Saturday, 28 February 2015


*thank you*


Cathy Ryan

 for featuring

 'My Grandfather's Eyes'

on her excellent blog today:

Wednesday, 25 February 2015

Living and Writing

There are many ways to write a book.

I tried storyboarding once.  I laid my story out like a patient on an operating table and fiddled with it until it died.  Now I keep everything between my ears and listen carefully while I clean the cooker and pack the fridge.  While I ferry food and cheer at football matches.

When the beautiful but fragile first draft is done I let it rest.  I leave it to get stronger while I try for a family picnic, or a trip to the beach with cold beer and sun.

When it calls me back I ignore it.  Until (I tell myself) I have forgotten it. Then I gently shake it to see what life is left.  To see what surgery is needed.  And, before you can say 'it's nearly Christmas' a year has passed and the story sits up and smiles.

Living and writing - I want both.

Saturday, 21 February 2015

Simone, Simone by Peter Davey

I loved this story. So well written. So engaging. The only reason I've given it a four-star rating is because, for me, the magic stalled just a little when Simone and Alain were talking about Alain's writing career in the cabin. The rest of the time, I was held in Peter Davey's spell. He really can evoke those feelings we all have of missed opportunities and sinking regret. That's not to say that this is a sentimental story. Not at all. The plot is clever. And the ending has a very satisfying twist.

I read 'Loved and Lost in Lewisham' some time ago and enjoyed it very much. 'Simone Simone', in my opinion, is even better. Highly recommended.

Saturday, 14 February 2015


One Summer in France view here
Bunny on a Bike view here

99p each today

Thursday, 12 February 2015

A Good Day for Jumping

They made breakfast together in Blair’s kitchen.  She knew her way around now.  There were lots of gadgets.  Blair loved that kind of thing.  He had a huge coffee machine that made noisy cappuccinos; a juicer that took the whole fruit, skin and all; and a toasted sandwich maker that looked as though it had come from the next century.  She watched him making ham and cheese toasties with English mustard.  His hands were elegant, like the hands of a piano player.  There were tiny crinkles around his eyes that made him look as though he were always about to smile.  Now, with his head bent forward, he looked vulnerable – the soft down of hair on the back of his neck gently curled, his long intimate eyelashes fluttered against his cheek.  Sarah thought him beautiful this morning.  But she kept him back a little, knowing that she was not in love.
“Shall we go out somewhere after breakfast?”  He handed her a toastie.
“Okay, if you want to.”  She sat on the small sofa, with one leg tucked under her.  She hadn’t planned on staying all day.
“How about a spot of shopping in the King’s Road?”
“Bit skint at the moment.  The agency’s always late with my cheque.  Do you know how much they make out of it?”
“A disgusting amount, inevitably.” He watched her talking about things that didn’t matter and thought her all the more enchanting.
“You wouldn’t believe it! But it’s not forever.  They only get commission until the end of the year. Leeches!”  She had the impression he was not listening to what she was saying.  “This is a great toastie!”
“I noticed.  Want another?”
“Yes please.”
She had shoved the rest of the sandwich into her mouth and started laughing because she couldn’t speak.  She covered her mouth with her hand while Blair shook his head and grinned.
They had more breakfast and drank strong coffee, sitting close together on the couch, looking out at the leaves of the trees scintillating against the blue of the early spring sky.  Sarah’s mouth was greasy and she wiped it with the back of her hand.  It was something she would not normally have done, but she knew that Blair would be shocked, and so she was brazen. It made him giggle like a schoolboy.
He took the plates and cups and tidied everything up.  Sarah watched him and thought him obsessive.  He wiped the sideboard with a new cloth, lifting the jars and cleaning underneath them.  He unplugged the toastie machine and cleaned it carefully so as not to get water on the electric cable.  He even swept the floor, twice.  Sarah wondered how long she could stand all this if they lived in the same house together.  Did he have equally fastidious habits in the rest of the house that she hadn’t noticed yet?  Certainly, the bathroom was spotless and the towels were always clean and folded.  Blair folded the dishcloth and clapped his hands together.
“Finished?”  she asked.
“Finished what?”
“Practising to be old?” she laughed.
He stared at her, not knowing what she meant.
“Who ever folds the dishcloth?”  She stood up and dangled the cloth in front of his face.
“Oh.  Ha! Ha!  Very funny.”  He didn’t want her to make a fool of him.
“Here!” she dropped the cloth into his hand, bored by his lukewarm reaction.
She imagined what Andy would have done in the same situation.  Not that he would have tidied up in the first place.  But if she had held a dishcloth to his face he would have snatched it and chased her, finally rubbing it in her own face and holding her down until she begged to be let go.  She couldn’t imagine Blair doing anything like that. 
“Hey, it’s sunny, lets go out, see what happens.” 
His optimism was unkillable.  But the day was bright and it would do her good to be in the fresh air for a while.  There was no rush to get home, after all.

