed as he did!

Blogging is a hugely valuable tool to get your writing on the map.

Publishers prefer to take risks on writers that already have a readership so if you dream of being a published author then it’s time to be proactive.

Next month I’ll be running a blogging workshop with Stimulus.

If you’ve been meaning to start up a blog but want some guidance first then this is for you.

The two and half hour workshop will cover all the basics of beginning a blog from the big idea, choosing content with real appeal, to spreading the word and staying motivated.

For more information, please visit www.stimulusworkshops.com and fill in a contact form.

I look forward to hearing from you!

DATE: Saturday 16^th July, or Sunday 17^th July

TIME: 5pm – 7.30pm

LOCATION: Westbourne Studios, 242 Acklam Road, W10 5JJ

FEE: £35.00

Switch to Syntagma Square

2011-06-06T19:48:00.011+01:00

The mysterious media blackout continues.
The big bosses in charge of our news seem keen on keeping us ignorant of the wave of protests sweeping through Europe.
Forget corruption of governments, the only corruption we must concern ourselves with is the corruption in Fifa.
We must strive for honesty in football above honesty in politics.
Confused?
Don’t worry.
If the Fifa story is too difficult to follow, then there’s always Cheryl Cole and her awful humiliation at being sacked from the X-factor.
Football and reality TV. Our daily bread. Not even bread, more of an unsalted cracker that’s decades old.
There are better stories than these and we want to hear them.
In Greece a staggering 500,000 people took to the streets yesterday in protest against their government.
I watched live streaming from Syntagma Square and it made the hairs on my arms stand on end.
It comes after 12 days of crowds gathering in the city centres and towns to show their anger at the proposition of new austerity measures.
Public sector pay, minimum wage and pensions have already been cut.
Unemployment has reached 16% and is still rising.
Now the prime minister is talking about taking more drastic measures.
The sentiment of the Greek people is clear and spreading.
‘We are not commodities in the hands of bankers and politicians,’ a banner reads.
At 9m each evening The People’s Assembly begins in the centre of the square.
The Greek news is reported to be focusing on the nationalist minority chanting racist slogans and choosing to ignore the largely peaceful and united movement.
The same happened in the UK with the march against the Cuts.
The news focused on a disruptive minority and undermined the largest UK march since the anti-Iraq war where a million came out in protest and a million voices were ignored.
If the established media won't let us know what's happening then it's up to us to spread the word.

The Dirty Side of Mr Puig's 'Clean Up'

2011-06-03T01:37:00.011+01:00

"I only felt afraid after the moments captured in the photos, when thousands of supporters surrounded the square and booed at the police. I was afraid they would jump at them and that the police would respond and there would be a tragedy. Those were moments of great, great tension. They were moments from another era, one which I believed we had overcome long ago. " Sebastian Ledesma Moran (man in wheelchair - full account below)

I don’t feel like being cynical.

These demonstrations may die down eventually but I believe a significant seed has been sown.

It might just take a while to germinate.

Right now, all I want to do is raise awareness of the injustice that has been committed.

Felip Puig, the leader of the Catalan police, has shown no remorse after his brutal ‘clean up’ operation.

The memo he passed onto his loyal team on the morning of the 27^th May must’ve read something like this:

1. Steal all their stuff

2. Beat them up (even if they are really old!)

3. Don’t give away your identity (even though the law says you have to!)

The police confiscated computers, microphones, speakers, cables and other personal possessions.

Owners who tried to retrieve their belongings were told they must present a receipt to prove ownership and if they didn’t the items would be destroyed.

Despite footage showing brutal beatings of individuals, attacks on passive youngsters and elderly, and police vans swerving dangerously into people, Mr Puig maintains that the police were protecting the population from a violent group.

Judges are unable to investigate complaints because police have been ignoring the law that requires them to wear an identity number.

Puig is currently trying to abolish this rule so that police can remain anonymous.

One image has become symbolic. It’s of a man in a wheelchair holding a flower.

In front of him a police man is lashing out with a club at the people behind.

When asked about this incident, Felip Puig said that the policeman was defending the man in from the violence behind him.

This man was so disgusted with the counsellor’s lie that he wrote to the newspapers.

And this is what he said:

(I have translated from Catalan to English) Click Here for the Original.

"I am the person in the wheelchair who appears in a number of photographs of the attempted eviction of Plaça Catalunya and I want to name the issues in this controversy. My name is Sebastian Ledesma Moran, I am 55 years old and I want to clarify three things:

1) That the images are a true reflection of what happened there.

2) That the Mosso d'Esquadra (Catalan police) was not defending me as Felip Puig and some of the media have claimed, but that he was attacking me, as the bumps and scratches on the left side of my wheelchair caused by a club can prove.

3) That I did not receive any blows to my body because the Mosso who was threatening me with his club (as seen in the photo) was stopped by another Mosso who said, ‘No, fuck, not that one, because they’ll take us to court.’

I also want to make it clear that I am neither a hero nor a victim, not a "yob" or, much less an idiot. I am just one more ‘indignant’. Every day I participate in the activities of Plaça Catalunya, especially in the functional diversity committee, which among others deals with issues of disability.

And you can rest assured that we will continue our protest and peaceful struggle until the situation changes.

I will have to take my chair to the workshop for repair, because if they don’t paint over the scratches they will begin to rust. I do not know or care about whether this cost will come from my account, mind you. What really worries me is that when I was young I had to run away from ‘los grises’ (national police) and that these policeman, who I believed were on my side, had made me run away from them. How will I explain to my daughters that this is the police we asked for?

During the police charge I heard several Mossos d'Esquadra saying: "What is this man doing here? Take him away! Take him away! " I am fed up of people questioning why I was there: I have every right and every duty to be as outraged as the next person. Why didn’t they want me to be there? Is it because it makes it difficult to dole out blows with pleasure? And I think it’s very serious that controversy was generated by the possibility that I was struck and that it doesn’t seem to matter that other people were harmed or suffered severe panic attacks. We are all equal before the law and have the same right to protest and defend ourselves, especially against the senseless aggression last Friday.

Those who were behind my chair, who the police were trying to hit, were there because Iold them to hide th tere, convinced that they wouldn’t do much to me. Nobody manipulated me or told me to protect my fellow ‘indignants’, as has been reported. It is only I who felt manipulated by the version given by Felip Puig about the police action.

We were carrying out peaceful resistance at the entrances of the square to prevent the trucks leaving with all our belongings. As you have seen, we were not able to recover anything that they took, not the signatures we collected nor our mobile phones, or anything at all. Added to that, they have now left our belongings in a type of dump.

I only felt afraid after the moments captured in the photos, when thousands of supporters surrounded the square and booed at the police. I was afraid they would jump at them and that the police would respond and there would be a tragedy. Those were moments of great, great tension. They were moments from another era, one which I believed we had overcome long ago. "

Wake Up! There's a Revolution Going On!

2011-06-01T09:24:00.006+01:00

27M BCN REVOLUTION from Paco Ruiz on Vimeo.

I’m disturbed.

Not by the news but by the lack of it.

There’s a revolution taking place in Britain’s most popular holiday destination and no one seems to know anything about it.

I’ve scoured the papers and found nothing.

If my brother didn’t live in Barcelona I might still be ignorant.

Lucky there’s such thing as facebook.

Some still think social networking sites are a waste of time but today facebook has provided me with more news than all the national newspapers put together.

The spontaneous demonstration I’m talking about began in Madrid on the 15^th May.

A group of citizens, deeply frustrated with the government, came together to demand political, economic and social change.

They felt there was no one standing up for them.

They had had enough of carrying the burden of the economic crisis on their shoulders whilst the politicians rushed about saving banks and the most powerful companies (all the while paying themselves a handsome wage to literally last a lifetime) and letting the rest face 20% and increasing unemployment and consequent loss of homes and livelihoods. Youth unemployment in Spain is even higher than in Egypt and Tunisia at 45% and the choice for many is leave the country or face homelessness.

On the first day there were 24 arrests in La Plaza del Sol.

Still, 30 people remained overnight.

On the 17^th May, two days later, there were 200 people camping in the plaza.

Hundreds turned to thousands.

Officials tried to illegalise the protest in preparation for the local and regional elections, but the demonstrators reminded them that they weren’t there to ask for a vote.

