Singular Cake

...a host of golden telephone bills?

2011-07-05T12:16:00.000+02:00

Interested to go in for any Poetry Competitions?

Yeeha for the Black Dog

2011-06-23T10:53:00.000+02:00

I don’t suffer from depression. There; I’ve said it.

It is difficult to admit that I don’t suffer from depression because in the current climate so many people are struggling to cope with feeling low. It’s almost an epidemic. Day-to-day troubles can seem insurmountable and it takes just one nasty comment to send you spiralling into a black mood, from which you may not emerge for several days and by then you may have acted hastily, violently, even suicidally. I know this because I used to feel the same way.

So what changed?

I had a fantastic anchor throughout my teenage life – a person who was upbeat to be around, clearly appreciated my personal qualities and who set an example because she woke each day thrilled just to be here and have the chance to tackle whatever was thrown at her. I’m sure you’ll have guessed that it was my mum. But she wasn’t one of these ‘people-pleasing givers’ who act like a saint and just think of others. She was very self-centred - in a way that kept her happy. She lived in the present and took pleasure from every situation; whether it was coffee with friends, daft pranks with her nephew, racing up a hill as a cure for indigestion brought on by eating a plate of bustingly-hot hot cross buns, or odd jobs in DIY stores or Nissen huts filled with dank trays of mushrooms growing profusely in the dark. She laughed, drank, partied, worked. She did things that other people labelled crazy ; like jumping crevasses on a motorbike, touring Spain in a motor home and moving abroad on her own.

When she died in 2001, a friend told me it would take me at least ten years to come to terms with having lost her. She was right. Luckily I was pregnant with Mimi at the time so I didn’t have any chance to become maudlin or sit around. We moved to Spain 4 months later, and I have been hectically busy ever since, just earning a living and having fun with my three girls and Joe. And I have missed her every day, but now I can go through weeks without feeling the pain too intensely. And I know why. It’s because the transformation is complete. We all turn into our mothers eventually.

I am chuffed to bits if a friend rings me when they feel down. When my mate says she thinks she’s going crazy and fighting off depression I can’t wait to see her. If I can take a story of some craziness with me , so much the better. Some days the black dog arrives at my house and I welcome him in, have a rant and a cry while he’s around, and then politely show him the door. Too much going on here to be depressed for too long. And even though I’ve still not published my novel, haven’t found a buyer for our investment plot of land, and my Spanish isn’t as fluid as I’d like it to be, I honestly do get up each day with (as my nan used to say) a ‘shit-eating grin’. Joe can confirm this. It drives him crazy. Which is just how I like it.

As Vonnegut says

2011-05-23T13:40:00.000+02:00

Vonnegut listed eight rules for writing a short story:

Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
Every sentence must do one of two things—reveal character or advance the action.
Start as close to the end as possible.
Be a Sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them—in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To hell with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

But he also admitted that great writers tend to break all these rules. For those of us with no pretensions to greatness, you could do worse than follow his advice, and hope to progress...

Political Fever

2011-05-16T18:02:00.001+02:00

Have you pinpointed your personal niche in the political spectrum?

I’ve recently been involved in local politics in the village where I live. It’s okay, you don’t have to *sigh and stop reading now*, because I’m not about to court your vote or try to convince you that I’m right, you’re wrong. I was just going to observe some of the fascinating oddities that crop up whenever politics rears its charming, slickly-grinning head.

Men and women may fall out when attempting to explain politics to children. This is because it is not really sufficient (or morally acceptable) to talk about the ‘Good Guys’ vs the ‘Bad Guys’, and kids really don’t understand ‘left-wing’ and ‘right-wing’ unless you are referring to dazed pigeons.
Many voters who are female DO like to gossip/talk constructively and positively about their neighbours. But this does NOT mean that they know who votes which way, or the secret Achilles heel that might persuade Weird Bob to switch political parties.
If any politician won’t look you in the eye, answer your question publically or give a Yes/No answer, they are seasoned professionals. And also, chances are, LYING SCUMBAGS.
Even though YOU clearly are rational and level-headed and vote *correctly* there’s an outside chance that the other side believe this about themselves too.

Beyond this, anything goes. Some people will vote for the absurdest of reasons. Some people will believe the most outrageous promises if there’s a chance that they might get something for themselves, (a bit like forwarding a chain email on the slight chance that a REAL angel/leprechaun might just cause you to win the lottery. Even though you don’t REALLY believe in leprechauns. And would scoff at anyone else who did. *Scoffs*)

It’s a weird way to run a country. It would be weird if we could fill out a questionnaire about our opinions and be told exactly who offers a manifesto most in line with our viewpoint. Like a Political Compass. That would be cool, eh?

Maybe one day, we’ll advance to a situation where we won’t have to rely on individual whims and crazy trends affecting what happens at the polling booth, like some sort of political tsunami that rushes in at the last minute and derails the whole process. But instead will be canvassed properly and given a government that most closely resembles what most of us want.

I’ve re-read that last statement and it’s not entirely preposterous. Is it?

Where Bees Dare

2011-04-08T14:57:00.003+02:00

While dabbling with a poem about bees, I discovered the Schmidt Sting Pain Index and just had to share. This is is a pain scale rating the relative pain caused by different insect stings. With some delightful descriptions.

1.0 Sweat bee: Light, ephemeral, almost fruity. A tiny spark has singed a single hair on your arm.
1.2 Fire ant: Sharp, sudden, mildly alarming. Like walking across a shag carpet and reaching for the light switch
1.8 Bullhorn acacia ant: A rare, piercing, elevated sort of pain. Someone has fired a staple into your cheek.
2.0 Bald-faced hornet: Rich, hearty, slightly crunchy. Similar to getting your hand mashed in a revolving door
2.0 Yellowjacket: Hot and smoky, almost irreverent. Imagine W. C. Fields extinguishing a cigar on your tongue.
2.x Honey bee and European hornet: Like a matchhead that flips off and burns on your skin.
3.0 Red harvester ant: Bold and unrelenting. Somebody is using a drill to excavate your ingrown toenail.
3.0 Paper wasp: Caustic and burning. Distinctly bitter aftertaste. Like spilling a beaker of hydrochloric acid on a paper cut.
4.0 tarantula hawk: Blinding, fierce, shockingly electric. A running hair drier has been dropped into your bubble bath.
4.0+ Bullet ant: Pure, intense, brilliant pain. Like firewalking over flaming charcoal with a 3-inch rusty nail in your heel.

Anyone reaching for the paracetemol at the mere thought ?

A little plug for me

2011-03-17T09:47:00.000+01:00

For those interested, check out this blog article that I wrote for Elance on the revolution going on in home-working and outsourcing for business.

http://www.elance.com/p/blog/2011/03/the-freedom-to-work-live-and-play.html

Post Sushi | Adbusters Culturejammer Headquarters

2011-03-16T13:41:00.000+01:00

Post Sushi | Adbusters Culturejammer Headquarters

I recommend that readers of Singular Cake take a look at some of the extraordinarily insightful articles on Adbusters.

Come on in - the water's lovely!

2011-03-05T12:13:00.000+01:00

I’ve been dabbling my toes in the eBook ocean this week. I have read erotic sci-fi (blimey!), YA fiction, motivational fiction (which if poorly written feels a bit like being lectured at) and some godawful wittering that was so bad I don’t think there is a label to encompass it.

But, what I discovered in the process is that people are getting really inventive with the whole process of publishing and reading.

I thoroughly enjoyed visiting Book View Café (http://www.bookviewcafe.com/) and I did actually brew a pot of tea and wander through its virtual bookstore, pulling out titles at random because of an interesting cover or curious title. Very satisfying, and I could foresee the pleasure of becoming an author’s collective and promoting your own eBooks. Vive la Révolucion!

Then I got enthralled by the gossip and insider tittle-tattle over at e-reads (http://ereads.com/) and pondered the meaning of Harper Collins new morality clause in which authors will sign away their earnings for future transgressions. Don’t just take my word for it. Go read what the esteemed Richard Curtis has to say about it - http://ereads.com/2011/01/are-you-a-moral-author.html and consider the implications. I think old publishers will just go the way of Betamax video players, ie they’ll still be loved and revered by many for the quaint way they operate,but more authors will move over to the eBook playground and keep it fast and loose.

Talking of fast and loose, here’s the link to the erotic sci-fi that I know most of you have only read this far to obtain. Naughty, you deserve a spanking! http://www.circlet.com/ If you’ve never tried it, don’t knock it. And if you think it might be your thing, why not have a go yourself. There’s a call for submissions this month : deadline May 15^th.

And besides all this fascinating surfing...I mean, RESEARCH...I have been reading some great extracts of novels posted on Elance. In fact, I’d better get off here and go edit some RIGHT NOW.

Under Day-Glo

2011-02-07T12:45:00.001+01:00

Waking this morning unable to remember what day it was

And thinking that days are only sticky labels of names

For each blob of 24 hours, abstract and badly chosen

Since only when I wake or sleep is important.

Spaces of consciousness interspersed by darkened ramblings

In a small form of death could occur in any sort

Of pattern.

Days of sleep and stretched interludes of brightness,

Small sparks awake, when the world turns in shadow

I’ll be dancing under day-glo lights on wet boards by the coast

Or roam for more hours than light should give us

Across American plains of ropegrass and thirst, eyeballs burning out

From too much sky and not enough closing.

Days form junctions or are they joinless like the story

Of books in a sequence when you cannot remember if the character

Even paused while you put one down and took up the second?

Moments passing like missed trains tug me after

To move through time not in days of Gods’ names

Or coloured seasons or labelled pages

But in blind steps, too high to care, in bloody spurts from pain to joy

With the dips unnoticed in between.

Hippocratic Oath for Bankers?

2011-01-13T10:59:00.000+01:00

You know how every story has already been told before? I thought I had invented a noteworthy concept this morning when I decided that bankers should have the same obligation as doctors to 'do no harm'. How did we get to the state of play where those responsible for helping us save money and preserve our fortunes are the ones who actually degrade and abuse it?

I came to my Blogger Dashboard all enthused to write a 'socks-knocking-off' piece about how to revolutionise the world, only to discover that some guy got there first, in fact a whole year before me. But still, its a point well made that bears REPEATING! So check the link in my header.

Bankers should swear a Hippocratic oath to not harm their clients finances, and should be held accountable if their poor advice causes financial ruin. I am not expecting the markets to be hung, drawn and quartered every time an investment goes south. But how about some leading bankers stepping up to the plate and returning our faith in the system. Before we all start buying shotguns to protect the money we're hiding under our mattresses?

Ideally a governing body (like the FSA, perhaps, or a newly created more stringent version of it) would ensure that the oath becomes part of a new ethos for banking, trading and money lending. I am so sick of hearing about more ways to get into debt for things that the average human doesn't need, solely because governments rely on us constantly pumping money into the system to keep bad business going. Let's use our heads, not lose 'em!

No-one NEEDS to be a home-owner - but we all need a safe, secure, clean home environment.
No-one NEEDS to own a car - but we all need safe, clean public transport or sensible car-sharing options in rural locations
No-one NEEDS expensive white goods, black goods and luxury items to amuse ourselves and our children - but we all need access to education, healthcare, entertainment and employment.

Can't we teach our kids about being Singular Cake? Taking only what we need? And appreciating life's little luxuries, without needing instant gratification, all the time?

Just a heartfelt plea.

Rampant Holidays

2010-12-23T17:54:00.001+01:00

Sigh. Sometimes I get out of bed with a weird thought still hanging around from that dreamworld in which perverse, astounding and terrifying things happen.

Like this morning. I blame Mimi. She told me last night that I have to die first.

Mimi is 9, and has a very definite take on the world, which consists of NOT being arty and sensitive like her big sister, and NOT being demure and 'triste' like her baby sister. So she says things like:

"When I'm a rockstar, you can tell everyone about my songs and I'll tell everyone about your stories. The good ones. But you have to die first, obviously, cos you're the mum, so maybe you'll have to tell people in heaven about my songs. Will they be able to listen to them there? Oh, you still don't believe in heaven do you, so you wouldn't know. Well anyway, you die first and we'll find out."

