I sometimes wish I could permanently write from a Caribbean abode similar to Ian Fleming’s Goldeneye, looking out over a white, fine, sandy beach and a calm blue sea, with no one else around, perhaps only a servant. No mobiles, just the sound of the sea and the clonking of an Imperial typewriter. KNIM?
I have lately gotten to wondering if male writers have the same problems as I: demands by family, and the routine of having to shop, cook, clean, wash, iron, pick up grandkids/kids from school, take them to the orthodontist. I know some of you will be saying, “I go out to work a proper job.” “Well, so did I,” will be my retort: for 25 years, and I brought up 3 children at the same time, so there: yeeeees. I am at this point fisting, sorry, wrong word, I mean I am putting my fist in the air and pulling down my arm. You get the picture, unless you’re freaking out with that fisting image. I may have just FUBB.
I am a woman writer, as you have probably already guessed from my author picture, unless you think it’s a man in drag, looking, as my eldest says, like Hyacinth Bucket, which is mild considering he usually calls me Atilla the Hun. Looking through my photo albums I came up with zilch: nada: only the one above taken in the sculpture garden of the Skissernas Museum in Lund, southern Sweden, which I believe was modelled on me, last year, on a boozy night out. 6Y or 7K? or are you saying BTDT?
And where is this leading? you might be asking. Well, it takes me loosely on to a few nights ago when I saw Miranda Hart at the Nottingham Arena in her one woman show. She was fabulous: well worth seeing: her next stop was the O2 Arena in London. She was very funny and a keen observer of people. But, learned something new that night. Now, those of you who have been following me – sounds like stalking doesn’t it, but I can’t find another word for it – could say ‘blogging me’, but that sounds like something you do on a beach, or in a park. Anyway, most of you will know by now what a technophobe I am. Well, Miranda – yes we’re on first name terms and knows me as Aunty Pat – but that is another story I will drop at an opportune moment, like Tom Jones does every week on The Voice. There is no singer, living or dead he has not sung a duet with. Must mention here, though, Miranda and I are not related. But my mother did go and see Tom Jones once, taking my baby brother with her: he was about eleven at the time. He came away scarred for life: all those knickers flying towards the stage, and one pair belonging to our mother: OMG.
Back to Miranda. Part of her act was about text speak and the way youth express themselves these days. As I have said before I have to ask for a translation if my grandchildren text me. But I was not prepared for WTF. I thought they were referring to something similar to the World Wildlife Fund, but I could never quite work out what the T stood for. LOL all round at my expense when I told my family I now understood the meaning.
As I will be leaving most of my family behind; flying off to Sweden day after tomorrow, and by the time this blog is posted I will not be sitting looking out on Caribbean sea and sand, but at a kitchen table on the ground floor of an apartment block which is inhabited by another son, who is free and single. It’s a rather large apartment, with a small garden and decked patio where we can sit on hot days. The Swedish people are very out-doorsy, one flash of the sun and off comes their kit. But as my baby brother said to me last night, you can always tell an Englishman abroad. At the time he was referring to a stag night in Amsterdam, years ago, when one of the guys he was with visited a brothel, but didn’t realise he was lying stark-bollock naked, flat on his back on an examination couch with a naked woman on top of him, both displayed for all to see, in a shop window. And yes, he had kept his socks on. TMI?
Back to Hyacinth. I have decided to have a few photos taken by family members in the hope I can be air-brushed, but I, personally, will be going nowhere near the computer, I will get someone else to do it, as is my usual want. Hope you have enjoyed our little sojourn as much as I did: brought back some memories which really should remain dead and buried. But it’s B2W. So OO and EOT.