The torch was lit and its light spread rapidly to Barcelona, Bilbao, Valencia and Sevilla.

My brother told me about the thousands of people camping out peacefully in Plaça Catalunya, organising food and wash areas for the masses.

Hang on a minute!

If there were hundreds of thousands of people peacefully protesting on the streets of all the big Spanish cities, why isn’t it on the news in England?

On Friday 27^th May, things turned nasty.

A decision came from the top to clear up.

The Mossos d’Esquadra (Catalan Police) were sent in.

Did I mention it was a PEACEFUL demonstration?

There were families, elderly and children.

The police fired rubber bullets and beat people with clubs.

121 were injured.

Watch the video.

It makes my hair stand on end. It makes me feel sick.

In Madrid came the message: ‘We are with you Barcelona’ – a rare show of solidarity between the historic rivals.

The demonstrations continue.

What disturbs me is that this attack on human right was not shown on the news.

Why not? What are they trying to hide?

It makes me all the more inquisitive.

I want to be a part of it. Something inside me has just woken up.

EN ESPAÑOL (traducido por Miguel Barreto)

Estoy perturbada.
No por las noticias, sino por la falta de ellas.
Hay una revolución que está teniendo lugar en el destino de vacaciones más popular de Gran Bretaña y nadie parece saber nada al respecto.
He rastreado los diarios y no he encontrado nada.
Si mi hermano no viviera en Barcelona yo aun seria ignorante.
Por suerte hay cosas como facebook.
Algunos todavía piensan que las redes sociales son una pérdida de tiempo, pero facebook hoy me ha dado más noticias que todos los periódicos nacionales en conjunto.
La manifestación espontánea de la que estoy hablando se inició en Madrid el 15 de mayo.
Un grupo de ciudadanos, profundamente frustrados con el gobierno, se reunieron para exigir cambios políticos, económicos y sociales.
Ellos consideraron que no habia nadie luchando por ellos.
Habían tenido suficiente con llevar el peso de la crisis económica sobre sus hombros, mientras los políticos se apuraban a salvar a los bancos y las empresas más poderosas (a la vez que se pagaban un atractivo salario literalmente por el resto de la vida) y dejar a los demas enfrentar un desempleo del 20% y aumentando, y la consiguiente pérdida de hogares y medios de subsistencia. El desempleo juvenil en España es aún mayor que en Egipto y Túnez en el 45% y la opción para muchos es abandonar el país o enfrentar la indigencia.
En el primer día hubo 24 detenciones en La Plaza del Sol.
Aún así, 30 personas pasaron la noche.
El 17 de mayo, dos días más tarde, había 200 personas acampando en la plaza.
Cientos se convirtieron en miles.
Los politicos trataron de ilegalizar la protesta en la preparación de las elecciones locales y regionales, pero los manifestantes les recordaron que ellos no estaban allí para pedir un voto.
La antorcha se encendió y la luz se propagó rápidamente a Barcelona, Bilbao, Valencia y Sevilla.
Mi hermano me habló de los miles de personas acampando pacíficamente en la plaza Catalunya, organizando áreas de alimentación y de limpieza para las masas.
Espera un minuto!
Si había cientos de miles de personas protestando pacíficamente en las calles de todas las grandes ciudades españolas, ¿por qué no aparecía en las noticias en Inglaterra?
El viernes 27 de mayo, las cosas se volvieron desagradables
La decisión de desalojar vino de arriba.
Los Mossos d'Esquadra (Policía catalana) fueron enviados.
¿He mencionado que era una manifestación pacífica?
Había familias, ancianos y niños.
La policía disparó balas de goma y golpearon a la gente con los garrotes.
121 heridos.
Vea el video.
Se me ponen los pelos de punta. Me hace sentir enferma.
De Madrid llegó el mensaje: 'Estamos con ustedes Barcelona” - una rara muestra de solidaridad entre dos rivales históricos.
Las manifestaciones continuarán.
Lo que me molesta es que este ataque a los derechos humanos no se mostró en las noticias.
¿Por qué no? ¿Qué están tratando de ocultar?
Me hace querer saber mas.
Quiero ser parte de ella. Algo dentro de mí acaba de despertar.

Shop Girl Changes her Colours

2011-05-27T10:33:00.006+01:00

Enough is enough!

The longer I go without writing, the harder it’s going to get.

Soon I won’t be able to spell my own name.

I’ve got a new one of those.

Well, I might have. My passport doesn’t run out for 4 years so I’ve still got time to decide.

You probably thought I was on my honey moon. I was not.

But I have been busy.

This week I cast aside my Shopgirl identity and took to the streets as Promogirl.

I had been waiting for my first mission for quite some time.

Previous calls to duty had coincided with my wedding week, which I was not going to cancel over £8.50 an hour.

On Tuesday my time finally came and I donned bright orange and took to the streets of London to promote a special sort of swaying stool.

I wasn’t exactly saving the world but I felt happy setting off into the sunshine with my leaflets.

The question of how to write and make some money has been an ongoing worry of mine.

The suggestions have always been the same: teaching English or doing translations.

I taught English for a year and during that time I hardly wrote at all.

Instead I spent my evenings cutting up magazines and designing ‘educational’ games to keep my students happy.

As for translation work, please send some over because I can’t find any.

Promogirl is a refreshing new option.

I like the idea of going somewhere different each day and I love that I can choose when to work.

Best of all, as it’s not a ‘proper’ job it makes me feel even more like a real writer!

Shop Girl and the Date's Happy Ending

2011-05-11T19:36:00.005+01:00

The Final Countdown

2011-04-25T20:39:00.003+01:00

I’m currently trying to whiten my teeth.

I’ve got a gum guard in my mouth laced with gel.

After this, I might plunge my feet into scalding water in an attempt to melt a dead layer of skin.

Yes, it can only be: The Final Countdown.

At 1pm on Saturday 7^thof May, my father will be walking me down the aisle.

This weekend I brought home my wedding dress in a beautiful patterned box.

The nerves arrived soon after.

Last night I was awake for ages buzzing with nervous energy.

I tossed and turned and couldn’t even focus on one particular disaster.

My wedding disaster dreams are quite traditional I’m afraid.

The recurring ones include:

· Forgotten rings (specifically, forgotten in wrong country)

· Red wine spillage all down my dress (before I’ve even sat down)

· No one singing along to the hymns (eerie quiet)

· Food poisoning (cutting the day very short)

That last one is a recent development and the result of thinking too much.

The wedding is going to be in Spain so we have to be ready a week in advance.

Family will be arriving in the days running up to the wedding from England, Spain and Colombia.

The Fiancé has told me not to worry about anyone but I’ll feel terrible if we lose a relative at a tourist attraction or someone gets pick-pocketed in Las Ramblas.

I’m imagining head counts and loudspeakers.

In general, I’m probably imagining too much.

Oh, I’ve just thought of another disaster!

Dodgy tan lines!

I’ll just pop my feet in some scalding water and think about that for a minute.

Lost the Plot

2011-04-05T23:26:00.005+01:00

To my horror, my plot is turning to sand and falling through my fingers.

I need water to thicken it so I can make my castle.

But I appear to be in a desert surrounded by sand and wind and bad ideas.

The way I’m panicking it may as well be my own life falling apart.

I’m getting married next month which arouses little anxiety in comparison.

At least in my own life I’ve got the hero sorted!

Panicking is not going to help though and neither is a shot of something strong.

I need to calm down so I can see clearly.

I turn to a creative writing course book* for guidance and start to read the section on plotting.

It's not long before I read about my own first draft which is ‘shapeless’ and ‘fails to meet with {my} intentions.’

Apparently this is where 'many writers hang up their pens and give up’.

But I’m not going to do that.

I’ve grown to believe in my characters. My problem is I just don’t bloody know what to do with them.

I continue to read.

Joseph Heller took ten years to write Catch 22.

I’m not sure if that’s supposed to comfort me.

I can’t bear the thought of anything taking ten years. I’m from the facebook generation where every creation and reaction has to happen NOW!

Basically I’m looking for an immediate solution to my plot problem.

I’m looking for the secret.

Reading the guide calms me down.

It dawns on me that I should be telling a story, not writing a novel.

The thought takes a hold on me.