So the fact that I died and it wasn't at all where I expected to be isn't that surprising. But the fact that I woke up with about 4 new stories kicking around like kids under a duvet was brilliant. I just wished I hadn't lived through them all in one night. That's all.

Christmas rush on...

2010-12-16T11:49:00.000+01:00

....no time to say Hello, Goodbye, I'm late, I'm late, I'M LATE!!

eBook 101

2010-11-02T19:18:00.003+01:00

I have been working with several authors on their eBooks of late. eBooks are currently a flourishing market which many writers and web marketers are keen to capitalise on.

For those of you considering writing an eBook, or indeed any short non-fiction book that is easy to market on the web, you may be wondering some of the following:

What is an eBook?

How long is the average eBook?

Where can I market and sell my eBook?

There is no exact definition of an eBook that fits all types, but generally it is shorter than a traditionally published book and may only be available in digital format for example a pdf or txt file.

Wikipedia defines it as:

“a text-and image-based publication in digital form produced on, published by, and readable on computers or other digital devices." Sometimes the equivalent of a conventional printed book, e-books can also be born digital. The Oxford Dictionary of English defines the e-book as "an electronic version of a printed book," but e-books can and do exist without any printed equivalent. E-books are usually read on dedicated hardware devices known as e-book reader, e-readers or e-book devices. Personal computers and some cell phones can also be used to read e-books.”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/EBook

I have collaborated on, edited and produced eBooks for several clients including:

Grow into Success – an eBook on personal development for teens by a young UK author – Sarah Sophia Harfleet (76,500 words)

Various eBooks with Joe Price – a consultant and training coach for Intentional Achievements LLC, including sterling advice about finding your purpose in life, laying the correct foundations for achievement and developing your personal vision. (Books range in length from 15k samples to 45-50k full eBooks.) http://www.intentionalachievements.com

The eBook Guide to Seduction - editing for American author - Shawn Adkins (15,888 words)

Get to Grips with Social Media – editing for Steve Nicholls to polish his eBook on social networks for policy makers and managers – UK market (15,500 words)

A Global History of the Menopause –a personal development eBook as part of a set produced in collaboration with We Wise Women (Linda Krick and Trypheyna Mc Shane) (20,000 words)

As you can see from this short sample of books, the length varies considerably from book to book. The authors may simply not wish to write longer content or the subject matter may lend itself to a shorter, pithier commentary on a subject. Since it may be made available to download from a personal website, any length is acceptable depending on the readership you are aiming at – for instance, do busy CEO’s want a longwinded read or a brilliant bullet-pointed condensed summary? Do teenagers want a book that covers every aspect of their concerns and plenty of action points and web-links for further information? Only you can decide.

You can market and sell eBooks almost anywhere these days – Amazon, Barnes & Noble and Waterstones all sell them, but there are also specialist websites like www.ebooks.com www.booksonboard.com www.lulu.com www.ebookmall.com and www.e-bestsellers.com

Many people choose to supply eBooks as free downloadable content from their personal web or blogsites, especially to capitalise on their tempt factor. Some eBooks have successfully boosted their author’s Google rankings, especially those on IT and social media related topics that have been advertised well with viral marketing.

Even if you are not aiming for a big hit with your eBook, it still pays to spend some time on the content, images, web links, design and layout so that your readers will get the increased satisfaction only an eBook can provide.

For more on marketing and promoting eBooks, watch this space...

The Hippies are telling you to ‘Discover your inner compass and re-connect to Mother Earth’

2010-10-28T15:41:00.001+02:00

The process of becoming a mother is one of the most life-changing journeys for any woman, as nothing so fundamentally alters your awareness of your own body. The innate power to give birth to another creature is an awesome gift, but one that comes with the ultimate responsibility. It is not surprising that many first time mothers and fathers are initially shocked to discover the raw facts of parenting – the physical changes as the pregnancy advances seeming perfectly designed to prepare you for the very physical world of birth, babies and toddlerhood.

When else in our lives are we daily faced with blood, shit and tears in such overwhelming abundance?

So the jump from becoming a parent to wanting to protect the Earth where your little ones will grow up is not that unexpected. It is just part of the slow process of maturity in humans. We come to realise our responsibilities belatedly, when they are forced upon us, much like the debate on climate change.

But it is significant that it has taken a generation of Baby Boomers with their free love, anti-war, anti-commerciality, pro freedom set of values to make us become aware of our global responsibilities as guardians of the planet.

By the time many women are approaching menopause they will have worked out for themselves where they stand on politics, religion, ethics and a host of other life choices. They may have become a parent or a grandparent. They may have become a spokesperson in their community or be considering taking part in a local re-education of others – sharing skills, experience, teaching morals, guiding the younger members of the community, and encouraging concern for the environment that is mother to us all.

The other effect of the menopause is that many women become aware of the inter-connectedness of all things.

To make this ethereal statement more earthly, imagine how you began your procreative years. Your first period, and your first sign that you are effectively just another animal,; born to live, reproduce and die like any other. Many girls will have felt the need to hide their menstrual status from boys, from some family members, from neighbours and may have associated a sense of shame with the discovery of the first messy blood. Even amongst close knit groups of women there may not be much talk of menstruation as you are growing up. The impact of menstruation on a burgeoning sex life may be the time you realise that men have no understanding of periods, monthly cycles, hormonal dips, and all the associated paraphernalia of the female life. Periods are sometimes unexpected, an inconvenience, erratic, uncontrollable. But they certainly tie you to your body in a way that you could hitherto ignore.

Then come the child-bearing years and the presence of periods becomes a signpost – whether it is of fertility, pregnancy, vulnerability, ill-health or simply femininity. We are different from men, and periods (and boobs!) make the very fact of this apparent. We watch for our monthly signal with a mixture of anticipation, resignation or relief. We mark their pattern and progress on charts and calendars across our lifespan. We feel our connectedness to other fertile or pregnant creatures, including the very Earth itself, which has its own lunar cycle of tides, growth patterns, changeable weather and occasional rages.

At this point we KNOW we are OF the Earth. We can see a long line of mothers and daughters stretching back into the mists of time, and forward into the unknown. We may have children and see their progress toward becoming fully sentient beings with a blossoming sense of responsibility. We connect with other women more strongly, share our stories, and hear their pain. And only now can we see that our mistreatment of the planet has been caused by this same slow progress of dawning maturity. We begin to own our problems. We accept our role in climate change, pollution, and unethical abuse of the natural world.

We have become our own doctors, teachers and philosophers. We know more about our own bodies, our own children and our own values. So as cyclical nurturing women we can see the connection between our discomfort with our own bodies and our disrespect for Nature and her ways. Once we accept our bodies, their imperfections and amazing abilities, we can also accept that the planet has a right to be healthy, whole and fully-functioning.

Our female bodies store blood and vital nutrients to feed potential babies. They must discard this regularly to build up fresh supplies. Once the blood is past optimum, it must be discarded along with all the other hormones and toxins that we do not need in order to retain cyclical health. Concurrently, our emotions may go through a roller-coaster ride of collecting, storing, assessing and discarding our thoughts, dreams and aspirations. This too is a balanced process that is vital for mental health. How can we live on this planet and not see that Mother Earth goes through this same process of replenishment? It is no more suitable for our health to take pills and refrain from periods than it is to dam rivers or over farm fields or poison natural systems with our toxins.

In connection with natural cyclical processes we can maintain our health and sanity. Balance and harmony require moderation, responsibility and tranquillity. It will take a generation of mothers making a difference before we can expect to see significant improvements – both in how we perceive ourselves, our bodies, menstruation and menopause, and how we approach our responsibility to Mother Earth. But it can be done.

And it will have to be done.

Just one big balloon race?

2010-10-27T15:48:00.001+02:00

Okay, we're going to have a balloon race from the top of the Carrascal mountain to publicise next years Parcent in Bloom festival - May 28-29 2011. The race itself will be in February, just as the almond blossom covers the valley. Great views from the Carrascal at any time of year though.

But for those of you that are curious about the 'great big balloon race' that we're all involved in - check out the web link in my header to become a Planet Earth Hero...

Conservation matters.

Right to Life? Do me a favour...

2010-09-30T12:36:00.000+02:00

Who determines who has the right to live? God? And if there is no God?

What right does the law have to say when people can die? Do they have the right to say when precisely someone can impregnate someone and create a life? So how did they get this right to prevent people from taking their own life – or criminalise them if they do?

I think this ill judged right stems from a purely financial incentive, as do most of the worst crimes. A person is acting outside of the law if he takes his (or her) own life because he deprives the state of a tax payer. It is less about protecting citizens from being murdered and more about financial control.

After all, we all know that many countries have an ageing community and some have low birth rates. Some countries have incentive schemes to encourage hard-working, skilled, educated families to relocate there, in order that they might pay into the local coffers and become a valued resource. So why not also make sure that these workers cannot kill themselves and gift all their hard earned dollars, rupees or euros to their descendants – if they die, their government wants to recoup its loss through more taxes. And taxes cannot be applied when people are acting outside of the law.

Instead of depriving terminally ill or severely incapacitated people of a meaningful death, can the government not get its head around providing clear unambiguous guidelines for this procedure? If they set up state sponsored services to do so, they would surely recoup some of their lost taxpayer’s earnings? Is that not preferable to inflicting more distress on people whose lives have been devastated by inoperable cancer, or whose car accident has left them with no quality of life (- this is a subjective phrase, but crucial).

I say this from a reasoned perspective, knowing far too many families whose parents are ill, terminal or living through pain. I watched my mother die from ovarian cancer, aged 52. She was previously in good health, played badminton, ate tons of vegetables and enjoyed life until a virulent cancer took hold. In the final months she could eat no more than a teaspoon of food or drink a day, because stomach tumours had distended her stomach to the size of my belly at 6 months pregnant. Every week the doctor removed fluid from between the tumours to give some relief, but this process itself triggered more tumours and she had become allergic to chemotherapy. In effect she had no choice but to slowly die in front of us. When she could bear it no longer, she took a large quantity of morphine to end it all.

Don’t tell me she was breaking the law. She could have struggled on until we would have had to hospitalize her for 24 hour care, at which point she may have lingered horribly in a state that is neither alive nor dead, sometimes this can last for months or years. The psychological fall-out that this causes families stretches people to breaking point.

Age of Austerity vs Age of Reason

2010-07-22T17:27:00.002+02:00

Yes, Mr Cameron, we will all have to tighten our belts as we enter this new age. But I prefer to see it as the Age of Reason since I am of a happily optimistic mindset.

Where once we were all owned by banks and building societies, or by our schools, or by our commitment to local government policies, and we were dependant on their services, advice and constraints, now we are cast adrift into a certain sense of freedom.

I have no credit card debt to speak of. I own a property outright, some land, and a car. I work online, with clients on all the major continents, and I've been published in England, Canada, Spain and Australia. As a freelancer, I chose who to work with and on what, and I reject clients that appear racist, sexist, bullying or untrustworthy. I pay taxes locally, and I am a frequent attender at school parents meetings to have a say in how my kids school is run, but I shop online and pay as often in dollars as euros or pounds.

The collapse of our old institutions is making us all re-assess what we value and what we need. And here at Singular Cake, I think that's a good thing. Long may the Age of Reason empower us.

The future of Gaming

2010-06-18T12:23:00.004+02:00

I predict that SONY will enter our workplaces in the near future with software that turns our work chores into fun. It stands to reason, right? These days we can work from home with an adsl connection and our PC and PS3 are connected and form a media hub. So work and gaming has got closer.

Here's where it gets closer still. Why use software to send a letter, an email, a pdf document or an Excel file and waste all that good gaming time? So SONY execs are bound to devise a game portal that enables you to do all that 'Work' nonsense, whilst your fingers are also strafing enemies with gunfire, playing Scrabble and holding virtual meetings with work colleagues in a SIM office?

Tell me that is NOT gonna happen and I'd be more surprised.

