GLORY GLORY (after all these years)
May 2025
I like to think I have bequeathed to my son many gifts; literature, obsessive book collecting, an unbridled love for London. A latent talent for writing which I hope will one day come to fruition. The freedom not to be ensnared by any particular religion. And an unswerving passion for Tottenham Hotspur.
Now, with a football-hating husband, this last has been difficult, but was aided by my son joining a football team in 2010, playing in goal (yikes) when I could reason that going to a few matches at White Hart Lane was all part of his education, (sometimes even in style when my cousin kindly passed on tickets including pre match lunch and comfy seats) His first match was New Year’s Day 2011 versus Fulham in the Harry Redknapp, Gareth Bale days. Fab football and no trophies…
My own glory days had been spent in the 1970s/80s when we won 2 FA Cups, the Charity Shield (joint) and the UEFA Cup – playing fantastic footy under Keith Burkinshaw. Over the years I have felt sorry for my son who it seemed was not destined to enjoy such moments of emotion and triumph.
But here we are in 2025. Europa League Champions. Now aged 21 it was almost a case of my son taking me to the parade down Tottenham High Street, making sure I wasn’t trampled on, buying ridiculously priced flags and ensuring we got to the front of the barriers.
Here’s a few pics…roll on the start of the next season…
Teardrop In The Wild
April 2025
Teardrop has now been out in the wild for 7 months, and has been spotted in various bookshops in places as diverse as Buckinghamshire, Letchworth, Oundle, North London and St Andrews, as well as being able to order online. As a consequence, I’ve had a taste of the publicity machine which largely, I enjoyed – all without the aid of gin you will be pleased to know. In December I was fortunate to take part in a rather daunting midday interview on BBC Radio Cambridge, where I was asked a lot of questions about my own novel that I somehow felt unprepared for… (how? why?) but nevertheless was enjoyed by all those who know me – I cannot speak for any strangers who were listening in. Then in January, I was fortunate to take part in a Writers’ panel in a book shop in North London, alongside my fellow Indie Novella Historical Fiction author, Martin Raymond. Between us we discussed what we write… how we write…why we write, and all the shades of pain and doubt in between. Receptive audience and lovely to finally meet Martin in person, and also our publicity consultant at Indie Novella, Finn. A good night. I wrote an advice article for Writers & Artists (Bloomsbury Publishing) and was interviewed for The Publishing Post, both of which appear in digital form on their websites. I received a favourable review from The Asian Review of Books in which the reviewer felt I had delivered a good sense of time and place. And to round it all off, my sister-in-law generously donated her newly acquired ceramic gecko which I spied atop her kitchen shelf and couldn’t put down (if you read the book, you’ll know!).
Time now to get back to the next one…
Teardrop has launched!
September 2024
People are reading it apparently everywhere…on their travels, in the kitchen, on the way to work, relaxing at home. Even a dog has got in on the act. Hope they all enjoy it…
Lovely ‘do’ in the fab Ink@84 Books which was nice on so many levels, not least because I got to return to my beloved-ever-missed Norf London, like a homing pigeon. The evening, organised by Indie Novella, was their end-of-summer party which they took as an opportunity to launch my novel, and fellow author, Martin Raymond with his book, Lotte.
I entered the beautiful shop with trepidation, husband and son alongside, propping me up. My two previous book launches had been organised by me, so I had known exactly who was coming and what to expect. This one seemed very grown up. Literary. And, as most of my fam and crowd had been unable to venture out, full of people I didn’t know.
I was thrown to discover that the evening’s focus would now be just me, as my fellow author was unwell and unable to attend. Yikes. Spotlight on me, then. I had agreed to do a short reading and as a shy and retiring author as most are, this burden grew larger and larger as more people entered the venue. A nice lady gave me gin to calm my nerves. Probably not the best idea.
As I waited to read, I kept wishing how I had not written quite so much dialogue and so many characters, thereby forcing me to ‘act’ out the various parts, hoping the audience would ‘get’ the rumoured rapport between Jazz and Sonny, the main characters. Very, very, hard to give a flavour of 1950s Ceylonese characters, when what is hopefully, delightful conversation on the page has to be delivered to the listeners in a North London accent. I did my best. People clapped. They bought the book. They were enthusiastic. I signed. Had some more gin. And then on the train on the way home, I suddenly realised how much I had enjoyed myself. If only I had realised at the time.
A New Start
July 2024
A lot has happened since my last post: I’ve moved house, gained a publishing contract and changed my name. That’s a lot to unpack…let’s rewind a little.
Having won the Watson, Little x Indie Novella Prize last year, the lovely people at Indie Novella agreed to publish Teardrop and it’s been crazy busy ever since. As a previously self-published author, it’s been very interesting to experience the publishing process without the slog. Somebody else editing, somebody else typesetting, somebody else providing the ISBN number, organising the cover design, pre-sale orders, date of publication, publicity.