I think I see a camel. It might be a mirage but I’m excited enough to stand up and wave at it.

‘Plot is for readers more than writers,’ author Val Taylor writes. ‘Reader’s ask, ‘what happens?’ For a writer the question can only be answered when the novel is finished.’

Which means I'll know where I’m going when I get there.

*The Creative Writing Coursebook edited by Julia Bell and Paul Magrs

Photograph by Elizabeth Hacker

Looking for Legs

2011-03-17T20:30:00.005Z

I’m in Spain with three generations of my family.

We’re on a mission to decorate the house in preparation for my (future) in-laws visit.

They’re coming over from Colombia for the wedding in May, which may sound far off but then you haven’t seen what there is to do.

As I write this, my hands still smell of white spirit.

To date, I have painted three doors and my slippers.

In addition to improving our house for the special occasion, we’ve also been exploring possible refreshments.

You may have heard of the fine supermarket ‘Lidl’.

Forget the branch in South East London, the outlet in the nearby Catalan town is sheer quality and boasts an exciting variety of wines.

Whether they taste exciting is another matter.

On Tuesday we invest in a healthy selection ranging from 0.99 cents to 4.99€

The plan is to open a bottle (or two) each evening and mark it out of five stars.

First, we sniff.

“Rounded,” someone says, “Sort of.”

Then we taste, carefully.

Is that a hint of cherry?

Or is it blackcurrant?

Perhaps it’s Oak?

I read the label of the Navarra Reserva (expensive at 3.99).

“Tobacco and leather,” it says.

I’m not sure I want my drink to taste of either.

As our tasting continues, I get a sneaking suspicion we’re not connoisseurs.

“The question is, does it have legs?” My auntie says.

She swirls the wine around her glass and holds it up.

“What does that mean?”

Supposedly, if the wine has legs, it will visibly trickle down the side of the glass, (the inside of the glass that is).

The first wines we try are vinegary, get low scores and don’t have any legs.

The next lot are only marginally better.

On Day three we open a Rioja Reserva.

It doesn’t sting my nose when I sniff it, which is a good start.

It’s smoother on the tongue and I wonder if the previous acidic wines have numbed my taste buds.

I don’t swirl it around in my glass because I’m afraid I’m going to spill it and with seven of us drinking, there’s not loads to go round. My Grandmother is far from impressed with the tiny trickle in her glass and suggests we open another.

Does the Rioja have legs?

“It has more legs than a centipede,” Mum concludes.

It certainly gets the highest score at 23.5 out of 35.

But it’s not over yet.

There are still more to go.

The suspense... is palpable.

The First Draft

2011-03-06T20:54:00.002Z

As planned, I completed the first draft of my novel last week.

Reading it was as difficult as writing it.

It was abysmal.

Of course it was! I’d basically scribbled out a story without adding any colour, smell or texture.

My characters were as developed as an amoeba without a nucleus.

Still, a terrible draft is better than no draft at all.

My current method is a backward one.

Now I’ve written the book, I’m going to start researching it.

I’m going to look deep into my characters hearts and wonder what they really want for breakfast.

What are their greatest fears, their strongest desires? What on earth is in their pockets?

My young heroine, Lilly, is obsessed with reptiles and wants to be a wildlife photographer.

I went to the library and took out ‘Iguanas for Dummies’ ‘Life in Cold Blood’ and an ancient copy on how to take photographs.

I now know some very interesting facts, including why my brother’s pet iguana died so prematurely when we were kids. Iguanas don’t eat bugs.

Getting to grips with who Lilly is will be a piece of cake compared to finding out who Alejandro ‘Alex’ Quintero is.... if that is his real name.

For starters, what’s it like to be a boy?

And what’s it like to grow up on the Caribbean coast of Colombia?

I don’t have all the answers but I’m going to have fun finding out.

Meanwhile, if you are a boy and were brought up in Cartagena de las Indias, please get in touch.

Ginger Buzz

2011-02-23T22:42:00.006Z

A few weeks ago I decided to give up alcohol.

I’ve often set myself the challenge but have never gone through with it.

A month without a drink has always seemed too cruel on my social life.

But this time I opted for just two measly weeks.

We drink a lot in Britain. Every occasion is an excuse for a beverage.

A long day at work is reason enough.

A short day at work is too. Well you may as well celebrate getting out early.

I wanted to see how I would feel without it.

I anticipated more energy and a clearer head.

The cravings began almost immediately.

On day 3 I had a dinner party to go to and I couldn’t consolidate the idea of bringing a bottle of wine and not drinking any of it.

I felt grumpy on the tube.

It was embarrassing how my mind was obsessed with the idea.

Why are you giving up anyway? The voice whined. Just forget about it. One glass won’t hurt.

I survived the dinner party without a drop.

In fact I didn’t survive it, I had a good time.

But the hard bit wasn’t over. The weekend was yet to come and the more I craved a drink, the more I realised I had to complete the challenge.

I didn’t drink on the weekend. I slurped (non alcoholic) ginger beer and considered taking up smoking instead.

Did I feel more energetic? Nope.

Was I getting up any earlier? Nope.

It wasn’t until the second week that I began to feel the benefits.

After a day of intensive writing I would finish with my mind still buzzing.

Instead of reaching for a glass of wine to numb the mad feeling that comes with being immersed in fiction all day, I felt driven to look for new writing opportunities.

There suddenly seemed to be so many exciting options out there; short story competitions, job openings and callings for magazine submissions.

On Valentine’s Day, the Fiancé took me to an Ethiopian restaurant.

I scanned the wine list hopefully then asked for a Guava juice.

The first sip of that exotic juice transported me straight back to a moment in Cuba three years ago.

It made me feel so happy.

I wouldn't have experienced that if I’d automatically ordered wine.

That’s what this challenge has been about: making drinking more enjoyable and less automatic.

Unfortunately, on the 14th day, sick of ginger beer and the rain, I succumbed to a beer.

In one sense I failed the challenge.

On the other hand I feel suddenly protective about my mental energy.

I can do so much more than I thought and until the first draft of my novel is written, I’m determined to be in control.

Cry-Baby on the Radio

2011-02-16T00:01:00.002Z

I was on Woman’s Hour.

BBC Radio 4.

Stardom, it wasn’t.

The show was with Joe Brand and it was about crying.

I’d responded to the Woman’s Hour tweet: Does everything have you in floods of tears or do you find it hard to cry?

I replied honestly that most things moved me to tears, including episodes of MasterChef.

They asked me to call them directly and feeling there was nothing to lose, I did.

Two days later I was waiting on the phone and listening to the show in the background.

I was a caller without a surname.

I was a nobody who was inexplicably nervous.

“Mention your book,” said the Fiancé. “Say you cry when other people do well but you didn’t cry at your book launch of Shop Girl Diaries.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Yes you can.”

This was a potentially miraculous moment to commit some widespread publicity.

“Good morning Emily,” the presenter said, and I tripped up on my tongue.

It took me five seconds to confess I was a cry-baby and then I was tossed off the phone line.

Damn.

Goodbye BBC.

The Fiancé sniggered on the sofa where he’d been listening with huge headphones on.

He’d recorded the moment because he’s high tech.

This meant I was able to listen to myself mumbling that though I didn’t follow Reality TV shows I only needed to be watching them for 30 seconds before my tears were flowing.

If I hadn’t been an amateur with 5 seconds to ruin, I would have explained myself a lot better.

I would’ve articulately described how I identify with all the contestants.

Whether they are cooking a bowl of lentil soup or dancing a tango, I get caught up in their story.

In an instant I think of all the hard work they must’ve done to get where they are.

I feel their passion and their hunger to be able to do what they love for a living and their drive that has pushed them to work at it while juggling a full-time job or school or while looking after five children and a severely disabled mother.

I feel their bitter struggle as if it were my own struggle to succeed as a writer.

When they succeed, I can’t control the tears welling up.

If they can do it then so can I!

Yet today I received a rejection e-mail from the literary agent I’d written to.

It was a standard letter of rejection which surprised me because we had met in person and I’d expected a more personalised rejection.

I’d been on a roll with my novel but after that e-mail I felt out of sorts.

For a couple of hours I fiddled about on the internet because I couldn’t face a new chapter. When I got round to it, it was at a sluggish pace.