You can call me Penny 'Arthur C. Clarke' Clark, if you will, but I am telling you today (June 18th 2010)that this is the future of gaming.

All our worlds are colliding. The ones that capture our imagination and vitality the best will survive. Sure we have to earn a living, but we can do that with part of our brains while the other part is drinking coffee, staying up late to watch movies, and fighting virtual wars with fingertip controls. It may not be the most productive way to do business but it is increasingly more common to see people interacting with the PC keyboard, eating, drinking, conversing AND doing work chores. So someone is gonna make a helluvalot of money when they work out how best to fuse all that.

Geek power is not going away. Our homes will only become more interconnected to cyberspace as fridges tell us what we're out of stock of, and baths run themselves to suitable temperatures. That mundane daily stuff is going further away. We will inevitably fill out time with multiple activities that suit the whole family - and learning, communicating and stimulating through entertainment i.e. GAMING is where we're headed.

You know it. Let's get ready.

Next Posting: You know you've lived with a gamer too long when you....

The decline of teenage life

2010-06-14T13:08:00.005+02:00

Remember free-wheeling down the hill on your bike to buy groceries for your mum? Like conkers, hula-hoops and Enid Blyton books, certain concepts of childhood and adolescence are obsolete. There are high tech replacements for sure – who doesn’t secretly crave a go on a Wii, dodging and diving in front of your TV screen while the kids howl for their turn. But those symbols of a time of innocence and freedom – ‘sevensies’ against the wall of your house, blackberry picking, making Airfix models and hanging them above your bed – are all gone and it’s no use whining about the good old days. Or is it?

I live in a tiny village in rural Spain, that values it’s teens as the tax-paying citizens they will grow up to be. Children are doted on, cuddled and kissed in the street, bought exorbitant presents like motorbikes and sent on school ski-ing trips, when some families only earn minimum wage in a local supermarket. This is not seen as ‘spoiled child syndrome’ in the media however, but pride and rewards for your offspring. The yearly school Nativity play is a riot of obvious parental pride, flashing cameras and camcorders recording every star turn, and a local grandpa or ‘abuelo’ roped in to play Santa at the end and dish out prizes to every child in the village.

Every August, the town holds the fiesta of its patron saint (Lorenzo) and that year’s eighteen year olds and six year olds are feted and adored in street processions. Whole families return to their roots in Parcent and thousands of euros are spent – houses of the ‘festeros’ are re-painted and the front doors decorated with palm fronds and paper flowers, while a mural is painted on the street with the child’s name and year. Hairdressers and dressmakers are fully booked for weeks, for the lavish dresses and tuxedos that the teens will wear and the ten days of partying, fireworks and parades begins. The teenagers organise the events themselves and spend long nights at the Town Hall discussing fund-raising, selling T-shirts and lottery tickets, devising carnival costumes, booking bands and pyrotechnicians. Even the shyest ones blossom by the end of the fiesta, having received universal praise and applause for their hard work.

You could accuse me of having a blinkered view from our rural idyll. We left East London in 2001 when gunshots could sometimes be heard outside our windows at night. A homeless man began preying on our first child’s nursery school, and police were too busy dealing with larger issues to eject him from the school gardens. The area suffered such bad overcrowding that the local GP refused to use an appointments system, and instead you queued each day on the street in the hope of being seen. When we last returned to the UK for a holiday, we avoided the area in favour of visiting friends and family in rural Hertfordshire and Essex. Notwithstanding the development Stratford has seen in preparation for the Olympics, it felt to us unsafe, undesirable and symptomatic of the price we all pay for city life.

Now we read from afar about escalating knife crime, and monitor the grim tally of London teenagers killed this year. The school-post code lottery, private corporations taking over public institutions, banning drink on the Underground, ‘mosquitos’ in city centres, suggest that fear is the overriding factor in decision making. Every day on the radio there is another announcement about the ways that Boris or David/Nick will tackle London’s problems, or how the UK will legislate its way out of trouble.

This sounds like a profitless spiral. All the social studies suggest that self-esteem is the key factor in whether children do well; whether teens go on to university or successful careers. But this does not just mean we should give delinquent kids a holiday, where they can see how the other half live. In a country as over-populated as the UK, how can individual kids feel valued, appreciated or loved? Is it just a parental responsibility?

That adage about it taking a village to raise a child has never been more relevant. A village, not an overcrowded capital. Sweeping measures designed to protect the population from dangerous young men are failing to stop them from carrying weapons and behaving in antisocial ways, because they are unanimously reviled wherever they go – for wearing hoodies, or shutting off their ears with iPods, or hanging out in gangs who understand one another.

Overcrowding at home and school, unemployment, lack of prospects and peer pressure combine to leave teens feeling depressed, which manifests in two common ways. Boys act out, and girls self-harm. Boys grow increasingly anti-social in public to impress their peers, while girls form gangs, bully the weaker ones, get into shoplifting for kicks or remain isolated from friends and prone to depression.

It will take much more than a change of government or some ASBO’s to make an impact on a whole generation of teenagers. The media attitude that demonises all teens because of a statistically small number of offenders must change, and large towns and cities need to look at providing community ‘barrio’ projects that inspire neighbourhood pride and offer apprentice schemes for teens living within the post code.

Schools and communities must work together to support the most isolated teens and capitalise on the immense and often hidden talents of this generation of 18 to 25 year olds. Training schemes that simply provide businesses with cheap labour must be replaced by those that value young people’s input, and provide incentives and reward schemes especially during a recession when companies need the competitive edge provided by their fresh ideas and enthusiasm. When Facebook campaigns can influence a nation’s voting habits, the older generation really needs to listen to some of the media-savvy kids who know how to work Twitter and launch marketing campaigns from their bedrooms. The media should get behind some of the successful stories of the day that will inspire younger teens to stay out of trouble and go on to succeed.

When neighbourhoods begin to rally round their local teens and set them suitable graded benchmarks for success in the long term, we might see a return to the good ole days when teenage life was about having fun and letting off steam before you knuckle down to a career. Letting the youthful pressure cooker atmosphere burst in a flurry of artistic and sporting activity will surely result in teens more inclined to grow up gracefully, rather than be rushed into making career choices at 11 and obsessing over weight, looks and skills before they’ve had a chance to get to know themselves or their capabilities. So stop giving kids a hard time and let them have their ‘teenage kicks’ now. We’ll grow a new generation of planet-conscious, hard-working taxpayers soon enough.

Help us Mr Olmos!

2010-06-07T12:37:00.003+02:00

My eleven year old daughter got to page 600-odd of The Host (by Stephanie Meyer of Twilight fame) and read a scene that she found so sad and moving she couldn't read anymore. So, of course, I realised belatedly that I should have pre-read the book.

I've just finished it and I'm surprised it hasn't garnered more interest. It analyses a number of interesting propositions. What makes us human? What is the sociological benefit of our race's capacity for violence? What makes us love more than hate?

And now I have a personal plea, for Mr Edward James Olmos. QUICK! SIR! Step in now and get involved in the movie production of The Host before the essential sci-fi heart of this book is pulped into some mass-market fodder!

Just as Battlestar composed human drama around a futuristic theme, The Host manages to press all the right buttons for us SF geeks. Alien races - galore. Life and death struggle for survival. Love stories, jealous rivalry, impossible dilemmas resolved. And from an actor/director's point of view some unique challenges. How will they bring multiple personalities inside one host effectively to the screen?

I sincerely hope that whoever has been engaged to direct avoids Buffy-ising this.

Athiests R Us

2010-04-13T15:28:00.003+02:00

Welcome, readers browsing here from Facebook. All sorts of debate occurs on Singular Cake and only some of it is about Athiesm - but much of it is about social behaviours and taking personal responsibility. I figure if we all keep our own house in order, we are improving the planet a person at a time...starting with myself. So I often muse here about pernickety issues of the day. Feel free to pass comment.

Abrazos a todos. x

Talk about it!

2010-04-06T16:07:00.003+02:00

Talking to children can be baffling. We’ve all heard the adage that you should never work with children or animals, generally because they are brutally honest, unintentionally funny and downright unpredictable. But the key to communicating with anyone, be they 5 or 50, goat or goalkeeper, is the same. You can try to explain your message clearly, but unless you know someone’s mindset, cultural background, needs and obsessions, it’s possible that your communication may go astray.

Let’s start with some basics. A good communicator exchanges their ideas, feelings, and values in appropriate language, tone, pitch, and volume. He or she gives relevant information and uses non-verbal signals to emphasize and support the message. After allowing enough time for the message to sink in, he clarifies or repeats key points. Really good communicators then solicit feedback, listen, respond and react to convey their understanding. Sounds easy? Let’s take this process apart to see where the pitfalls are.

Initially, a person tells the world about him or herself by the way they dress, stand, speak and act. So first impressions count, and you can put off your audience at the outset if you haven’t taken this into consideration. I am NOT expecting a burlesque dancer to be attempting to speak to a group of habit-wearing nuns, but don’t make lazy assumptions about your audience when you prepare to communicate effectively.

Assuming you are dressed appropriately and either familiar with the receiver of the message, or from the same social group and background, you should have enough common ground for confidence. Now the delivery method you choose should match the circumstances and needs of the receiver. Don’t use flipcharts and pointers where an informal circle of chairs would be better. If holding a sales pitch, consider whether to invite the audience by phone, email or a personal visit. In Latino countries, for instance, no-one does business unless they are face-to-face. Internet communications are not the first-choice, and therefore your message will die before its inception.

Before you communicate make sure you are aware of the group norms or the team dynamics. Nothing spoils a message more than pitching it at the wrong level. Don’t address the janitor if you need the CEO’s approval. Sounds obvious, but the subtle variation on this is pitching a message that misses the key needs of the company or individual. Do your homework, and make sure that the content of the message will resonate and connect, on some level, with the already-held beliefs of the receiver.
Remember, messages aren't communicated exactly. They depend on the shared knowledge of the two communicators; a shared vocabulary, experience, and world view. And your environment can derail even the clearest of messages. Barriers exist between the sender and the receiver such as cultural differences – a common one being talking in abstract terms, when the receiver is more comfortable calling a spade a spade. Local conditions may also create barriers; if the room has poor acoustics, there are others talking, or outside noises and distractions. Take away the chance of this and you’ve removed some of the filters through which your message will pass.

Your style of language may be very idiosyncratic. For instance, do you understand this sentence: Estimation is challenging since the likelihood function is not globally concave and the data becomes uninformative about learning once equilibrium is achieved. This is taken from an academic paper aimed at professors (The Journal of Applied Econometrics) and may make sense to certain groups but would exclude a huge proportion of the populace. Equally, talking too crudely can demean your message. Study your audience and pick up pointers about what style of delivery will put them at their ease.

‘Listen’ with your eyes for non-verbal communication cues – as the impact of a performance is determined 7 percent by the words used, 38 percent by voice quality, and 55 percent by the nonverbal communication. When we talk with people in person, they constantly reassure us of their attention and understanding, by nodding their heads, touching our arm, making encouraging sounds, or even asking questions. If you spot someone taking a step back, or inclining away from you, you may need to adjust your tone or deliberately try to include them. If they ask intimidating questions, avoid giving a quick defensive response, and take your time to couch the answer in comfortable language. All this conveys the idea that the sender can trust your message, and his company will benefit from a closer association with yours.

Even negative feedback can be turned around by a skilled communicator. Conflict often leads us to the heart of the matter and it is here that we can achieve the most dynamic success. If you have chosen an appropriate delivery method it should suit you as well as the receiver. Use your skill in the communication medium to express the particular need your product will satisfy or the intuitive way your company works.

As the receiver, you may filter what the speaker is saying because it seems unimportant to your current needs or too difficult in the short term. By observing facial clues of discontent, a speaker can bring an entire audience back on board with a reinforcement of the most salient point of the message. Mentioning the point that everyone agrees on reminds us we have common ground, defuses conflict and brings the mob mentality to bear on a group decision.