The editing process was something I REALLY enjoyed. I’ve known writing friends who have hated the experience, but I know that the queries and insights from Damien Mosley and the editing team have made Teardrop a far greater book than it would have been. (Even though I made the decision to change the ending of the novel, which meant the months of January and February were spent entirely at my desk -but it was worth it.) So, yes, for me, editing was gruelling, time consuming and fascinating. When you have that deadline to reach, and then you know you have delivered and signed off on the final version, there is a finality to it which is like the cessation of a constant itch - I couldn’t keep returning and endlessly tweaking my work for no good reason.
I have been incredibly fortunate that my artist sister-in-law provided me with two amazing cover designs for my previous novels, so to have designer Luke Bird produce a third fantastic cover makes me feel very blessed.
And finally, being published by Indie Novella has led to me making the decision to write and publish under my real name. Having discussed it with them, I just thought it was time to be me. Which of course has meant a LOT of work for my long-suffering son to create a new website, and deal with the old one (in between sitting his Finals and then finally graduating last week). A HUGE thank you to him.
To summarise, all I did was to write a novel, and a lot of amazing people have done the real work.
And as for moving house…that will be the next blog.
Watson, Little x Indie Novella
August 2023
Over the last few months I’ve been editing. Again. Teardrop started life being told from one viewpoint, then switched dramatically to another. A few more edits along and I still wasn’t satisfied with it. Convinced that the only solution was to switch to the present tense I underwent a supremely horrible month rewriting it to the point where I hated it even more…until I reread it from the beginning and finally thought it was ok.
Scrolling through on my laptop one long jet-lagged February night, I found a link to the Watson, Little x Indie Novella prize. Needing to ‘take the temperature’ of my newly-finished novel I decided to enter under the ‘Communities’ category. Although the novel is set against the backdrop of a crime I felt that much of the emphasis was on the Burgher community suffering the effects of the rise to independence of their island home. I was very surprised to make the longlist, delighted to then find myself shortlisted, and utterly shocked and elated when I won.
As part of the prize an excerpt of my novel is now in print alongside other shortlisted entries in an anthology.
For more information about the prize, see the Indie Novella website.
Mellow Fruitfulness
October 2022
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel…
John Keats
I have to agree with Keats; I love the heat and fire of the summer sun, but it’s only when autumn arrives that I feel truly myself. Some look at me in horror when I say this, questioning my connection to dead leaves and dark nights, but I love the feeling of renewed hope that comes upon me at this time of year, the silent reaffirming of all that’s important to me, establishing goals, the cleansing of the soul.
I’ve always believed this is because I’m an Autumn baby…or am I? I have always thought of myself in these terms (born on 15th September) but apparently there are 2 ways of looking at the seasons; astronomically autumn begins around 22nd/23rd September whereas meteorologically autumn begins on 2nd Sept. Who knew?
Whatever the reason, my novels always take a turn for the better around this time of year, I only need that first autumnal walk in the woods and I’m instantly more productive, more ambitious, more hopeful…
Strictly Traumatised
October 2022
Once summer has fled, three inevitable things come to pass: the central heating comes on (although rather sparingly at the moment, obvs), I receive an email telling me I can order my Christmas food in September for pick up in December, and Strictly Come Dancing hits the small screens once more.
It’s not cultural but it’s all I need on a Saturday night if we’re not going out and it’s been a frantic day at work at the end of a busy week…my feet are aching, and I like nothing more than to sit back and watch others brutalising their feet (albeit in sequins rather than jeans and trainers)
I came relatively late to Strictly, steadfastly ignoring the first 6 series before becoming hooked, largely because of a scarring experience that happened when I was ten years old when my best friend informed me one rainy Monday that she had started ball room dancing lessons. Why this news had such a profound effect on me, I will never know but instantly I was overcome with sparkle and silver shoe envy. I was a tomboy, short hair, jeans-never-dresses kind of girl, and as my Dad would have it, generally stomped around overhead in my bedroom like an elephant when I had my record player blaring; to this day it is unclear what came over me.
My mother was cajoled into buying me some incredibly shiny dance shoes and we duly rocked up the next Saturday morning, full of hope (me) empty of purse (Mum) to what was called the Dance Studio but was disappointingly a dusty community hall.
My mother had dropped me off a little late and everyone was assembled and partnered up when I arrived. I looked around for my best friend and saw her laughing and joking with the girl who lived next door who was doing a lot of silly twirling and flouncing. My friend was doing her best to avoid my friendly wave. My hopes began to dim.
When the teacher, Tony, saw me he clicked his tongue in annoyance; I was the only one without someone to dance with, and I had missed the important five-minute-steps-recap from the previous week. I say important but in reality it would have been lifesaving for me as I had never danced a single step in my life.