Got to Dance was on the telly and I watched the semi-final as I worked through a sorry bowl of pasta.

It didn’t take long before I was moved.

Their passion was so inspiring, their excitement so genuine and their performances were brilliant.

One dancer who impressed the judges hadn’t even had the full support of her mother while she was training. At least my parents encouraged me to keep going.

They LOVED it and that’s what it’s all about.

Loving it and living it.

No I won’t stop trying.

One day I’ll be on BBC Woman’s Hour talking about a novel I’ve written.

I’ll have a surname and at least 30 seconds.

And I won’t cry.

Lazy Bride?

2011-02-09T18:13:00.004Z

My wedding planning has been going very smoothly.
Mostly because I haven’t done any.
I don’t think I really like it.
Now I bet you’re wondering if I’ve got cold feet.
I haven’t.
My feet are under a cosy duvet because I’m in bed early.
Early because I’d rather snooze than examine the wedding menu that’s just been sent to me.
I catch myself worrying that I’m not obsessing enough about my big day.
I think I should be doodling designs for place names, gluing crystals to table decorations, flicking through catalogues of colossal cakes.
But I just picture all my friends and family eating outside in the sun and I feel satisfied.
The problem is they won’t be eating if I don’t sort out the food.
At least I have a venue and a church.
I even have a dress.
I walked into the shop, tried on four, and bought one.
Done and dusted far too efficiently. Even though it’s the perfect dress, surely I should’ve been traipsing around London for months looking for it.
This evening I told myself that wedding planning is like packing for a holiday.
I’m obviously excited about the holiday but I’m much less enthusiastic about the hard bit, the
choosing what to wear for more than one day in a row or in this case, deciding what menu, flowers, ribbons, readings perfectly reflect our true characters.
Then there’s the music.
I’ve just received a reply from a band which I contacted about playing at the wedding.
I press play and it’s like I switch on again.
I feel the enthusiasm tickling my toes.
The sun is setting over the coast and my family, who have finished eating the food that did arrive, are getting up to dance.
Panic over.
I’ve still got time to obsess.

A Novel and 12 Guinea Pigs

2011-02-01T20:47:00.007Z

So now that I’m not a Shop Girl I’m working at being a novelist.

Last week I sent off my first five chapters to an agent.

I’d met up with her last May after I’d won a Blog Award.

“I was actually thinking you might be good at teenage novels,” she said, after reading my synopsis.

I thought of snogging and slang and my mind went blank.

I said I’d try it out but instead I continued with my original plan.

The chapters I’ve sent are not for a teenage novel. This might prove problematic.

I’m hoping she miraculously finds some hidden genius in it worth pursuing.

I assume, being a pessimist, that she will give it a half-hearted tick and write, ‘better luck next time,’ at the bottom in pencil.

I rang her up before I sent them.

Sending off submissions without phoning first is for cowards. It’s what I’ve always done.

“Is today a good day?” I said, sitting on the dusty stairs of my shop, feeling butterflies in my stomach.

“I might take a while to get back to you,” she said.

“Take as long as you like,” I heard myself say and cringed.

She only takes one new client on a year which sounds far too discerning if you ask me.

The thing is not to believe that Agents are Gods with the power to make or break you.

They need writers as much as we need them, right?

Right?

I’ve got to play my part and get it written regardless.

So here goes.

I bought a half-price calendar covered in guinea pigs on the weekend to mark out my aims. (It was guinea pigs or nothing).

The difference between a writer and a successful writer is the first spends a lot of time buying stationary and talking about writing and the latter actually writes.

I will endeavour for this next crucial month not to get distracted by the usual temptations or the twelve guinea pigs.

So the blurb: Once upon a time in a land far away (depending on where you), there was a boy (well, he starts as a boy then becomes a man) who in a moment of incredible coincidence discovers that in a land far, far away (again, depending on your current geographical position) there is a girl he needs to meet....

Haha, look, the guinea pig is hiding under a book!

Is it tea time yet?

The Grand Finale

2011-01-12T22:11:00.005Z

I’m fired up.

I’ve never had such a strong desire to sell lights in my life.

That’s really saying something considering I’ve spent most of my life in a light shop.

The joke is this is our last week.

This Saturday we close our doors to the public.

And then we open them again on Sunday to pack up, and if a few members of the public fancy a quick purchase then we will let them in.

But then we really, truly close our doors.

It’s probably because these are our last 4 days that I’m so motivated to make the most of them.

Petra and I are assembling crystal non-stop from the moment we arrive in the morning till the moment we force ourselves to say ‘enough is enough’, which can be any time after 7pm.

Lunch break is a vegetable pasty up a ladder.

To keep us going Mum supplies us with the occasional melt-in-your-mouth Lindt chocolate that a customer gave us at Christmas.

“Good job I’ve hidden them or we’d eat them all,” she says, which doesn’t make much sense since she must know where they are to be giving them to us.

Already this week chandeliers have been bought for houses in China, Jamaica, Ghana, Nigeria and Wales.

We’re selling real beauties for half their usual price.

People that cried when they saw the prices in Selfridges are now crying for joy because they can afford a real crystal, gold or chrome-plated chandelier after all.

Mum has been working into the early hours to get orders wired up and customised for low and high ceilings. Next comes the packing of these purchases, which can take half a day if they are for shipping.

Some customers appreciate what we do and others don’t and that’s how it has always been.

I’ve moaned in the past but now we’ve reached the end of the journey I don’t feel like moaning at all.

I wake up and I want to be at the shop making things happen.

I want to be rushing around finding boxes, making sellotape handles, lighting up lights that have never been lit.

I wake up and I realise that I’m looking forward to going to work.

I wake up and I want to be with my fellow Shop Girls, because they are simply the brightest and the best.

Christmas Spirit and Olives

2010-12-27T00:21:00.005Z

Christmas coupled with a Closing Down Sale makes life very busy.

My finger tips are sore after manic crystal pinning and I can barely zip up my vital fourth fleece which protects me from the arctic temperatures of our shop.

Fond memories of a nail salon in Bogotá come to mind and I push them away.

My hands currently resemble those of Santa’s great grandmother.

I’m not complaining. I love it when it’s busy like this.

When all the shop crew are together I feel happy.

There’s great banter and team work when Alfie is building lamps, Papa is throwing massive boxes down the stairs and Petra is laying out rows of crystal to pin. When Mum is going the extra mile by cleaning a half-price chandelier and I’m relishing the thought of a new space on the ceiling.

We’ve been working late to get our jobs done and on Thursday we reward ourselves with a bottle of wine and upgrade from a jar of Crespo olives to a superior pot of marinated ones.

It’s the little things in life, after all.

The little oily, herby things.

People believe we are closing now. Old customers bring us in chocolates and promise a drink that probably won't happen (but how nice anyway).

To make things a little more hectic, the Fiancé and I move north.

North of the river, that is.

I finally get the chance to be excited about having my own chandeliers.

Each time I come into the living room, I look up at the sparkly crystals and feel uplifted.

We get our first Christmas tree as soon as we move in and name it ‘Pepe the Great’.

We bring it home and find that its trunk is teeming with bugs.

The Fiancé grabs deodorant and a lighter, and the flames roar as he torches all the little beasties.

The smell is amazing. Pepe is less impressed.

Back at the shop, Christmas takes the form of a little bark crib in the window, complete with a mini fire that lights up.

Everyone wants to buy it.

“Sorry, I’m inheriting it,” I tell them.

What am I going to do after the shop?

The best I can!

As ever, at this time of year, I’m thinking it’s time for a revolution in my life.

Sometimes you get lost in the flow and you make excuses for not achieving your goals.

Lately I’ve been unable to get up early or squeeze writing time in at night.

I’ve been feeding my inner Spartan mince pies and half price sparkling wine and it’s all been very cosy.

The thing is, all the films on telly are insisting I spread the festive cheer and believe in Santa so his sleigh can take off.

I wouldn’t want to be a Bah! Humbug!

So...Ho ho ho, I think I’ll let the Christmas spirit bubble for the time being.

When January comes, a new story will begin.

Back to School

2010-12-06T17:34:00.003Z

I contacted my old school to see if I could speak at an assembly about my journey from blogger to author.