We can take a few tips from social media communication too. Facebook works by keying into our primeval need to join in. The power of gossip is that it can spread a message quicker and further than any other method – from the water cooler to the global markets. Conversely, Twitter or text speak excludes the older generation and promotes the ‘cool’ factor by using urban slang. Email communication has been observed to cause ‘flaming’ where the receiver of the message becomes incensed by a perceived slight. This is caused when we have no verbal nuances, facial cues or non-verbal signs to observe that communicate a person’s good intent. Check your message for these sending and receiving tips and pitfalls, to deliberately exclude or include certain groups. Use new media to open up communications globally and broadcast your message further and faster.

Follow-up work to ascertain how your message has been received is invaluable. Teachers know that it is the learner who controls the actual amount of learning going on, and similarly it is the receiver who filters the message that is actually received. Knowing that the message worked and conveyed your point after the event tells you that your method was successful, but the reason why your method failed is even more important as it gives you clues to refine it for the next opportunity. Getting that feedback will make all the difference.

Communicating with either type of 'kids' therefore – the human or animal ones – will involve you getting down in the farmyard dirt or sandpit to establish your common ground. Whatever type of message you are trying to convey, you can't beat the direct eye-level approach. After all, most of us can spot a 'kidder' whose gaze is evasive...can't we?

Is it Easter again?

2010-04-02T11:25:00.002+02:00

http://singularcake.blogspot.com/2009/04/jesus-myth.html

Years and ears

2010-03-17T12:18:00.003+01:00

Over time I am definitely losing my hearing in my left ear. That's either from too many loud gigs whilst working as a music journalist, or because that's the side that Joe sits, sleeps and drives and he talks very softly and I claim not to be able to hear him. It is a good arrangement. When he forgets to tell me things, he blames my hearing. When he tells me stuff I don't want to do, I blame my hearing.

Today I woke to weird scrunching noises in my own ear, as if a burrowing alien were excavating my brain. Which either means a burrowing alien IS excavating my brain, or shower water and ear wax are a chemically unstable mix. For some reason, this has led me to be reminiscing, looking through Facebook at old photos of friends, pondering poems written years ago and wondering about the memories our kids will have in years to come of these days.

So here's a bunch of stuff from a Facebook game to write 25 things about yourself, kinda from years to ears.

1.I hate creamed spinach, oysters, asparagus, caviar. This either means I'm just not posh enough, or I don't like to eat things that taste like bogies/sperm/sand. I'd sooner actually eat bogies, sperm or sand. Aw gawd, moving swiftly on...
2.I have one tattoo, two birthmarks,and three tiny scars.
3. I am allergic to penicillin, and strawberries (if I eat more than four basketful's - that's not punnets, I mean the baskets you collect them in at Tiptree which weigh about as much as a baby rhino - after which I turned pink all over.)
4. I have lived in more than 29 houses and had over 25 jobs, or the other way round, I can no longer remember.
5. If you google me (as Penny Lapenna) the first 22 entries are all actually me.
6. I was once called a tørstenslakar - which was a compliment in Norwegian.
7. I woke one morning (aged about 14) to find snow on the end of my bed when our roof was removed to build an additional floor. That week our cat had six kittens which meant 10 felines were running around the house and attic and my French penfriend arrived to the lasting impression that all the English are eccentric maniacs.
8. My middle name is Jane because Penny Lane was my dad's favourite Beatles song. Maybe.
9. I am a true Cockney because I was born within the sound of Bow Bells.
10. I am scared of heights.
11. Every once in a while I put on Smells Like Teen Spirit and head bang/air guitar.
12. I would like to die saying "Watch this!" whilst attempting to drive/manoeuvre a combine harvester.
13. I like marzipan, sugared almonds, vanilla slices, caramel, Dime Bars, pecan pie and golden syrup pudding.
14. I once made a chilli so hot that I had to watch an entire movie with an ice-cube on my lips for fear that the swelling wouldn't go down.
15. My dad is JR. But not Ewing.
16. I have had foot and mouth. I may have started the epidemic.
17. On a similar note I did once dare a storm to do its worst which resulted in the famous 1987 English storm that downed six of the seven ancient oaks in Sevenoaks. Oops.
18. I am immune to rubella so didn't need the BCG injection which they gave me by mistake.
19. I spent one year of a 3 year degree course at Royal Holloway College, whose main buildings used to be Royal Holloway Sanatorium. I can still hear the shrieks.
20. I have been to Skaagen Beach in Denmark where you can see two seas meet.
21. I was supposed to fly to Seattle to interview Nirvana but while I had flu the job was nicked by another music journalist. (Not what I call him). But I did interview Pop Will Eat Itself while Siouxsie and the Banshees tried to distract their attention. And I sat on a boat full of porn videos moored outside Eel Pie Studios with Cud. I got asked to manage Breed. I had chips and gravy with The Mock Turtles in Manchester, and the Trashcan Sinatras changed their set list and played the Ace of Spades because I said they wouldn't dare. I think it was at that gig that my hearing went...
22. I spent one Easter producing a comic with two cartoonists and 15 juvenile delinquents.
23. I have been kissed on the cheek by Ant. And Dec.
24. I would like to publicly forgive my sister for killing my lemon tree through overwatering when she was 7. It has taken me a long while to say that.
25. I had an Afghan dog called Zelda Alamanda Kinjan who ate all my sisters baby clothes off the washing line. I didn't know she was a tree-killer then.

Worlds within Words

2010-02-24T18:12:00.002+01:00

The planet is becoming more accessible to us daily. But our access to every nook and cranny opens up more worlds within worlds than we had thought possible. As an example, we can now probe deeper into mid-Atlantic channels under the sea where undiscovered species have been left in peace for millenia. And what do we do when we get there? Say, Give us a wave for the cameras?

In my tiny village of 900 or so inhabitants, a multitude of world languages are spoken - but most commonly Castilian Spanish / Castellano, Valenciano (regional language closely allied to Catalan Spanish) and English. The potential for word confusion, cultural mishaps and misapplied social etiquette is enormous. Restaurant signs abound with torturous misspelling in every idiom - including Roast shoulder of a Kid and Bruised Octopus Babies. And the greater my accomplishment with the two variants of Spanish, the more I can perceive my cultural naívety.

Why am I telling you this? I'm a writer. I freelance for a living, and get offered jobs daily to correct manuscript proofs, re-write dull web articles or product descriptions, create book press releases or give feedback on non-fiction eBooks. I am also writing a YA novel (it feels like its actually writing me, the pages are flying past so fast) and chasing an agent for Blacks Crackle - a novel about women, plants and perceiving the darkness in people. And it strikes me that my world of work is apeing the state of the planet - as worlds within words open up before my eyes while areas that once seemed rich seams to mine are now dwindling. Publishing is changing, the media are sprouting new heads alarmingly, the web is awash with words and so many of them need correcting and re-shaping that I could imagine staying awake forever with matchsticks propping open my eyes in some awful sci-fi experiment to proof the entire www - hang on, I've gotta get this down....

You get the picture. No sooner do I master Blogger and Twitter and Redgage and LinkedIn, then another arena opens up begging for my input/output. Which of these Brave New Worlds are worth my time? Nobody knows. No-one is an expert anymore, because we have all diversified ourselves into tiny niches and the web and technologies are whirring into being at a rate of knots (or is it nanaseconds?) about which no one person can be fully informed. Sigh. Where's Douglas Adams when we need him?

So I watch newspapers shrinking or adopting global stances and new markets, and I sit in the middle at my desk and feel alternately like the Wizard of Oz (getting away with the sham...) or the Minotaur (lost in the maze, bullishly obstinate and condemned to devour all the babies presented to me...Oh, I've just scared off ANY fragile clients now.)

How do you feel in this New World Order?

Redgage, moi?

2010-02-08T10:32:00.007+01:00

Welcome, friends of / from Redgage.

Lovely to have you here on Singular Cake. I feel less alone now.

Its like my blog has magically transformed into a cosy inglenook fireplace, set with big overstuffed armchairs in red velvet with brocade and tasselled cushions. I think I can even spy a whisky glass, twinkling golden in the firelight, and a bunch of intelligent and witty, if slightly quirky, friends have just arrived...

But, back to business.

I am not a scientist, nor a physicist. But I think I know how to create wormholes. You know, rips in the fabric of space and time, where weird things are apt to happen?

Follow the link in my header and see if you agree?

Atheist Ethicist: Just War

2010-02-03T18:04:00.000+01:00

It is mind-blowing to realise that this was written in 2005 and we are still making the same assumptions. Atheist Ethicist: Just War

Hate Therapy? Need Help?

2010-02-01T12:21:00.002+01:00

Working recently with several personal development coaches on their articles and eBooks, it struck me that the world falls into two camps when it comes to anything perceived as 'Therapy'.

Loosely labelled, they are "Wouldn't touch it with a barge-pole" and "Love it, love you, love me."

My other half would sooner gouge out his eyes with a teaspoon than discuss his feelings with a stranger. I, on the other hand, blog quite happily about excruciating daily experiences and would not quail if someone in the queue at the bank asked me to talk in depth about my haemorrhoids. I live by the John Peel maxim - "If you don't want people to know about it, don't do it." Anything I have done, from giving birth to being held hostage in a library, is worth sharing, writing about and deriving entertainment or erudition from. (I am pretty sure than you should never end a sentence with 'from', but this is a blog, and I can do what I like here. So.)

But once you have attained a certain age, it is difficult to shake the notion that you should know what you are doing in life. So, going to counselling, therapy or any other form of personal coaching, is understandably less attractive, hinting , as it does, that you are struggling in some area.

For those of you reading this and considering marriage guidance or individual therapy, I get why you have trepidation. I get why you'd sooner stumble on getting stuff wrong and dealing with the fall out, rather than analyse your own navel-fluff. I get why you may even feel that you'll eventually work it all out on your own, rather than have to tell someone else, in a room with dead potplants and khaki sofas. But bear this in mind. It's like a Get Out of Jail Free card.

I went to Relate counselling unwillingly. If I couldn't work out my own relationship, when I knew it so well, how on earth could some young college-leaver tell me anything? The point is, she didn't have to. She sat opposite us making notes like a character in a bad Adam Sandler movie, and I despaired that she'd ever get my other half to do anything other than glower. But when I shut up for five minutes, she let the silence hang. She then asked simple, no-nonsense questions, and re-directed us whenever we veered on to emotional loops. She was the equivalent of Switzerland. Calm, bland and serving great coffee.

Hours later, I realised I'd learned more about us in that one session, than in several years of weekend arguments over how badly I pack the car. I heard how he talked to someone he wasn't angry at. I found out why what I did bothered him and he heard my real concerns that had got hidden in my torrent of words. I spotted the mean techniques I'd been employing to undermine him, when I thought they were just ways to empower me. It took the sting out of our circular arguments to hear them in context, and to know that everyone has them, like a nail-biting habit from childhood.

I'm not advocating everyone rush to the Yellow Pages and book in with a therapist now. But don't rule out the benefits until you've tried it. You can carry on being sniffy about self-help books afterwards. But you may have caught a glimpse of how everyone else sees you, and armed with that knowledge be able to navigate a less painful way forward for yourself and those who have to live with you.

And later on, when you're back at the point of no-return (probably yet another argument over the washing-up) you'll scoop this information out of thin air as your Get Out of Jail Free card. And be grateful you did it.

In the deep dark wood...

2010-01-21T21:25:00.002+01:00

Are childhood fears really our primeval gut instincts that have hung around since we lived in dark caves? Is our fear of the dark really a fear of that unknown disease lurking within, the unforeseen malevolent attacker, or the unguessable moment of our own death?

What wakes YOU in the night in a cold sweat? A footstep on your stair? A passing car headlight coasting round the room that could be the torch light of an intruder? Are adult fears just extensions of those childhood worries – is that a vampire, a witch, a lecherous neighbour?

I think that late at night that probably translates into - will I amount to anything? Will I be found deficient in social graces and die alone? Will I achieve something significant? Will I ever escape the daily threat of poverty?