It was springtime in Hyde Park, and there were people out together enjoying the sun.  Sarah wore a red floral dress and sandals, feeling a little cold in the shade.  The trees in the park were huge and she wondered what kind they were.  They should be something magnificent, like oak. Blair would know.  He knew a lot of things that she didn’t.  She didn’t want him to tell her, though.  The trees did not need names.
They walked along the path next to the Serpentine. There were boats, ice-cream salesmen, even a restaurant by the lake.  It had everything.
And it had nothing. 
Sarah was on the outside of this world, where colours were bright and gaudy and sounds rang out audaciously across the park.  She watched a child throwing a stick for her dog, a group of boys playing football, a woman reading on a bench. It was like looking into a fairytale, or a painting, it wasn’t real.  She thought about Andy.  Where he was, there was a different sun that hardened the earth and cracked the skin on her brother’s face.  His heavy boots blistered his soft flesh and his weapon pressed hard into his shoulder where it dug in as he moved.  The weapon that he used to fire at the soldiers of the Taliban.  Men of flesh and blood who were themselves sons, brothers, husbands, fathers.  This world was real.  It mattered more to her. 
“What’s on your mind, beautiful girl?”  Blair had stopped walking.
“Nothing,” she lied.   “I wish I hadn’t worn these sandals, that’s all.  They’re pinching.” As she said it, she noticed the pettiness of such a complaint.
“Take them off, then,” he said, laughing. 
“Oh, they’re not that bad.  I’ll get used to them.”  She looked at him and was suddenly moved.  “Kiss me!” 
“Here?  With all these people watching?”  He was laughing still.
“Yes, why not?”  It was already too late. 
He looked around and took her hand to lead her away from the path.  They sat under the branches of a huge tree and Blair kissed her. She could not lose herself, but for a moment the sunlight glinted through the green canopy and made a part of her brain spark.  She felt warm and wanted.  She felt Blair’s love, even if she was not able to return it.
“What kind of tree is this?”  she asked, her voice distant.
“It’s an oak,” he said looking up through its branches.
“I thought it was.”  She leaned her head against his shoulder and felt a shudder run through her.
“Are you okay, Sarah?”  He drew back from her.
“Yes.  Yes, just cold in the shade.  Can we go back to the path?  We could get a coffee if you like?”  She was babbling.
Blair stood and held out his hand to help her.  He was a handsome, kind boy.  She could see the damage she would do to him when she left him.
“Maybe I should go home.  I’m spoiling your day,” she said.
“Don’t be absurd.  Come on, let’s get a coffee.” 
Inside, his chest constricted.  He knew that she did not love him as he did her.  But it was a passive knowledge and he chose to keep it unspoken, even to himself.  There was still more he could do to win her; he would not give up easily.  He thought of his own parents.  Of how they had married, not for love, but because their families had brought them together.  They were suited to each other.  He saw that their love for each other now was enduring, based on respect and compatibility.  It was not what he wanted for himself though, and when he looked at Sarah he knew that he had found the girl he wanted to marry, only for love. 
“Do you think you’ll stay at Firth’s forever?” she asked him, to break the silence.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“I won’t,” she said.
He was glad she had turned her face away from him when she had said it.

It was almost dark by the time Sarah got back to the flat. Wendy had gone away for the weekend and the place was quiet.  She sat in a chair and got out Andy’s letters.  He would be coming home at the end of June, in just over three months.  He was almost half-way through his tour of duty, but this gave Sarah little comfort.  She was not at all sure that he would not decide to go back.  She would do everything she could to stop him.

Thursday, 29 January 2015

My French Life - At last! The house of our dreams.

 (If you would like to read previous posts, please go to My French Life.)