I’d just booked a stall to sell copies of Shop Girl Diaries at their Christmas market but I knew I wouldn’t sell many if no one knew anything about it.

The date was set for the 29^th November.

The time: 8 am.

When the day arrived, there was a massive tube strike.

I got up at 6am to find all my tights had vanished.

The only tights I could find had fake suspenders outlined on them.

I pulled them up anyway, believing my skirt would hide the sexy pattern.

My local station was closed so I ended up having to take two buses and a tube to get there.

I was running late and phoned the head mistress to warn her.

“We’ll sing a hymn or something,” she said.

As I strode towards the school building I noticed with horror that my inappropriate tights were very visible.

I jumped the toilet queue as soon as I got there and yanked up my tights so hard I ripped them.

I couldn’t believe it. How on earth could I walk into a room of two hundred girls aged 10 to 18 wearing ripped suspender tights?

I took off my boots, pulled off my tights and hurried into assembly with bare legs.

On a raised stage I looked out across a room filled with girls dressed in blue.

Once I’d been one of them in that same uniform. Would I have been eager to listen to an author?

I like to think so.

We sang a lively hymn and one of the girls read out a prayer. There was such a positive vibe that despite my nerves and cold legs I felt happy to be there.

There was a lectern for my notes which gave me great comfort.

The lights dimmed and I showed my first picture.

It was a photo of me in my St James’ school uniform when I was 4 years old, writing on a slanted board that we used to use.

I relaxed pretty quickly and enjoyed telling my story.

“Fantastic,” my head mistress whispered when I’d finished and I felt really chuffed.

She continued her support after the assembly by lending me some tights.

It was impressive how many back-up tights she had; clearly the mark of a successful woman.

The Christmas Market took place on the following Sunday.

Petra and I spread out sparking crystals, little brass ornaments and of course, my books, on our stall.

Our prices suited a child’s pocket money and we had lots of little people pleased to be able to buy little brass baskets and sparkly beads.

The Fiancé stood close by cheekily bullying parents into buying my book.

I squirmed as he did it but I couldn’t complain as he got great results.

By the end of the day I wheeled my suitcase home 18 books lighter!

Brilliant.

*Thank you St James School and all those who wished me real good luck by buying my book!

Closing Down...Honest!

2010-11-15T14:20:00.004Z

The shop has been closing down for two years and three months.

To be fair, it’s only been ‘closing’ most of that time. Mum thought writing ‘down’ on the window was too negative.

Last month she finally wrote the whole thing.

There was little reaction from the public so she painted around the letters in pink to make it stand out.

No one believes us but this time we’re not bluffing.

In fact we weren’t bluffing before. It just takes a long time to clear a three storey building that has been gathering stock for over thirty five years.

We put a sign on the door: 8 weeks to go.

That provoked a bit of panic.

“I better hurry up,” a customer said and then disappeared, leaving us wondering if he was talking about buying a light or catching the bus.

Inside the shop we put up the customary signs ‘Everything Must Go!’

Then we worried that the hagglers would be ruthless so Mum wrote ‘Nearly’ in front of each one so they wouldn’t think we were desperate.

There are lots of bargains so if you want a chandelier now is the time. You have eight weeks, honest.

Someone else is moving in so we can’t change our minds.

I’m not sure we can imagine life without the shop.

What will we all do?

“It must be magical working in here,” a customer said last week, her eyes widening with each sparkle of crystal and I didn’t know what to say.

Obviously it’s not magical working in a shop just because it sells sparkly things but you don’t want to dampen the mood.

We’ve had fun times but it’s exciting to be going.

It’s like being a baby bird about to be pushed off a cliff. Isn’t that how they learn to fly?

Harsh but effective.

I think we’re all ready to swoop off.

So hurry, if you don’t want a chandelier but still fancy a reminder of our lovely shop, my book is only a click away: Shop Girl Diaries

On the Third Day... (of job hunting)

2010-10-27T21:34:00.003+01:00

Day 3 and still no job.

What a disaster!

I was secretly hoping for a top editor to pop out of nowhere and say,

“Hey kid, I’ll show you the ropes but don’t expect a million dollars...”

I’d turn up in her chaotic office and she’d give me a brisk once over, her eyes narrowing behind her chunky designer glasses.

“For starters I want you to get me a tall, extra dry mocha with a coat of cinnamon and no cardboard handle.”

“Why no cardboard handle?”

“Goddammit, do you need a reason for everything?”

It would be tough but that first task of getting a coffee would lead to numerous published features, vital contacts, invaluable confidence, excellent computer skills and ultimately a best-selling novel.

I know, too many films and not enough degrees!

Meanwhile I’m finding it difficult to begin looking for a flat before I’ve got a job.

Perhaps my Fiancé won’t mind living with his in-laws for a few more wee... mont...years?

Alternatively he could leave me behind for a posh studio and we could text each other from time to time.

We could be like one of those modern couples who have their own separate apartments.

Except my apartment would actually be my childhood bedroom in my Mum’s.

Chin up!

Day four is approaching and there’s bound to be a reply from somewhere soon.

Though I’m slightly worried that if I check my mail one more time the glare of my computer may reverse my laser eye surgery.

I must simply remember that Rome was not built in a day.

Although technically, if the world was only built in 7, then Rome should’ve taken much less than a day.

Like half a quarter of a millisecond.

The time it takes to make a decision to stop procrastinating and do something about not having a job!

WANTED: 1 job, London

2010-10-24T22:25:00.002+01:00

I’m back in London and I need a job.

My CV is awaiting a polish up.

Registering with a temping agency is the first thing to cross my mind, then teaching in an English Language School.

Everyone is talking about a crisis. Are there vacancies out there?

I got myself a Journalism Diploma last year.

The classes had a strong focus on the impossibility of breaking into the industry.

“But you have to try,” the tutor would add.

The effect of this message is, that despite all the studying and a cosy little distinction on my certificate, it doesn’t even occur to me to look for a job in the media.

That said, I’ll now spend a moment looking wistfully out of the window while I imagine this blog was a column in a newspaper.

How I’d love to be able to write for a living!

I’m disciplined, I’m determined, I love the satisfaction of meeting deadlines and I love tea.

In Bogota I was able to dedicate entire months to my novel.

It was the first time in my life I’d been able to do that.

Up until then I’d always written in moments snatched before and after work.

Being able to write every day actually made writing easier.

I started to get into the zone more quickly; my ideas developed and the novel began to take shape.

Now two weeks have passed without me looking at it and I already feel it drifting away.

I just need to find a new routine so I can keep at it.

I want to get something good enough to send off to an agent.

Of course meanwhile I need a paid job, a job which might teach me something and help me develop my skills.

This blog has brought me a lot of luck, a lot of support and a lot of advice... so if any of you readers know of any opportunities out there, or have any tips for me, I’d love to hear from you!

What a Sight!

2010-10-16T23:41:00.005+01:00

Laser eye surgery... how do you imagine it?

I imagined a huge green laser beam ready to burn off my eyebrows if I moved a hair.

Not so.

It’s incredible.

Incredibly quick.

Five minutes an eye.

It’s not pleasant. There’s glaring lights, the sensation of a sticky plaster being pressed over your eye, the sound of an electric drill which turns out to be a gentle dryer.

Later you spend three hours with your eyelids taped closed and your eyes stinging.

But it’s still not as awful as that wax I once had in Peru.

Because of my surgery, I have been off the computer for a few days and I haven’t been able to share last week’s special event: Our official engagement party (Colombian style).

It was only fair to celebrate our commitment to each other in each country and include all our friends and family.

Our party began at 7.30am with the Fiancé and I sticking single flower stems into a sandpit in the drizzle.

We were in the finca, the house in the countryside belonging to my sister-in-law and her family, and it had never been so cloudy.

“Look, the sun,” my father-in-law said, pointing at a tiny spec of white amidst all the grey. “It will clear.”

As the rain increased and our dream of an outdoor celebration looked like it wasn’t to be, we began emptying the house and preparing to move all the tables indoors.

But a few hours later, while the guest started to arrive, the sun made a miraculous appearance.

The simple and beautiful ceremony was held outside as planned with a reading by the local priest and a blessing of our rings.

“I never thought I’d ever say ‘yes’ to a man before I’d met his mother,” I began my speech.