Studying our human fears displays the underbelly of society, which most of us prefer remains hidden. Dwelling on such black thoughts is maudlin, morose, unpalatable – even though the sweaty thrills of horror movies, books and films are undeniable.

But without the mocking shape of what torments us most it would be harder to picture the ephemeral qualities of the things we do aspire to – empathy to overcome our fears, gentility in the face of man’s inhumanity, optimism that our best will be good enough if we believe it to be so. The black mask of Vader counterbalanced by the glowing white gown of Leia? (I can’t believe I used a Star Wars analogy – will I ever live it down? I’ll be followed slavishly by small boys for days... probably by grown men too...)

Who wants to be the good guy? Doesn’t he sound lame compared to the swashbuckling, wise-cracking, scarred, damaged, fiendish bad guy? Even from that description I know which one I’m inviting out to the bar tonight.

Go figure...

Sensory Overload

2010-01-08T22:38:00.003+01:00

Sensory perceptions are a tad misleading.

I bought a painting today (well, just a mounted print) - its not this accompanying picture, the one I have bought is deeply red, with blue figures, scratched with yellow, anyway, and I can't stop looking at it - gorgeous - makes me want to pick up a brush. Funny how some art makes you reminisce, other pictures are simply decoratively beautiful, some give me the urge to feel and smell paint, smear it, touch it, lick it., some makes me angry or mournful... I don’t know what Art with a capital A is SUPPOSED to make me feel but I love that types of visual stimuli really float my boat. Even this deeply purest green pic stirs an emotional response in me.

Allegedly, a trained salesperson who knows the Dark Arts of Salesmanship can pick up clues from your voice, body language, gestures, expression and certain facial clues to know how to pitch to you. If you lean towards the tactile, or visual, or verbal, or perhaps are that weird combo a ‘kinesthete’ who prefers to engage physically, the sales guy will have to put his whole body and movement into the equation – speaking, touching and moving to engage your attention. Is there a word for people who interpret the world through all five senses simultaneously – some kind of overload freak? That’s me – I have to smell and touch vegetables in the supermarket, smell, feel and read books in bookstores, try on, walk, smell and touch clothes in boutiques.

However, I do not actually possess synesthesia. Apparently, 1 in 23 of the population possesses this extra sensory gift, in which letters and numbers also appear specifically coloured, or days or months display personalities. Synesthetes may find that visual flickers seem to have a sound. Basically, two or more senses are inextricably linked. Wikipedia says ‘Synesthesia can occur between nearly any two senses or perceptual modes.’ And goes on to detail those that have been studied, which is surprisingly few. One of rarest variations is lexical-gustatory, in which a person hears certain words which invoke certain tastes in their mouth. Commonly synesthetes have no idea that everyone does not experience the world this way.

I met a girl once who could ‘see’ musical notes, in a range of colours. She even wrote a poem about it. I think her name was Lavinia Greenlaw, but I could be mistaken. I shall Google her and get back to you.

Meanwhile, any synesthetic moments you have could be recorded here for posterity. Cheers.

Go Wagga Wagga!

2009-12-28T12:49:00.010+01:00

Ahem. I have an incy-wincy poem in print and not wishing to blow my own trumpet (course!)I just thought I'd include a mention for it here on my little-seen, barely-read blog.

The publication 'fourW' is Australia's longest-running anthology publishing poetry and prose and I'm chuffed to bits to be included alongside such luminaries as Alicia Sometimes, Ivy Alvarez, Daniel King, Laurinda Motion, i.j.oog, Phillip Muldoon, Joan Cahill and others.

If you're not in Oz or anywhere close to locate a copy, check them out on the net or follow Derek Motions wonderful witty blog at http://typingspace.wordpress.com about all things literary from Wagga Wagga.

Oh, and in case you were wondering about said poem, I reproduce it here. Mind yourself on the rude bits.

Sigh. Fame.

Must work on Fortune next.

After

There are moments
pinned to you
as latent engrams
when a life coagulates in one drop:
sweat water saline blood ink semen

don’t sweat it:
one trickles down my freckled breasts
drops on the tiles I’ve mopped badly
so that the grime line is visible under the steel refrigerator doors
where I retrieve the bowl of Nectarines Aux Armagnac for the portly businessman
with the lechy colleague who asked me if I was aware of my own destiny
sniggering at the waitressy reply I give
since it would belittle me to talk philosophy
with a man who spat in his hors d’oeuvres so his partner would not try them

her hand wore
my raven ring:
the room intense with cold
when she took the whole pack of morphine pills
downed with the tiniest sip of liquid to avoid the retch reflex
the 400mg calculated by
current weight of seven stone (but does that include the lumps?)
three days before
my first birthday without a mother

I touched her shoulder
and wondered if we would hug today:
since her husband declared he no longer loved her or their two year old son
but preferred Natalia who had long straight hair and looked like
the photos of our mother in her sixties mini-skirt and kohl
who made jewellery for women to wear whilst fucking with their husbands
She was slumped into rolls of fat breasts and belly
and my hand didn’t span her upper arm
which used to look like Kate Moss’s
protruding from her pulling dress with spaghetti straps from Jakarta
when the only tears she shed were for
boys who looked like girls
or her mutilated grey Siamese

dropping the pizza
off the edge of the perfect white plate:
to stare at the amniotic fluid pooling under my table on the laminate flooring
you laid by hand on your cracked knee for three days with Brad
while you looked for the watch timer you forgot you were wearing
and I stared at the black interior of a holdall containing the doll sized nappies
I doubted I could fasten around the waist of a doll let alone a red faced squalling thing
with heart and lungs and pearlescent fingernails
that you would hold in your arms two hours later
while I investigated the hospital shower stall
and watched paint red blood
cascade down my inner thighs
to swill with water down the Art Deco floor grill

a sable brush
with a thick handle shaped like a carved chair leg:
made sweeping calligraphy flow across the stretched cotton frame
of the T-shirt that Caisa hung in her flat in Göteborg the one she was wearing in the photo
when we saw Ulrika
outside the museum on Götaplatsen
and I stood in the window next to some Europeans and thought will I always feel English
unable to see the future where my children speak Valenciano
and I read the digital European news emailed to me because
I need to find out if they’ve printed the article about our battle
to save the Carrascal Mountain from urban developers
or if my poem’s in print
on that forum

a tree stump
near the London to Cambridge railway line:
in the shade cast behind the corona glare of a station lamppost
his penis constricted by the black mesh of my fishnets I refused
to remove, his penetrating finger adorned me with the scarlet blush
of my first orgasm
caused as much by the sight of his purple prick dripping
as by the hoot of the oncoming train
and the backdraft whoosh
and the stars coming back into view

after.

Forest Edge?

2009-12-04T15:47:00.003+01:00

Hey! Here's my Christmas plea, Santa.

Can you please very quickly re-make Mirrors Edge but set it in a forest environment with rope bridges swaying between trees, and dangling creepers along tip-tilting fallen trees, and strange bird calls, and forest noises and rainfall through the canopy, and impenetrable bush areas, and lush exotic blooms and foliage, and possibly a few poison-dart firing adversaries and illegal loggers and chemically-polluting cocaine-traffickers to dodge, and some new plant and animal species to discover, and maybe, just maybe a cure for cancer in the form of parasitic wasp nests?

Pretty please?

Cos I'd love that and it MIGHT turn me into a gamer, and my other half would be awestruck with bliss. So that would kind of be my ideal Christmas prezzie, really.
Cheers.

Oh, hope the elves aren't giving you any gyp.

See ya soon, usual time and place. Whisky toddy and mince pie awaiting.

XX P

The Public are a bunch of Nazis

2009-11-23T10:24:00.005+01:00

Do we really think The Public deserve the right to have a say? Freedom of speech is enshrined up there with democracy and justice, but it has come under increasing fire in my house this weekend.

Katie Price walks out of the jungle - because The Public consistantly vote for her to be demeaned, punished and ridiculed, displaying their unpleasantly vindictive side. Because? She split from lovely cuddly Peter Andre?

The Public have kept the Jedward Twins in the farcical 'singing' competition that is X Factor, purely to spite Simon Cowell and to fulfill their need to snigger at someone more inept than themselves in the tabloids and on TV.

And The Public will also moan about the depictions of violence in Tarantino's Inglourious Basterds, along with side complaints about having to 'read' most of the film, with its hours of subtitles. Hypocritical behaviour since the Reservoir Dogs director has been flogging this particular brand of cinematic violence for some time, garnering himself numerous accolades in the process and Hollywood's finest are simply queueing up to be featured in his next gore-fest.

If we really don't like seeing violence, he wouldn't be a wealthy, world famous cine-bore, would he?

So we conclude that The Public is a nasty, spiteful, selfish, greedy, vindictive many-headed monster that consistantly lets us down as a civilized society. Hence why the Nazis did so well in the first place. And yet to deny The Public freedom of speech, or democratic powers to vote (or indeed the right to breed...)leaves us all vulnerable to the worst forms of oppression via dictatorship. Out of the frying pan and into the fire?

I suggest that we target our vitriol more carefully in future. Can we even rid ourselves of the festering sore of reality TV? Stop picking at it for more cockroach-crunching stomach-churning moments? I would sooner see wall-to-wall Tarantino before the watershed so that we can educate our kids to analyse and learn from its overblown seditious attraction. We all want to stop and look at a road accident. Some of us become doctors as a result.

Can we drag the standards of tabloid journalism back up to a semblance of pre-school literacy? Write the odd feature ABOUT something - anything - where evolution is taking us, what can we learn from exploring other planets, can anyone work out what the God particle is or how to counterbalance Google's censorship of world information?

All those in favour of a return to education, comment here please.

PS Have I missed the debate where we point out that Tarantion's deliberate misspelling of his title is supposed to remind us that he is re-writing history on purpose? Reclaiming the Nazi story, just like NWA took back the N word? Social commentary about our dumbed-down society? Yeah, I know, just to encourage this sort of debate to rage all over the internet advertising his big ole movie for free...

Room on Fire

2009-11-17T16:22:00.002+01:00

There's no such thing as writers block if you've got an album by The Strokes and a filthy oven.

Google me?

2009-11-11T10:29:00.005+01:00

I was lying in bed the other morning in that pre-awake state where daft ideas seem like genius. Thinking someone should write a song with Google in the title - massive marketing ploy. But of course, I bet people have tried and Google just block it, since its a trademarked copyrighted name. But can they stop you writing potential song lyrics in a blog? And offering them to some new artist, like Rachel or Lucie, for their consideration?

For instance...

Go on and Google me
I won’t care what you see
I won’t know you, you won’t know me
Go on and Google me
It ain’t about the day I’m having
It ain’t about my lack of diction
It’s a work of art
Or work of fiction
Either way you’ll comment, fileshare, Digg it
Spread it round the office and finally bin it
People say it’s Tory or it’s Labour
Feral opinions, a burnt out nation
I hope you’re wiped by a scary Haitian
But it’s left me standing at East Ham station
Folks on their Blackberries, IPods, Twitter,
Shouting mundanities, her skirt don’t fit her
Acting like a pig in Armani glitter
No thanks, no smile, you just wanna hit her
Gotta go global or her ovaries’ll shrivel
Far as I’m concerned she can take this and swivel
Thinks her name in lights will be some protection
She’s just gonna give you a nasty infection (And I don’t mean viral)
Go on, go on, go on, and Google me
Go on and Facebook me
I am who I say I am
She’s such a sham
She’s just some leg of lamb
Go on, go on, and Google me
I wrote some stuff ‘n’ got it published
You read it, fed it to the masses, shredded it
Ain’t enough for you, I felt and bled it
It ain’t enough to put your heart on your sleeve
If it ain’t on CNN, they don’t believe
Gotta make a video that makes ‘em heave
Jackass atrocity girlfriend sleaze.
Look I ain’t done something on a global network
No X Factor, MySpace, Bebo jerk
It’s just me, just you, just Captain Kirk
Trying to keep my shit together and get to work
Then I remember, he tried to Friend her
Looked at her photos of her dog and sent her
An email, all friendly-like, chased her
Avatar all round a disco, and met her
In real time, he was her Global Defender,
And before I knew it he wasn’t mine.
So go on, go on, go on and Google me
Go on and Facebook me
You don’t believe a word I say
Can’t tell I’m here to stay
No shit for sale on EBay
Go on, go on, go on, and Google me
Go on, go on, go on and Google me
Go on and Facebook me
You think she’s really hot
I’m telling you she’s not
She ain’t got what I’ve got
Go on and Google me
Go on and Google me
Go on, go on, go on and Google me
Go on and Skywire me
Go on and Highwire me
Go on and Google me.