By the end of January 2009, we still had no house of our own.  We wanted something habitable, in the countryside, with land and outbuildings for my husband, Al to renovate.  It had to have a nice garden and it had to have a garage to fill with motorbikes.  The list had been growing for over a year!  You may notice the total absence of practical concerns, like schools, transport, shops…

I’d already been to see a fair number of places, and had gone back to a few with Al and the boys for a second look.  There was always something wrong.  Mainly low roofs (we are a very tall bunch of people), lack of original features (ancient fire places replaced with shiny storage heaters), price (mythical) and condition.  We came close with a couple and went so far as to make an offer on a huge house which had been half renovated and which we would have bought if the price had come down just a little more.  The other offer was more of an act of desperation – so glad we didn’t go through with that one! 

Then it happened!  I was out with my favourite estate agent and she brought me to a house in Corme Royal – very posh!  It’s a medium-sized village with all the amenities you could ask for, and elegant buildings around its own busy market square.  I loved it as soon as I saw it.  But where was the house?  Would it be next to a power station?  Would it be big enough for four giants?  Would it have a garden?  On top of all these questions, it occurred to me that we hadn’t really considered buying in a village.

Just opposite the bakery, Anna took a left into an Impasse and pulled up in front of the third terraced house along.  Terraced! The fa├žade was in need of attention, its tired paint flaking.  And it didn’t look very big at all.  There was just enough room to park outside and no sign of a garage.  I looked at Anna.  She was wearing her ‘don’t make up your mind yet’ expression.

Somebody didn't set the date!

Inside, the long hallway had an 80s disco feel, with enormous swirling patterns of very loud wallpaper and, half way along, a central heating boiler that looked as though it had been chosen as a feature, jutting out like a 19th century Dalek.  But, the floor was covered in 17th century tiles and, looking up, the ceiling had its original beams (generously glossed and yellowed by time).  After that, it only got better.  Two Charentaise fireplaces.  Two!   (Although they too had been recently slathered in white gloss).  Massive oak beams, solid hardwood floors and, piece de resistance! I glimpsed a walled garden of, as they say in every programme about house buying, a very good size.  Yipee!

Non-drip gloss!

There were two large reception rooms: one done out as a bedroom, complete with open plan toilet, lid up but luckily sans organic interest.  A dining room, a kitchen, three upstairs bedrooms and, surprisingly, along the back of the neighbouring house, a utility room, shower room, separate wc and a large chai (store room), which could be converted into more accommodation (bingo! – Al’s renovation project). 

Outside, the garden was about as big as one and a half tennis courts, with a couple of small stone outbuildings and a shelter for wood.  It was perfect.  Stone walls all around and no viz a viz!  What’s more, the neighbours’ gardens were strewn with beautiful mature trees to the right and centre.  To the left, there was the enormous 12th century village church! I couldn’t believe it.  Magnificent.  The clock chimed and I laughed.  Anna looked relieved – she’d shown me a lot of houses by this time.

January 2009!  Before we moved in.

Back outside, I was beginning to take ownership already, assessing the shutters, which seemed in excellent repair.  Then I remembered – garage! It would be, as they say, a deal breaker.  I turned to see Anna unlocking a large double door in a lovely stone built building opposite the house.  Thank the Lord and praise the angels!  There it was.  Big enough for a couple of motorbikes and plenty of other tools and junk. 

Anna drove me back to the gite and I fell upon Al, gushing with enthusiasm.  You have to come and see it!  This is the one!

Happy Days!

To be continued…

Monday, 26 January 2015

Review of The Song of The Cypress by Tonia Parronchi

I won’t give a summary here, as other reviewers have already very efficiently done so. 

I really enjoyed reading this book. Tonia Parronchi’s practically flawless prose flows beautifully and is at times poetic.  The story itself is a mix of fairytale romance and mystical folklore, which I haven’t come across before.  I must say that the enchanted Cypress did not appeal to me much to start with, but as I progressed with the story, I understood that it added an interesting dimension to Annie’s new life in Italy.

I generally read two or three books at a time, and The Song of the Cypress was the one I wanted to settle down with an hour or so before bedtime because it is so uplifting and positive.  Rural Italy comes alive, with fabulous descriptions, traditional anecdotes and a welcome helping of local produce served up at sunny picnics, village feasts, or cosy meals for two in front of the fire.  Everything is rather perfect, but I enjoyed this indulgence – it was refreshingly uplifting and a great way to de-stress at the end of the day.

If I had to mention something negative, I’d say that the pace did stall from time to time, where there was occasional repetition, verbosity or inaction.  However, if you’re looking for a nice dose of romantic escapism, coupled with an authentic overview of life in a Tuscan village, written by an author who knows how to write, this book definitely fits the bill.

View on Amazon