It meant a lot to me to be able to address all these people that had come to share our special day. Many of them I’d never met while others I’d still not got to know fully.

My sister-in-law made the occasion feel particularly complete.

She had researched different wedding traditions from all over the world.

I stepped on an egg, my fiancé on a glass, my father-in-law threw acorns over my head while my mother-in-law held up a green leaf to show her approval.

I can’t match the countries with the traditions now, except the Polish one, where we tasted bread (‘may you never go hungry’), salt (‘may you overcome all bitterness’) and wine (‘may you enjoy the sweetness in life’).

The local band, la papayera, burst into a chaotic melee of drums and trumpets as we finished off a rodizio (rotation) of succulent meat.

Then came the Mariachis to woo us in the night.

All our guests had come to enjoy themselves and there was no holding back as the music played.

I danced all night, exchanging my heels for flip flops and best of all, barefoot.

As it grew colder, the party moved inside beside a roaring fire.

The Fiancé and I were the last ones standing.

When I felt my eyes starting to close, he took my hand and we went outside.

Amidst the eucalyptus trees we sat and watched big, blurry stars.

It was a perfect day and a perfect way to bring to a close my time in Colombia.

I can’t thank my new family enough for taking me in with such an open heart.

The Little One

2010-10-01T19:29:00.003+01:00

I’m convinced my newly acquired nephew is drinking Red Bull on the sly.
This wouldn’t be a problem if he wasn’t 4 years old.
In fact he’s 3 years and 10 months and he knows he’s not a baby anymore.
He hasn’t stopped for one minute since he arrived in Bogotá a week ago.
The sword fighting starts before we’ve even had breakfast.
Then comes the fall outs and reconciliations between Tiger and Mr Donkey, the plasticine creations including the fish with a tumour on his face, the hospital made of chunky lego, the piecing together of Sponge Bob, the re-piecing together of Sponge Bob and of course the acting out of scenes from superman, batman, spiderman, the fantastic four, transformers and the green lantern.
By 5pm I’m knackered and craving a soothing glass of wine, (by glass I mean bottle).
Meanwhile he’s just warming up.
After my first play day with my little nephew, a thought occurred to me.
What if baby animals were anything like humans ones?
Little calf: No Mummy, I don’t want to eat grass! I want chocolate!
Baby Seal: Why do I have to go in the water? Baby bear hasn’t gone in!
Baby lion curls his lip after one bite of antelope: I don’t like it. I want zebra.
Mummy Lion: You asked for antelope. Eat it.
Baby Lion: No!
Mummy Lion: All superlions eat antelope, don’t you want to be a superlion?
Baby Lion: No they don’t! They eat zebra!
Yes I’ve resorted to talking animals. That’s what relentless playing does to you.
In short, baby humans are inconsistent.
One minute my nephew loves me, the next he is attacking me with a cardboard tube under the guise of Optimus Prime.
Admittedly I’m not much different.
When I’m tired and he’s being grumpy, I think having kids is an absurd idea.
Then there are those other moments.
When he’s giggling his socks off because I’m giving Tiger a silly voice,
When he’s sitting on the sofa explaining to me something very seriously and looking so little,
When he sneaks into my room and switches off the light, then runs off squealing with nervous anticipation of me chasing him to tickle his tummy...
Those moments give me an insight into something special, something you would fight every superhero in the world to protect.

Ode to Rome

2010-09-20T22:44:00.006+01:00

Sorry I haven’t written for a while.

I’ve been grieving.

The pain began as soon as I left Rome.

What a beautiful city. What history. What fantastic men in fantastic suits driving down the cobble stoned streets on their Vespas.

We arrived at the five star Baglioni Hotel after a killer journey from Bogotá (all courtesy of Peroni).

Our double bed turned out to be a twin, the toilet was broken and there was no hot water.

This was great news since we were promptly upgraded to an executive suite.

Ah, what luxury. The kind that would make you feel slightly ill if you thought about it.

We had a private city tour with a very knowledgeable and good-humoured guide and had our own driver, Lorenzo, who drove us around the capital in a spotless silver Mercedes.

He collected us from the Olympic Stadium after we watched Lazio versus Bologna, and waited for us while we had lunch.

For a special evening, the concierge booked us into an exquisite restaurant with a view over the city.

Luckily my lady’s menu had no prices or I wouldn’t have been able to order a slice of bread.

It was our pre-honey moon and we clinked our glasses of prosecco and wished ourselves a happy marriage!

On day four, Peroni’s promise had been fulfilled and it was time to leave the hotel that had housed royalty and head to slightly more humble lodgings.

The porter took our luggage out to the entrance.

“Shall I call you a car, Sir?” he asked.

“Oh no, our friends are waiting for us down the road,” my Fiancé lied.

One feels compelled to keep up appearances in places like the Baglioni.

We couldn’t possibly admit that we were walking our bags by ourselves to a three star hotel.

Rome was heaven even without the fancy bottles of body lotion and chocolates on our pillows.

I fell in love with the ancient skyline and the wonderful hues of burnt umber, terracotta and olive green.

I’d never seen such elegant pine trees and I thought of my Mum, who in the past had used up whole films on snaps of trees rather than of us lot on holiday.

We walked until our legs ached and then walked some more.

I bought one half of Rome and admired the other.

A few more weeks and I’d have been posing as a silver-painted cowgirl with a money pot in front of me.

I may be gone now but my absence is temporary.

I threw a coin in the Fontana di Trevi which means my return is assured!

Yoga and Beer

2010-09-06T19:21:00.006+01:00

I used to think Yoga was just a relaxed roll-about on the floor.

A bit like taking a nap on your special mat in nursery.

I wasn’t going to do it because it obviously didn’t involve any sweating.

Then my shoulders started to ache a lot and I worried I was getting arthritis.

“You should do yoga,” the masses advised me.

So I did and I was shocked to find it was the most physically challenging exercise I’d ever done in my life.

Every stretch made my body cry out ‘I’m not meant to be doing this!’

Despite the pain, I’ve taken it up here in Bogotá and I love it.

It’s a two hour session but the teacher always tries to waste a bit of time at the beginning explaining what yoga is.

I mean to arrive late to miss the talking but then I tell myself it’s good for me.

While I’m thinking I’ve heard it all before I’m probably missing something key.

I like the sound of the positions in Spanish, especially Guerrerro* 1 (*Warrior) and Guerrero 2.

With legs firmly on the ground, arms stretching out at each side, eyes focused ahead and Indian music playing in the background, there is a moment where I think I’m Arjuna (from the Mahabharata).

A whole enemy army awaits me but I am not afraid.

That’s what happens when you inhale and exhale deeply with every movement.

It goes to your head.

You just don't get such brilliant illusions on the treadmill.

The melodic music, which could be from Bollywood for all I know, gives the class a special feel.

It’s not the same when the teacher’s ipod selects some wishy-washy version of a film sound track.

That happened last week and I was distracted from my Guerrerro positions because I was trying to guess what film it was from.

The soppy English lyrics killed off any spiritual element there might've been.

I wanted to ask him if he’d please change it but being half British it really goes against my genes to make a fuss.

Luckily it swapped back to the Indian chant.

My favourite bit about my yoga class is at the end when the teacher comes over and rubs tiger balm over my nose.

It stings a bit but it smells delicious and I feel myself drifting to sleep.

Pity I can’t go next week.

But not too much of a pity because I’ll be in Rome!

The Fiancé won the trip in a Peroni raffle. I’ve never been to Italy before so I’m very excited.

Yoga and Beer.

Happiness is about finding that balance.

I’ll tell you how it goes.

Until then… Arrivederci!