We need all the help we can get so...

2009-10-20T12:20:00.005+02:00

I apologise for reproducing this without the web authors permission but I saved these hints from a site that seems to have been taken down now. Some great tips...

50 Ways for Authors to Make More Money
1. Write about topics that have longevity and market potential. Avoid books that act as cannon fodder for a publisher's pub plan. Even if the advance is OK, profitability comes from earning out an advance and earning royalties from future editions.

2. Choose your publisher carefully. Make sure that you're compatible with your publisher both from a topic standpoint and a philosophical standpoint. You will be judged by how well you fit into a publisher's notion of what a 'good' author should be. This issue is particularly true with respect to quality versus speed to market.

3. Get the best possible advance you deserve. Improving your cash flow can make a very big difference in your overall financial position. It also helps diminish your personal risk.

4. Get the best possible royalty rate you deserve. If you choose the right topics, and the right publisher, and write a good, well-timed book, the rewards can be massive, provided you have a decent royalty rate. Avoid trading advance for royalty rates. Work towards high advances and high royalty rates.

5. Minimize unplanned down time between projects. If you spend two to three months out of a year looking for work, you should work on shortening the gaps. Picking up a month or two to spend more time writing can make a huge difference to your profitability. You may even consider overbooking your schedule a little.

6. Don't spin your wheels. If something feels difficult, figure out a better solution. This is especially true when writing code or providing examples in a book. Don't reinvent the wheel. Instead, partner with people to get what you need. Don't procrastinate in solving problems or getting help. Little problems always get bigger with time.

7. Make your deadlines. If you just make your deadlines, you'll be in the top five percent of computer book authors. Sad, but true.

8. Be communicative. Ask for feedback, provide feedback, seek advice, and offer advice. It's a challenge to get good feedback when working for yourself. Without it, you'll never grow as a writer.

9. Organize your office effectively. If you can save just ten minutes a day, you can give yourself an extra week off each year. Or, you can use it to write another book proposal, chapter, or WFH project, or part of your next book.

10. If you're not currently using filters with your email program, you should look into it immediately, especially if you subscribe to a number of mailing lists.

11. Stay healthy and lead a balanced life. You'll be happier and more productive.

12. Understand your strengths and weaknesses. Call attention to your strengths and find help to fix the weaknesses. If you understand yourself, and have a desire to grow, you'll be able to offer a better product to a publisher and your readers.

13. Work with no more than two or three publishers. Learning how a publisher works is extremely time-consuming.

14. Stay on top of publisher payments. Don't let your money sit in a publisher's bank account earning your interest.

15. Don't pay for indexes if you c an help it. Eliminate option clauses and cross-accounting clauses if possible.

16. Rewrite competition clauses narrowly so you can do more than one book on a particular topic area.

17. Promote yourself as a brand whenever possible. Your name should become the most valuable asset you own.

18. Build assets that make you unique. These assets can be special contacts, market knowledge, or special writing ability.

19. Always be a professional. Never whine. Just get the problem fixed. Publishers don't want to hear all of your problems. They have enough of their own.

20. Consider hiring apprentice writers/researchers who can help you generate more books/pages per year.

21. Make sure you're planting the seed for future editions of your books with your publisher before future releases go into beta.

22. Never assume that a publisher will remember the best time to start on a revision. Revisions should be the most profitable writing that you do.

23. Work with more than one computer. Try not to put beta software on the same machine that you're writing on. Back up your data frequently. Make a real effort to develop an off-site archive.

24. Build good will with bookstores by participating in local events. Even a simple book signing can lead to referrals that lead to book contracts. Don't underestimate the power and influence of booksellers in this industry.

25. Market yourself online. Although it takes time, it's inexpensive and can pay huge dividends.

26. Keep a sharp eye on your personal finances. You never want to let yourself get into a desperate situation. Desperation leads to bad decisions. You should also set financial goals for yourself, and periodically make sure that you're on track. Use a personal financial planning package, and don't pay more taxes than you need to.

27. Know how many pages you can write in a day, and monitor performance. Push yourself to write just a little more each day. You'll never become a faster writer unless you try.

28. Write great TOCs. Shifting material around in a book after it is mostly written is a waste of time.

29. Submit files exactly the way publishers ask you to submit files. You never want to waste time going back to capture screen shots and reformatting text.

30. Don't leave permissions to the last minute. You don't want to have to pull stuff out of your book or off your disk right before it has to go to the printer.

31. If you're dealing with a novice editor be patient, yet persistent. You must get the answers to your questions in a timely manner, so you don't have to go back and change things later. Squeaky wheels do get more attention than silent ones.

32. Speak at events if possible. It is great exposure and you'll get in free.

33. Write magazine articles from time to time. It is also good exposure and leads to some interesting opportunities. If given the choice between writing a WFH chapter or writing an article, choose the article. It pays better.

34. Build a Web site where your readers can get to know you, and where editors can find you. Web search engines are the tools of choice for publishers to find authors. They also search Usenet. In other words, there's no reward in lurking.

35. Create your own listserv to develop a community around your readers. This can become a huge asset for you.

36. Don't upgrade your software right away. Try to wait for the first bug fix. Crashing machines really waste a lot of time.

37. Take Carpal Tunnel Syndrome seriously. Avoid it. Buy yourself a good chair, and set your desk up properly. The first time you feel pain, DO something about it.

38. Sell your unique attributes to publishers. Humility, while admirable, doesn't pay the bills.

39. Don't take your publisher for granted, and never let your publisher take you for granted. You should always be gracious, yet never ashamed to point out the good job that you've done.

40. Take vacations. Corporations don't give vacations to employees because they want to be nice. They grant vacations to keep employees sane. Insanity may be good for painters, but it's not good for computer book authors.

41. Expand your knowledge base by using multiple platforms. If you're a Mac author, buy a PC. Platform limitations can severely limit your career options.

42. Know when new software releases will hit. There's no sense writing a book on a software package with four months of life in it. Unless, of course, you're writing about Netscape.

43. Run some of your own numbers when considering a project. Create your own spreadsheet to determine, in your view, just what the potential earnings will be for the amount of time you spend on a project.

44. Don't work with or for jerks. Life is too short, and you'll waste a lot of time talking about and getting upset with the jerks you work with.

45. Become an expert (or non-expert) in more than a few software programs. Keep playing with the newest tools. Being the first on your block to get to know new software programs can lead to lucrative publishing opportunities.

46. Read other books and learn from other authors' strengths and weaknesses. You must know why a book became a best seller. Never assume that someone was just lucky.

47. Listen to your readers. You work for them. They really do appreciate your hard work and know when you're doing a good job, and they do tell their friends about you if they like your book.

48. Build enough time into your writing schedule for software problems and possible personal tragedies. Something always goes wrong. Professionals understand this and plan for these inevitable occurrences.

49. If problems arise, BE HONEST. Silly excuses sound like silly excuses.

50. If you're going to miss your deadline, let your editor know in advance. It's tough, but not nearly as hard as coming up with a creative excuse to describe why you missed the deadline.

Singular Cake : Mark II

2009-10-02T13:38:00.005+02:00

I've been blogging under this title for some time, and occasionally people ask what it means and I refer them to one of my first blogs on here. (http://singularcake.blogspot.com/2006/05/greed-is-not-good.html) But it strikes me that its time for an update.

When I first devised the idea of a new religion called Singular Cake it was a flippant, provocative jab at the idea that anyone could be defined by their religion, anymore than you can categorize people by their skin colour, or their cushion covers. It then evolved into an idea I was proud of - about reducing our carbon footprint, taking each day only what we need - not what we crave, the idea that sharing shouldn't stop at childhood, and that if we all recycled a little more, (shared school runs or baked our neighbours cake when we bake our own,) the world would be less cluttered with our waste and less damaged by our insatiable demand for energy. It was still a dig at orthodox religions that shout 'I'm right, you're wrong!' from the treetops. It was my plea for a religion based on earth's needs that can be inclusive of all the religions including people who have no need for one.

I also happen this week to be working on a new book by Sam S. Nath that is due out soon that has some very interesting points to make about the connections between faiths. You can check it out if you like - http://thesecondcomingofdavinci.info

But now, the green approach has become a real and possible lifestyle choice. Web businesses are booming, where static offices with overheads cannot. Green is the new black. And wave after wave of websites are taking on board that we all have to be ethically more aware, sensitive to the impact we are having, and strive to continually push the envelope.

I want Singular Cake to continue to evolve. So I'm starting with a new wish. I would like global public transport. I would love some little entrepreneur to listen and see the potential in being the first to put their logo out there, their brand name for a world-wide transport network. Someone will do this. And you can tell your children that you read it on Singular Cake first.

WARNING!

2009-08-31T14:26:00.003+02:00

No-one likes to be a sucker, but when you've been caught by some unscrupulous business it always feels better having a moan and imagining that you might stop some other poor fool getting caught out.

Flycell have been sending my mobile unwanted texts about music and celeb news. I have no idea how they got my number, but I do recall ticking NO - CANCEL to some pop up on the web, and thinking it seemed intrusive, because you had to confirm 3 different ways that you were not interested. All just to rid myself of a pop-up blocking something I did want to read.

Now I get my phone bill with over 40 unrequested texts for which I have been charged 30 cents a pop. My bill is higher than usual this month to the total of some 15 euros. Its not bank-breaking, but when I check out both Flycell and their parent or umbrella company mBlox on the internet, I see that this is their 'modus operandi' - billing people for pointless irritating texts.

Meanwhile, (and presumably to stave off several thousand lawsuits, denuncias and complaints) mBlox in the States is offering a Sender Pays Data service to businesses - their latest money-spinning venture. Sure, and the proof of this great idea is that they no doubt ahem, allegedly I mean, have a network now of thousands of disgruntled customers across Europe, whose details they may sell on to said businesses. They wouldn't be such bastards, would they?! I hope there is a huge lawsuit pending.

Please take heed. If you see even one unrequested text on your mobile in the name of Flycell or mBlox - immediately text BAJA (if you are in Spain) to 7837 to cancel this 'service'. There are numerous websites, Facebook pages and internet complaints raging about both these companies currently - it doesn't take much of a Google search to find them. So if you are reading this elsewhere in the world, do find your relevant local method to unsubscribe.

You can read more about mBlox here http://www.mblox.com/products/sender-pays-data/ and more about their record of complaints here http://blogs.mirror.co.uk/investigations/2008/06/mblox-fined-again-over-premium.html

Gee, I feel better for getting that off my chest. But I thought I was pretty internet savvy - so it hurt my ego more than my bank balance to be caught out. If you have a similar story , do spill the beans....

New Post, Old Post, Last Post?

2009-07-27T11:21:00.003+02:00

By the time you have updated all your social media half of Monday morning is gone. Bang goes the plan to get ahead with work this week by writing from 6 til 8am before the kids get up. They could hear a mouse fart. In seconds I have jammy hands on me saying 'I've made you breakfast!' She's right. I feel like I AM breakfast.

Meanwhile I am trying to take the advice of one of the agents I approached last month who recommends that I re-title the book, and who felt that she wasn't 'caught up' in the writing. Godammit she will be after THIS re-write. I feel my gut bursting at the seams of my Hawaiian skirt as I metaphysically compress into a coiled spring of sheer writer-y dynamism. Kinda.