With a rough gesture to join him, Tony brusquely muttered, ‘I’ll have to take you, I suppose.’ I had expected to take part with a girl or boy my own age in which, if I was not very good, I could hide at the back. Exactly like my maths lessons where this strategy had worked a treat for the last couple of years and rather damagingly would continue to work throughout my school career until I left having achieved a CSE Grade 4 for more or less turning up and writing my name at the top of the sheet (Grade 5 being the lowest) However, I digress…
A few facts about Tony. He was not a gentle man. He wore tight velvet trousers and a waistcoat. He stank of aftershave. He was not a natural teacher.
He looked down at me with a sneer, as we terrifyingly prepared to dance a cha-cha-cha. I suddenly remembered I was a tomboy and couldn’t dance but it was too late. Because of the previous facts cited about Tony, when he tried to put me into hold, I went rigid. His nostrils flared as I stumbled and tripped and went the wrong way for an agonising three minutes on the floor. Three minutes can be such a long time. Evidently Tony thought so too, for as soon as the music finished, he pushed me aside with a look of disgust and didn’t so much as look at me for the remainder of the lesson, let alone attempt to teach.
I never went back to the dance studio. The silver shoes discreetly vanished from my life as quickly as they had arrived. And to this day, I never willingly engage in dancing activity in public, not in clubs, at weddings or drunken parties, not even a ‘mum dancing’ kind of shuffle. If I am forced, when the music begins, I revert to the stricken child I was and slowly freeze.
The other day I saw somebody wearing a T shirt that said, ‘We’re fools whether we dance or not, so we may as well dance.’ Maybe some day…
My Inspiration
September 2022
Today I am mourning one of my literary heroes - Hilary Mantel, a woman so dazzlingly clever I am/was completely in awe of her. So much so, that when I was at a point when I could have come face-to-face with her, I somehow couldn’t. More of that, later.
Browsing my mother’s bookshelves back in the late eighties, I took a copy of 8 Months on Ghazzah Street which my mother had raved about. I admired the writing but wasn’t taken with the plot. Next, I tried Fludd. No thank you. Like me, Hilary was brought up as a Roman Catholic and this dragged me back to my own bleak, unfunny experiences of nuns and priests.
Many years later, my mother was once more enthusing about the latest Hilary Mantel, and I, a new and frazzled mother found myself thinking, not again, please. She left the book for me anyway, which I eventually discovered under a large pile of toppled duplo bricks. The novel was called Wolf Hall, and the rest is history as they say, both for me, and more obviously Hilary.
What a sublime read. Finally. This is the book that inspired me to dare to write historical fiction. Acres of utterly extraordinary research, her skill at characterisation something I can only envy. Years later, listening on the radio to her flawless delivery of the Reith Lectures was almost an unworldly experience.
After the first two novels, came the theatrical adaptations. I saw Wolf Hall in The Swan in Stratford Upon Avon, my spine a-tingling in the intimate setting where you felt you were part of the Tudor court. Less amazing was the weather forecast which forced us to stay overnight to avoid driving back home on the motorway in dangerously strong winds. I didn’t sleep a wink in the ‘characterful’ guest house, my mind full of Cromwell and Henry’s court. Bring Up the Bodies was seen the following week (without the dramatic weather conditions) and it was as absorbing as the first play.
And then, the long-awaited final novel, The Mirror and the Light. This time I cried before I’d even read the first paragraph; having set me on this particular path, my beloved mother was no longer around to read the final instalment.
To the theatre then, in post-lockdown London complete with masks and Covid passports to witness the third Cromwell novel brought to the stage, this time adapted by Hilary (with Ben Miles). Waiting for the show to begin I turned my head to the left and there she was, the woman herself, Hilary, ethereal in a long cloak standing quietly at the side in the aisle. Go and say hello, my friend urged me. No. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t have known what to say to such an extraordinary person and I was worried that she too would not have known what on earth to say to me.
Now of course, I realise I should have simply said, ‘thank you.’ So, I’m saying it here instead.
Sweet peas and marmalade sandwiches
September 2022
A historic week. I think we all knew last Thursday, from the moment the family were said to be gathering at Balmoral, that things were serious but still, when the statement came from the Palace at 6.30pm – ‘The Queen has died…peacefully this afternoon’ it seemed a little unreal. Hard times for republicans having to endure the pomp and pageantry surrounding the event; so much expenditure to balance against the state of our finances and economy, and coming so soon after the Platinum Jubilee, but I was annoyed, actually no, angry to attend a course on the Friday morning barely 12 hours after the announcement to be greeted cheerily by the speaker with the words, “Happy Friday, everybody.” Twice. Whatever your views, it’s inappropriate to deny respect for somebody who held such a high-powered job for SEVENTY years, ceaselessly carrying out royal duties with the utmost professionalism, having never been given the choice to apply for the role.