Video Malfunction and the Little Cow

2010-08-30T21:31:00.008+01:00

I miss my friends and crave a proper catch up in a pub with a pint and a packet of crisps (salt & vinegar).
“You have to think of yourself as a monk,” Petra says.
She’s the only person I can talk to on Skype without a problem.
It refuses to cooperate when I try to speak to Mum.
Either the video works for her and she can see me, or it works for me and I can see her.
We can’t see each other at the same time.
Only once we’ve resigned to chatting without a video, the audio dies and we have to hang up.
At least I can talk to Petra.
She reminds me of what I already know. One of the reasons I came to Bogotá was to write my book.
I’m not living like a monk and I am writing more than ever.
My writing is diabolical but I just need to get the ideas on paper.
Hopefully it will become readable during the editing process.
Despite odd moments of longing for home, life is good.
The Fiancé’s family feed me as if every day was Christmas.
Last weekend we went up to La Calera, a pretty town up a mountain, close to Bogotá.
We stopped in a busy open air restaurant where they were grilling all sorts of animal parts.
A vegetarian would’ve had to content themselves with a plate of guacamole.
As for me, I loved it.
We all ate out of a single big basket and there was so much, we were still eating it the following day.
Talking of Christmas (sort of), I’m convinced I’m living with Mrs Santa Claus.
My mother in-law is so generous and is always buying me treats.
Last week in Bogotá book fair they were selling boxes of plasticine.
It made my fingers twitch.
My mother in law didn’t think twice about buying a box.
A couple of days later, I was rolling it between my fingers with a big grin on my face.
It was a moment of bliss. I felt about six years old as I made my little cow.
Would I have made that cow if I’d been in London?
I can’t be sure.
The great thing about being here is having the time and space to create.
It’s good I’m staying a while longer.
That pint and those salt & vinegar crisps will taste even better if I come back with a book half written.

A Spell on the Coast

2010-08-18T15:51:00.005+01:00

I went to Cartagena de las Indias to do research for my book.
This involved a lot of sitting on park benches with my cousin, Rosie.
We watched people coming and going as we sipped our sugary tinto bought from one of the men with the flasks.
If you sit long enough in a park something will happen.
Like a presenter from Cartagena TV appearing and rolling up her t-shirt to record a news’ slot.
Or a preacher man stepping up to deliver the word of the Lord and being applauded.
We saw Afro Caribbean folk dancers in the park and a man feeding an Iguana.
After a few days we left town and headed to the harbour.
Beside a reeking fish market we climbed into a boat headed for the beautiful beach of Playa Blanca.
The small vessel was already full when we arrived but not full enough for the locals who wanted to take half of Cartagena across to the island in one trip.
A man approached with a huge sack of plantain and I scrambled up onto my seat to avoid getting crushed. With no space for my feet I lifted my legs on top of the sack as another man handed me a large electric fan to hold onto.
Once the rest of the cargo had been packed in around us, the heaving little boat set off.
The wind whipped against us as our boat sped over the waves and the fan in my hands spun like mad.

Items were inching towards us.
“We have a sausage situation,” Rosie said.
I looked down to see that the largest frankfurters I’d ever seen in my life had slid from their place and were edging slowly up her skirt.
We tried to push them back but they wouldn’t budge.
The boat was bouncing, the fan was blowing, the sausages were slippery and we were helpless to do anything because we were laughing so much.
Two days on a beach didn’t lead to much research but it was fun.
Less fun was having to say no to all the people trying to give us massages or sell us jewellery.
I’ve always found it difficult to say ‘no’.
“The key is no eye contact,” my cousin said.
But I couldn’t resist a peak at those brightly coloured stones and my curiosity landed me with an insistent sales man.
I bought a necklace and some bracelets. That should’ve been the end of it.
The next day, just before we were set to leave the island, my eyes roamed again.
The seller was on me like a flash.
“No, really,” I said, accepting the necklace to look at, “I’ve got no money.”
He halved the price.
“No, really, it’s beautiful, but I can’t.”
I could’ve kicked myself for showing interest. The man wasn’t going to leave me alone.
“I’ll swap it for your sun glasses,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, feeling relieved there was way out.
I handed over my sand-encrusted glasses and took the necklace.
A moment later I got that sinking feeling.
I was on the blazing Caribbean coast with no shade.
My survival instincts had failed me.
What I didn’t know was that in swapping my sunglasses I had cast a spell.
From that moment on the sun ceased to be as blinding.
The days that followed were boiling hot but overcast.
Back in Cartagena new arrivals complained about the rain while I felt relieved I wouldn’t have to buy replacement specs.
I don’t know if the spell has broken yet as I’ve come back to Bogotá.
Maybe it won’t break unless I return.
I could handle that.
Cartagena is the most beautiful city I’ve ever visited.

If I'm quiet, they'll never know

2010-07-29T22:33:00.005+01:00

I don’t recommend going to countries which require a Visa.

Just stay where you are, it’s much easier.

You may live in a dump. So paint the walls.

You may have no job prospects. Adapt your goals.

You may just live somewhere cold and miserable. Buy a coat.

Seriously, I don’t know how my fiancé had the patience to move to the UK in the first place.

I don’t know how he can still be such a happy person after half a lifetime of filling forms.

I waited four hours for my Visa to stay in Colombia and that was just the start of the fun.

Afterwards I was told I had 15 days to register it.

The Visa costing $160 was worthless if I didn’t.

I went to register it but I was told I couldn’t unless I had a foreigners’ ID card, which would cost another $60.

“I’m only staying three months,” I said. “Do I really have to?”

“Yes,” the woman said and gave me a strip of paper with everything I needed, including photocopies of my passport, photos, a document proving my blood group and so on.

I already had a pile of photos left over from applying for the Visa but they had been taken on a white background.

The ID card required photos with a blue background.

Why?

Because anything related to getting a Visa has to be annoying. It’s the law.

I don’t carry a document with my blood group around with me, so after getting the photos I went off to a clinic to have some blood extracted.

I passed the test with an A-

To be fair, what I had to do was easy compared to what a Colombian has to do to stay in the UK, since all Colombians are supposedly drug dealers.

But still, after the tedium of another long wait in the security office, I decided to reward myself with a manicure.

Manicures cost about 3 pounds here so you have to do them.

I chatted to my manicurist about my trip to get my documents.

“You shouldn’t be too trust worthy, there are bad people out there.”

“I only walked five minutes down the road,” I said.

“Still, you have to be careful.”

“It’s hard to know which parts are safe.”

“Nowhere is safe.”

“Don’t say that or I’ll never go outside!”

I think she thought that would be for the best. I, on the hand, was bored of being scared.

“Are you saying it’s unsafe because I look like a tourist? Or is it unsafe for everyone?”

“Because you look like a tourist,” she said.

“Ah…” I felt hopeful, “so what can I do to look more Colombian? Should I dye my hair darker?”

“No, it’s the way you talk.”

“What if I don’t say anything?”

“Then you could pass as a Colombian.”

Well I haven’t paid all this money to stay here and be quiet, so I’ll just have to accept I’m a tourist.

Goodbye, I’m off to fetch my flip flops.

Taking Steps in Bogotá

2010-07-19T22:13:00.005+01:00

I’m still not travelling around the city as I did in London.

My job is to write and it’s at the kitchen table which doesn’t take long to get to.

“Are you putting on weight?” Mum asks.

“No, I don’t think so,” I say, prodding myself.

My saviour is the family’s step machine.

I’m doing twenty minutes in the morning listening to music.

Today it was Jonny Cash.

When I feel that tingle of air meeting the sweat on my arms, I experience a sense of well-being.

It’s also the satisfaction of routine which I need to write this novel.

Writing is slow.

I’m worried my book sounds like an Enid Blyton. Too chirpy, too golly gosh.

I’ll be doing a lot of rewriting over the next few weeks, which is alright because Mum stuffed my suitcase with tea bags.

When I’m happy I’ll send the chapters over to her and she’ll tell me the truth.

Apart from writing, I’m not doing much.

On Thursday I came very close to joining a yoga class.

I got as far as writing my name on a list and going into a room full of chairs.

Yoga on chairs? How unusual, I thought.

“It’s a lecture on yoga,” a woman said.

“Ah,” I said and hurried out of the building.

Apart from looking after my physical being, it’d also be good if I did some voluntary work. At least it would get me out of the house.

Cooking too might be an idea.

Embarrassingly, the only thing I’ve cooked here has been a solitary omelet.

If I don’t get the hob on soon my in-laws may chuck me out.

Is it me, or are other people’s fridges intimidating?

Or is that just an excuse and really I’m afraid that what I cook won’t be good enough?

An excuse ... definitely.

Thank god I can wash up.

Forget the Bacon, SAVE SALT!

2010-07-14T20:51:00.003+01:00

Who are Salt Publishing?

I didn’t have a clue until they published my book.