And now I must face facts that 27 minutes have expired and I have neither completed this weeks 100 landing pages, nor re-written the penultimate chapter, nor imparted a nugget of motherly wisdom to the 3 kids currently lolling on the sofa in the playroom. Still in their pjs. Or as T calls em 'My Ja-mamas'. Sigh.

The EU: Missing the point?

2009-06-29T09:42:00.004+02:00

Why is it exactly that we are not prioritising language tuition among the countries of the EU? If we have the right to live, work and study across the EU, there must surely be an interchange across cultures and without language skills this opportunity will fail to promote harmony and achievement.

For example, every day in the Spanish village where I live, local Spanish people are faced with a multitude of foreigners, in many cases outnumbering those who were born here. In an horrendous display of ignorance and arrogance, most of the English that live on the Costa Blanca do not speak Spanish. They rely on Spanish services, whether that is Town Hall officials, doctors, teachers, lawyers, plumbers, waiters or builders, and expect them to understand English. Many Brits start up businesses here, own shops or carry out services aimed at their fellow expats, and do so without a clue of the national or regional language. Their businesses have English names, promote English imported foods and goods, and do so shamelessly without any attempt to integrate.

These same people complain that England is no longer their home because it is full of foreigners who do not speak their language or understand their customs. They object to refugees and immigrants taking lowly paid jobs in the UK or living on the dole. However, they expect to be allowed to work here without a smattering of Spanish, fail to understand local customs, working hours, fiesta traditions, systems of banking, schooling or medicine, and loudly disrespect the Spanish as if the locals cannot understand what they are saying.

If we want to stop civil unrest, and nip racist intolerance in the bud, I think that all the countries of the EU should offer basic language tuition along with the residency card. Your right to work here legally should be balanced with a promise to learn the language and integrate with local customs. This should be the case in ALL the countries of the EU, so that its many languages and cultures can flourish.

The need to dominate an Empire of English-speaking countries is a distasteful echo of the past, and it should be put to rest. Except in England, of course, where the ability to speak our native tongue and teach it to immigrant families should be high on the list of any politically savvy government.

I am Sci-Fi

2009-06-02T18:10:00.006+02:00

The resurgence in all thing sci-fi comes as a huge wave of relief to most of us, and none more so than those of us who have been loving it in secret for years. In fact, it struck me the other day that the reason for this is that it appeals to the underdog in all of us. For instance, when I compare my search for a publisher to the struggle to acquit sci-fi of its geeky origins, I can draw a number of parallels.

I am a maverick – randomly educated, underemployed for years and still to hit my peak. I’ve been a music journalist, youth arts worker, cartoonist, landscape gardener, T-shirt designer, worked for charities, schools, NGO’s and small businesses, and throughout I’ve written and published comments which for the most part have fallen on deaf ears. I was either too radical, or too young, or too qualified for everything I tried. So I began to accept being side-lined and even took an obscure delight in the anonymity and freedom this gave me. Hey, I can write for anyone! Subsequently, I published articles in magazines in Canada, Spain and the UK, I began blogging, took a job working for the first English language national newspaper in Spain, wrote a film script and a novel , and started to enjoy the act of writing in a way that I never had before.

During this period we’ve seen sci-fi become viral across literature, TV and movies. Margaret Atwood can say she writes sci-fi now. JJ Abrams is laughing all the way to the bank. Blockbuster movies last year were almost unanimously tinged with spaceships, time travel and fantasy elements of inner or outer space. It’s time I stepped out of the closet and declared “I am SCI-FI”! (“No, I am Sci-fi!”)

Like the best trends, SF has come about now because we need it. We need to examine global issues, because our world has shrunk down to a tiny planet which can be traversed in a day. We’ll be out among the stars before you know it. We need to explore issues of identity and tolerance and boundaries. It is symptomatic of this genre that it tackles many issues and defies easy characterisation. Even the Bible of our times Wikipedia struggles to encapsulate it.

“Science fiction is difficult to define, as it includes a wide range of subgenres and themes. Author and editor Damon Knight summed up the difficulty by stating that "science fiction is what we point to when we say it", a definition echoed by author Mark C. Glassy, who argues that the definition of science fiction is like the definition of pornography: you don't know what it is, but you know it when you see it. Vladimir Nabokov argued that if we were rigorous with our definitions, Shakespeare's play The Tempest would have to be termed science fiction.”

So we need this geeky grown-up child called Sci-fi to raise its head now. When Robbie the robot was a fiction, it was easy for the mainstream to laugh at SF fans, but now that robots, technological machines and global politics are in our daily lives, the issues explored weekly by Adama, Apollo and Starbuck are relevant and topical. And sci-fi is no longer just for the lads who want to be Superman. Heroes, Lost, Alias, Dollhouse, Firefly, Farscape, Fringe, and True Blood are series with diverse themes but all have had pivotal roles for female actors, and avoid being pegged as science-fiction. Instead they inhabit a reality that encompasses far-out plots, gritty action and tangible characters whose lives mirror our own. Sci-fi has got its mojo back, and all the major players in film, TV, books and graphic novels are banking on this trend to continue into 2010.

So who’s to say that I can’t write a column on the comings and goings of the characters who populate these brave new worlds? Or that I can’t find a backer for my ethical sci-fi movie script? Or that being a forty-something female should deter me from applying for a job at Blackfish? Come on guys, if you believe Laura Roslin had the balls to make a good President, give a girl a chance.

"I want an Obama!"

2009-05-26T15:27:00.002+02:00

Fantastic debate on Camerons blueprint for reforming government in the Guardian today. Read the article, but more importantly check out some of the comments from voters trying to poke through the mire with an enlightened stick. One comment made me chortle - "I want an Obama!" Yes, and I want him now!

The sad fact is that British politics is stagnating; for want of a good idea. Every new hire is told the same old drivel - "Come up with a great and inspiring new idea, only make sure the public will like it or you won't get elected." However, most people don't like being told that economic recovery will be torturously slow, that jobs are poorly paid and fleeting, that there are no easy solutions. But we have to talk to voters as adults - and as any parent, teacher or nurse will tell you, patience and hard work are the only options that pay off.

The reason some of us are so impressed with Obama is because he talks to us as adults. He inspires confidence, not by making grandiose promises, but rather by spelling out what we all know to be true - we have to find common ground and work together, and WORK HARD to make the world a better place.

I'm game, if you are. Let's stick around and see if any UK or EU politicians take a leaf out of his book and tell us what a hard slog we have ahead of us. And if new politicians rear their heads without a tuck box of Parliamentary expenses being offered as bait, will we see some progress on the political scene?

Whaaaa?

2009-04-24T14:16:00.002+02:00

Stress evolves us.

So I am sure we're taking an evolutionary leap right now!

Think of that next time the bank refuses your loan, ups your mortgage payments without asking you, and then charges you for the privilege of owing them money.

Do you think we become immortal in the memories of others?

I hope so.

I'm planning on major immortality and I can tell you this. I won't be banking with Cam, Natwest, Barclays and Abbey National/Santander when I am.

The Jesus Myth

2009-04-12T11:19:00.007+02:00

Something for all you Atheists out there this Easter...

Did you know that some historians believe our Easter Traditions predate the Christian worship of Jesus and instead reflect the pagan story of Attis? And in fact, even these pagan stories of a man born of virgin birth could have simply been a way to explain how Nature first grew plants from seeds on our newly evolving planet.

Check out this from www.religioustolerance.org

“Many, perhaps most, Pagan religions in the Mediterranean area had a major seasonal day of religious celebration at or following the Spring Equinox. Cybele, the Phrygian fertility goddess, had a fictional consort who was believed to have been born via a virgin birth. He was Attis, who was believed to have died and been resurrected each year during the period MAR-22 to MAR-25. "About 200 B.C. mystery cults began to appear in Rome just as they had earlier in Greece. Most notable was the Cybele cult centered on Vatican hill ...Associated with the Cybele cult was that of her lover, Attis (the older Tammuz, Osiris, Dionysus, or Orpheus under a new name). He was a god of ever-reviving vegetation. Born of a virgin, he died and was reborn annually. The festival began as a day of blood on Black Friday and culminated after three days in a day of rejoicing over the resurrection."

Wherever Christian worship of Jesus and Pagan worship of Attis were active in the same geographical area in ancient times, Christians "used to celebrate the death and resurrection of Jesus on the same date; and pagans and Christians used to quarrel bitterly about which of their gods was the true prototype and which the imitation."
Many religious historians believe that the death and resurrection legends were first associated with Attis, many centuries before the birth of Jesus. They were simply grafted onto stories of Jesus' life in order to make Christian theology more acceptable to Pagans. Others suggest that many of the events in Jesus' life that were recorded in the gospels were lifted from the life of Krishna, the second person of the Hindu Trinity.

Ancient Christians had an alternative explanation; they claimed that Satan had created counterfeit deities in advance of the coming of Christ in order to confuse humanity. 4 Modern-day Christians generally regard the Attis legend as being a Pagan myth of little value. They regard Jesus' death and resurrection account as being true, and unrelated to the earlier tradition.

Wiccans and other modern-day Neopagans continue to celebrate the Spring Equinox as one of their 8 yearly Sabbats (holy days of celebration). Near the Mediterranean, this is a time of sprouting of the summer's crop; farther north, it is the time for seeding. Their rituals at the Spring Equinox are related primarily to the fertility of the crops and to the balance of the day and night times. Where Wiccans can safely celebrate the Sabbat out of doors without threat of religious persecution, they often incorporate a bonfire into their rituals, jumping over the dying embers is believed to assure fertility of people and crops.”

So I can celebrate Easter and stuff myself with chocolate eggs, surrounded by fluffy chicks and bunnies, and if anyone asks I'll say its thanks to dear ole Attis, and I'm just helping Spring on its way.

Costa Collapse?

2009-04-12T11:19:00.006+02:00

Small businesses are disappearing at a rate of knots across the Costa Blanca. The vast majority are foreign owned and run, although many Spanish businesses are also being affected. But traditionally business here has been handed down through family members along with premises or land, so a support network exists for Spaniards during times of recession. The Spanish character is also used to times of boom and bust, economies are made, some layoffs are seen as inevitable, the financial storm is simply to be weathered.

Foreign businesses on the Costas generally pay higher rents (often subletting premises) and have substantially higher start up costs, especially businesses that import stock from their country of origin. Their client network grows more slowly as they build brand new supplier and customer relationships. If an average business takes two years to turn a profit, foreign business can take twice as long, and have attendant capital loans/charges which may eat into potential profit if the original business plan was over optimistic.
The banking system in Spain is no friend to small business either, although the inflexible nature of Spanish banks has protected them from some of the excessive debts of the current financial downturn. Zapatero could reinvigorate the economy by encouraging banks to offer small business loans at lower interest rates, with longer loan periods in booming sectors of the economy such as computing and internet business, or green energy technologies.

With no social security safety net, many self-employed immigrants to Spain will be returning to their country of origin. The loss of this mini-invasion of entrepreneurs will be to Spain’s detriment, along with the dropping tourist figures, but it will see the Costas returning to a more Spanish flavour of business.