I really do admire her for that but have been surprised by how sad I have felt. And so, I have paid my respects, walked the route prepared by officials, winding past Buckingham Palace and the twenty-nine media tents and laid a small bouquet of pink and purple sweet peas in Green Park, among the alarming number of Paddington Bears and the odd marmalade sandwich seeping through its brown paper bag.
It felt right. It made my hugely Royalist family in Australia proud. Mostly I did it to remember a young child riding her bicycle, picnicking with her sister in the garden with a doll’s pram, clowning with her father on the lawn – days of short, golden freedom before she was placed into her gilded prison and told to perform.
Thank you, Ma’am, – time to rest now.
Times Like These
September 2022
So, some of you will reference straight off that this is going to be a Foo Fighters post, on the back of what could go down in history as the.most.amazing.rock.concert.ever.played on Sat 3rd September at Wembley - referring of course to the Taylor Hawkins (RIP) Tribute Concert.
That I was there is entirely due to my son’s calm and patient perservance on the laptop trying to get tickets on 16th and 17th June - failure was not an option. When he texted me at work to say he’d actually got them I knew we were lucky, but didn’t realise just how lucky…
The most extraordinary afternoon/night. The acts just kept on coming and coming (done and done and on to the next one, as Dave Grohl would have it) and getting better and better and better. And how I wish I’d placed a bet that Paul McCartney would turn up - I called it but still shrieked when he came onto the stage. Across the six hours it’s hard to pick a highlight, nay impossible. Apart from the Foos who naturally cannot be surpassed, if I had to pick one it might be Josh Homme channelling David Bowie perfectly…Stewart Copeland and Gaz from Supergrass doing Every Little Thing she Does is Magic…Them Crooked Vultures…Liam Gallagher…Justin Hawkins…Brian May ordering the crowd to shine a light for Taylor during Love of My Life and the stadium INSTANTLY lighting up…the pathos when Taylor’s son Shane took the throne to drum on My Hero\Paul McCartney’s blistering Helter Skelter (and the realisation that OMG I’ve seen Paul McCartney play live at last - that hasn’t worn off yet)
When I wasn’t staring at the stage I was watching my son next to me, basking in his pleasure at all his heroes jamming on a single stage - Geddy Lee, & Alex Lifeson with Dave Grohl\Brian Johnson, Lars Ulrich and the Foos - crazy times indeed. And let’s not forget the tenderness of Dave Grohl as he gently sang the last song of the night - Everlong with all the implications of that title. And I know I’m always going to be haunted by Dave’s tears as he broke during Times Like These and the entire stadium wept with him and roared him on. How hard for the Foo Family to lose Taylor, how blessed for us all to come together in his name to take part in an extraordinary, historic night.
Another Time
August 2022
This week it’s been both surprising and joyful watching my son set to work digitising my huge, ramshackle pile of photographs. It’s a job I’ve been meaning to do for a long time, but never quite got round to…a bit like finishing off my current novel, in fact, but more about that at a later date.
The mundanity of a much-longed for quiet weekend has been enlivened by a stream of audible expressions of surprise, bewilderment and amusement (usually at seeing various male members of the family with actual hair, or female members with those GODAWFUL 80’s haircuts, myself included obvs), a few nostalgic oohs and aahs and a ‘who the hell is THAT?’ every now and then. I’ve enjoyed the chance to broaden the family landscape, laughing while secretly shedding a few tears.
But mostly I’ve enjoyed watching my nineteen-year-old science geek transforming into a little bit of a history nerd, (long may it last) as he works his way through the archive, making connections, catching glimpses of the young in the very old and vice-versa, poring over photos ranging from 1911 to the present day. He confessed that he had at first thought it would be something of a chore, but it turns out he’s loving it. He’s discovered the fascination of getting up close and personal with his own history which, as both mother and novelist, gives me great pleasure.
This is his favourite photo - two people he has never met. I love this photo because it’s of my aunt, my mother’s oldest sister, at a period in 1940 when she moved with the GWR to Aldermaston for the duration, when she was twenty-four. I only ever knew her from the 1960s onwards when she already seemed old and defeated and so I find it endearing to see my somewhat chilly aunt in such youthful circumstances. While my son can’t elucidate exactly why he loves it, he describes it as almost a movie still with its perfect rendering of 1940s clothing, hair and makeup and totally natural poses. There’s such a strong sense of time and place and it has such an immediacy that perhaps he almost feels he could be walking along that snowy path alongside my aunt and her friend, ready to jump into the conversation.
It’s a beautiful photo. In case you think there could be a story amid its black and white hues - well, of course there is – but that’s definitely for another time…