I was always the sort to head into Waterstones before a holiday and scoop up 3 books for the price of 2 from the front table. They were generally published by the biggies and recommended by Richard&Judy.

I’d devour them on the plane or by the sea, and afterwards I’d think how satisfying reading was and wonder why I didn’t do it more often.

Just because I write a lot, doesn’t mean I've always read a lot.

I do read though and I’m more conscious than ever where the books I read come from.

Salt Publishing is a bit like my shop.

Its got great products, pursues quality, is run by friendly people and yet, despite these excellent features, isn’t known by enough people.

Right now, business is slower than ever for them.

1000 copies of Shop Girl Diaries were published in December and there are still plenty left.

Perhaps because people think it’s just my blog in print, so why spend the money when they can read it for free?

But the book is very different, if it wasn’t I’d erase my past blogs.

More likely the lack of sales is due to losing the battle to get a review in the newspaper and not having the money for a decent advertising campaign. It’s not for lack of trying though, believe me.

But this isn’t about my book. I’m writing because there is a brilliant independent publisher who needs your help!

All you need to do is buy 1 book.

Personally, I like the sound of Wena Poon’s ‘Alex y Robert’, a book about a young American woman determined to become a matador and Roberto, a reluctant star Spanish bullfighter whom she recruits to help her.

There are plenty of books to choose from.

See it as a well-deserved treat for yourself.

When that package arrives, put your feet up and enjoy it!

Shop Girl in Football Mania

2010-07-08T21:25:00.007+01:00

I must’ve been to every Spanish bar in Bogotá.

La Basca full of bulls’ heads and flamenco posters,

La Tasca with its heavy wood beams,

La Puerta Grande with mosaics a la Gaudi and a white-washed terraza nicknamed ‘Ibiza’.

I wear my Spanish top with my name on the back and shout and scream at the television alongside the Fiancé.

My mother in-law bites her nails and gets as nervous as me while my father-in-law secretly supports the other side!

I’ll write my book when the world cup is over.

I’ll run off to the quiet of the country and write it word by word.

Meanwhile, I’ll wait for the octopus’s verdict while I quietly miss my family.

Because that’s the downside of the football, not being able to share the emotions with them!

I wish I could’ve seen my Dad’s reaction to those late in the game goals that got us through each time.

I imagine my Mum, walking in and out of the kitchen to watch bits and shout ‘Come on Wales!’

I want to be transported to Barcelona to see the game with my brother on a big screen by the beach.

You might not get it if you’re not into football.

So I’ll keep it short.

And when it’s over, I’ll write again.

If they win, if they lose, I’ll happily go through this all again.

Good luck to them all and Viva España!

To Wonder Or To Wander

2010-06-29T22:22:00.007+01:00

Yesterday morning I was concerned I’d developed agoraphobia.

You see, it’s very comfortable in this apartment.

Everything is soft and clean.

There is plenty of food and the bathroom is lovely.

Beyond the apartment there are roads you have to cross and people trying to sell you stuff.

There are young boys selling black plastic bags, adults sorting through rubbish, acrobats performing at traffic lights…

Every time I step outside I realize how easy I’ve got it, which makes me feel ashamed and confused, and brings me to the inevitable conclusion that humans are selfish bastards.

“Speak for yourself!” you may say.

I am.

After all I’m the one hiding in the apartment.

Ironically, seeing people struggling to make ends meet puts me right off shopping.

As if not spending money will help anyone!

Even if I did fancy a shopping spree the Shop Girls here are so sticky they put me off it.

They chase you around the shop like an episode of Tom n’ Jerry.

But perhaps my mind is playing tricks.

The less you see for real, the more you imagine.

Luckily, the Fiancé is not the sort to watch me develop a mental disease.

He takes me outside and walks me to a lovely park.

There are lofty palm trees and a huge eucalyptus.

I feel relieved as we sit side by side in the quiet.

When I travelled to South America with my friend three years ago, we never stopped more than a couple of days in a city.

We preferred the countryside, opting for excursions in the mountains rather than museums tours.

Cities take some getting used to and can be daunting.

Still, the mind can be scarier than the outside.

I’ll wander soon.

I just need time.

Football and Nails

2010-06-21T17:54:00.004+01:00

The World Cup is very distracting and I love it.

Here in Bogota everyone is watching.

Colombia may not have classified but there are plenty of other exciting Latin teams to support.

Thank God I’m staying in a home that’s embracing the tournament!

My very first day with the in-laws involved shouting at the telly as Spain played Switzerland.

Despite our enthusiastic support from the sofa sidelines, Spain lost.

I rang my dad feeling distraught.

“It’s part of their strategy,” Papa assured me.

My in-laws are brilliant and not just because they get emotional about football.

They are everything I could hope for: Caring, generous, open, relaxed, good-looking, funny, affectionate…

Did I mention affectionate?

My Mum sometimes calls me ‘Flower’ which is lovely. Over here, they take it a step further.

Mi vida, mi amor, mi lindo Corazon…(my life, my love, my beautiful heart…) My Fiancé’s family don’t speak without uttering some loving term. I reckon they couldn’t resist even in an argument. Even in a football match.

Pass me the ball, my life.

I’m fast getting used to being here.

It’s been special seeing my cousin too, who turned up in Bogota on the same day, as part of her world travels.

We went for a manicure and pedicure together. My first ever!

The women assigned to me fell quiet as she realized how much work lay ahead.

I winced as she scraped and chopped at my cuticles with a tool not too dissimilar from the wire cutters back in the shop.

All these years of moaning about horrible finger nails, well finally Shop Girl has nice nails.

Unfortunately wearing open shoes is a bit of a no-no in this city so I can’t show my toes off. Instead I have to make do with walking around the apartment bare foot so I can enjoy looking at them.

That’s enough now.

Spain is playing in 2 hours and I’m already nervous.

Yesterday my mother in-law bought a special Spanish supporter snack pack, of chorizo, jamón Serrano and Manchego cheese.

What more could I want?

Ah yes, a goal!

And if not?

Well there are plenty of Latin teams to cheer for!

Shop Girl in Washington DC

2010-06-09T15:59:00.004+01:00

Washington DC is clean.
It’s so clean I’m tempted to drop litter just to test whether a gnome pops out of somewhere to pick it up.
So far I’ve resisted because I’m concerned the gnome may issue a million dollar fine.
We’ve been staying with my sister-in law (to be), her husband and their 3 year old son.
I was so nervous about meeting them that I couldn’t eat my free packet of pretzels on the plane.
I remained nervous the day after our arrival as the immensity of our trip hit me.
Speaking Spanish felt as uncomfortable as the ulcer I’d developed on my tongue and I worried my new nephew would sense my fear and attack me with a plastic Star Wars laser beam.
Of course that initial anxiety is long goneand has been replaced with a good feeling.
I love being part of this new family. It’s so special hearing this smiley child say, ‘Hasta mañana tios’ (‘See you tomorrow uncle and auntie’) to me and the Fiance.
Of course, as an Auntie I feel it’s my duty to teach him proper English.
Eating out recently, I found it hilarious that the American waiter couldn’t understand me when I asked for a glass of water. A table of Colombians and I, born and raised in England speaking English, was the only one who couldn’t be understood
“Water,” I said, again, in my best Queen’s English.
“Wa- Wa- Waaat?” the waiter replied.
“Water,” I repeated.
Still nothing.
“Warra,” my little nephew says, later.
“No, WA-TER.”
“Warra,” he says, giggling.
I shall not give in. Nor, daresay, will he.
Slowly I will introduce ‘pavement’ ‘lift’ and ‘rubbish’ to his vocabulary.
Then I’ll do the same with Spanish from Spain, because with so much Colombian slang around me, I don’t know what’s going on.
A bit of Catalan might not go amiss either.
I’m only teasing really, hearing American accents everywhere makes me feel like I’m in a film.
They’re so friendly too.
In fact, I can’t get over how chirpy they are when they’re working.
Shop assistants and waiters all introducing themselves and wishing you the greatest day of your life, even when you are the hundredth person they’ve served that morning.
What are they all on? I wonder.
As Shop Girl such chirpiness was reserved for special occasions and not for each and every customer.
Then again, I never expected a massive tip.
Is it too late to hope for one now?
I mean, obviously I want you to have a super dooper day!