Brave New World Pt 2

2009-04-06T11:27:00.003+02:00

Oh, historic day! I will look back on todays date and tell my children that this was the day it all changed.
"I was perusing some online news when I was struck by not one, not two, but three items of earth shattering importance. Firstly, President Obama's plan for a nuclear-free world was outlined,where he pledged a nuclear disarmament drive greater than any previously attempted and called for a ban on nuclear testing. I thought of Tsutomu Yamaguchi, the 93 year old Japanese man who survived both Hiroshima and Nagasaki and what he would make of it all. And I could see old footage scrolling before my eyes of CND hippies waving their placards in glee.
Secondly, I read that changes to UK law coming into force today allow parents with children under the age of sixteen to request flexible working from employers who are obliged to "seriously consider" any application and only reject it if there are "good business reasons for doing so". It's woolly, and only extends the law previously applied to parents of children under the age of six, but it heralds a new era for parents in the UK, who have suffered more than their European counterparts who have more holidays, fiesta days and time off with family. We want repsonsible teenagers then we expect them to become so without their parents influence, without time to talk through their issues? Roll on four day weeks and home-working and part-time hours for realistic pay.
But thirdly, and most spangly of all, today sees the official return of the Puffin Post."
I know there are adults the world over gasping and dashing to their desks to drag out dog-eared copies of that most-beloved magazine. The Puffin Post was around from the 1960's to 1980's to trumpet the latest childrens books from the publisher but also to provide a forum for book-mad kids everywhere to discuss, review and discover books and their authors. I was gobsmacked to receive a prize when they published one of my poems (aged 11 and three-quarters) and drove my mum mad harping on about it. I still have the edition with my masterpiece in. Wonderful rhyme and alliteration of 'mangold root' and 'mouldy old boot', and some inspired raving about witches that JKRowling no doubt plaguarised. I am thrilled to see its return just as my 10 year old daughter enters her book-obsessed years ( - a subscription will sort out her next birthday present perfectly.)
So, for anyone languishing in bed this morning without reason to be bold or brave, take heart from these global changes and kick-start your own renaissance.

Think like a winner?

2009-04-02T12:00:00.003+02:00

A writer on LinkedIn's Spanish Connections group posted the following parable about the current global condition. Fow my Spanish readers here is the original and what follows is my poor attempt at translation (apologies Jérôme!)

Albóndigas con pan

Había una vez una persona que vivía al lado de una carretera donde vendía unas ricas albóndigas con pan. Estaba muy ocupado y por lo tanto no oía radio, no leía los periódicos ni veía la televisión. Alquiló un trozo de terreno, colocó una gran valla y anunció su mercancía gritando a todo pulmón:
"Compren deliciosas albóndigas calientes".
Y la gente se las compraba. Aumentó la adquisición de pan y carne. Compró un terreno más grande para poder ocuparse de su negocio, y trabajó tanto que dispuso que su hijo dejara la Universidad donde estudiaba Ciencias Comerciales a fin de que le ayudara.
Sin embargo, ocurrió algo muy importante; su hijo le dijo: "Viejo, ¿tú no escuchas la radio, ni lees los periódicos...?. Estamos sufriendo una grave crisis!. La situación es realmente mala; peor no podría estar!!".
El padre pensó: "Mi hijo estudia en la Universidad, lee los diarios, ve televisión y escucha la radio. Debe saber mejor que yo lo que está pasando..."
Compró entonces menos pan y menos carne. Sacó la valla anunciadora, dejo el alquiler del terreno con el fin de eliminar los gastos y ya no anunció sus ricas albóndigas con pan. Y las ventas fueron disminuyendo cada día más.
"Tenías razón hijo mío", le dijo al muchacho. "Verdaderamente estamos sufriendo una gran crisis".

MORALEJA
No sigamos hablando de crisis.
Hablemos sólo de hacer buenos negocios, buenos trabajos y buenas tareas.
Si nos programamos para fracasar, fracasaremos.
Si nos mentalizamos para ganar, ganaremos.
Es una simple elección personal.

¿Qué piensa hacer para ser un GANADOR?

English version
Meatballs with bread

There was once a person that lived next to a highway where a stall sold rich meatballs with bread. The vendor was very busy and therefore not listening to radio, or reading the newspapers or watching television much. He had rented a piece of land, placed a great sign on the fence and announced his merchandise shouting at the top of his lungs: "Buy delicious hot meatballs!" and people bought them. Doing so, they enlarged his bread and meat market. Then he bought a larger piece of land to be able to develop his business, and worked so hard that his son left University where he studied Commercial Sciences in order to help him. However, something very important occurred; his son told him: "Old man, ¿you do not listen the radio, nor read the newspapers. ..? We are suffering a serious crisis!. The situation is really bad; it could not be worse!!". The father thought: "My son studies in the University, he reads the newspapers, sees television and listens to the radio. He must know better than I what is happening. ..” So he bought less bread and less meat. He removed the fence sign, abandoned the rent of the land in order to eliminate some expenses and no longer announced his rich meatballs with bread to the world from the top of his lungs. And the sales were indeed diminishing each day. "You were right my son", he told the boy. "Truly we are suffering a great crisis".

MORAL: Do not continue speaking of crisis. We must speak only of good business, good works and good tasks. If we plan for failure, we will fail. If we prepare ourselves mentally to win, we will win. This is a simple personal decision.

What do you think YOU should do to be a WINNER?

It's so true

2009-03-10T15:38:00.000+01:00

Forgive me for repeating this quote here:
"A human being should be able to change a diaper, plan an invasion, butcher a hog, conn a ship, design a building, write a sonnet, balance accounts, build a wall, set a bone, comfort the dying, take orders, give orders, cooperate, act alone, solve equations, analyze a new problem, pitch manure, program a computer, cook a tasty meal, fight efficiently, die gallantly. Specialization is for insects."
-- Lazarus Long, Time Enough For Love, Robert Heinlein

Similarly, a writer should try everything once (bar the obvious or deadly) so that he or she can write about it with conviction. So consider that I may be embarking on a new programme to fill in the gaps in my knowledge and I will return to this blog when I am worthy of Heinlein's character's quote.

Six Impossible Things

2009-03-09T14:11:00.005+01:00

I like to believe in impossible things, and as a fan of Lewis Carroll, I aim to believe in at least six before breakfast. Uncorrupt judges, my life made into a movie starring at least one of Meryl Streep's daughters, free lunches, public demand producing a hilarious yet educational videogame, first contact, a worthy Eurovision song contest winner...my scope is boundless.

Of the first, uncorrupt judges. I cannot go into detail but a friend's future may hang in the balance based on a judges decision. This is not something I want to be flippant about. Suufice it to say that this began the thoughtstream that led me to think six impossible things.

It is easily possible that my life story will interest one of the Streep daughters. Especially if she spends any time being educated in the UK and learns some God-awful swear words which she needs to put into practise. And if Parminder Nagra hasn't used them all up on ER. So less than impossible, but no nearer to likely.

Free lunches are only reputedly impossible. I have had some. Good ones. With free Margaritas on the side. (A long while ago, but thank you Clint Mansell.)

The educational fun videogames I think are but a nanosecond away from becoming reality, especially as I commented about them on the Guardian website this morning. But I admit this was actually during, not before, breakfast. So that scrapes in by a hair's breadth.

First contact. Is it impossible if it may have already happened but due to a Government cover-up we are all sublimely unaware of it? I think this counts. And if my plot for The Answer sees the light of day as a movie, I can dispense with first contact and a whole barrel of other firsts, so believing in it is not such a stretch as it might seem.

Which leaves only the worthy Eurovision winner. Saved the best til last. This will not happen til Hell freezes over, and the Devil gets matching lilac leg warmers and fingerless gloves. So I can happily go on believing in it, impossibly, and keep Lewis Carroll chipper too.

My favourite headline

2009-03-02T12:18:00.003+01:00

Some days you are down and dreary. The world is heavy and you feel weary.

Then you read a Guardian headline that says:

2 March 2009: Morphs made by over 200 fans of Tony Hart form a flash mob of tiny plasticine figures on the ground outside the Tate Modern

...and all's right with the world! How can your spirits fail to lift when an iconic TV series of your childhood inspires such life-affirming behaviour. In grown adults.

Life as we know it

2009-02-25T13:17:00.004+01:00

...could be all set to change now that I have located a hot-diggedy new location for us, just north of Barcelona.

Watch this space.

But do get in touch if you'd like to buy our bee-OO-tiful plot of land which is eminently suited to ostrich farming, bee-keeping or horse whispering, paint-balling or creating tree-bridges, or to be honest is ideal for growing blue agave plants to turn into tequila which can be processed into diamond slivers for use in industry. God's honest truth. Saw it in The Guardian.

Return to Blighty?

2009-02-13T17:22:00.003+01:00

After my sister and her two kids returned to the UK to study after 10 years in Spain (and with fluent Spanish) it’s true I gave it some thought. However, owning a home here and having worked legally in Spain for more than 4 years, I wouldn’t be entitled to any sort of benefits or healthcare and would merely be joining the dole queue to look for work there. That is quite apart from my genuine love of Spain and the Spanish, how relaxed and self-confident my kids have become here, and how much greater our quality of life is – with more holidays and family time together. I don’t want to return to a country which jails parents of truanting kids, where teachers cannot touch a child with a grazed knee, or where teenagers are considered dangerous if they wear hoodies!

I may struggle to find work in this rural area and I am barred from voting in national elections as a foreigner. But along with my 3 daughters I am learning Valenciano and improving my Castilian Spanish, giving us great global options for future work, and opening up a whole new culture of books, films and theatre to enjoy. I have found work via the internet, and I waited just one week for an appointment at the brand new hospital in Denia recently. I have joined the APMA (PTA) and intend to get involved helping our kids Spanish school, will contribute to Parcent’s flower week in May, and will watch my youngest daughter take part as a ‘festera’ in the August fiesta. Good quality food is more expensive now in Spain than England, but wine, local products and town hall taxes are all cheaper.

If I am ever homesick for England it is for a lifestyle which I don’t think exists there anymore, and which instead I am recreating here, with the freedom, spirit and exuberance that the Spanish still enjoy.

The future is in the clouds?

2009-01-27T09:14:00.002+01:00

It's not healthy to adopt a conspiracy theorist approach especially in these trying times we live in, so I will avoid the obvious comments, but what is the general consensus about the GDrive?

I suspect that for busy folk, always dashing from one location to another, Google's plans seem emminently practical. Instead of carting around a laptop or PDA or Notebook or Blackberry from meeting to meeting and trying to synchronise your notes later, you'll simply log in to the nearest pc and store your work online, without a care.

Well, of course you'll have concerns. How can that data be protected from prying eyes when you won't know WHO could be looking at it? There will no doubt be stringent security procedures, and you can use other back-up options if the data is particularly sensitive, so I think the GDrive WILL enhance our ways of working, after initial bugs are ironed out.

But it will feel a little like diving in the cyber deep end.

The Hunter - a work in progress

2009-01-11T11:32:00.002+01:00

Jo soc un bon casador i tinc una mascoto i es diu CASPA. es un lleo. Un dia, vaig ixir a casar i Vam vorer una zebra i Caspa va botar damut de la zebra i la va matar i la va tirar davant de mi i vam nar a casa.

Quant vam arribar a casa teniem tanta fam que vam menjar tota la zebra i al final vam ixir a casar un altre vegada i vam casar un altre zebra.

My daughter has watched me typing feverishly this morning as I try to finish Chapter Fifty-Six before either the creative juices dry up or I am needed elsewhere. She studied me for several seconds before asking what I was doing. She indicated that I was typing in English, and deduced that it was some kind of work but when told it was a novel, said "Ohhhh, a story. Yeah I do those." She then hopped on my lap and wrote the above, before skipping off to torment her sister with an electronic drumstick (effective when snapped close to someone's ear.)

I doubt that she has written in perfect Valenciano; even with my vague knowledge I can spot several minor errors. But it seems more likely that she will win the Booker Prize than I, since I have still not published a novel and I am now in my 44th year.

World Domination or Communication?

2009-01-02T14:23:00.002+01:00

In a country only slightly more than twice the size of Oregon, live some 42 million people. Including me and my family. The Spanish climate is temperate, with extremely warm summers, and mild winters where snow chiefly falls in the mountainous regions, missing a large proportion of the country.

There are 19 autonomous communities within Spain, (including the Balearic Islands and Canary Islands, and three small Spanish possessions off the coast of Morocco - Islas Chafarinas, Penon de Alhucemas, and Penon de Velez de la Gomera). Within the communities, Castilian is the official language nationwide, spoken by 74% of the population (Catalan is spoken by 17%, Galician 7%, and Basque 2%. These languages are official regionally.)

My kids are growing up speaking three languages, in three distinct settings. English is the predominant language at home, Valenciano (variation of Catalan) is the designated language at school, although they also have lessons in Castellano and English. Castellano is also spoken widely in this area where so many European settlers live or where the Spanish are not all native Valenciano speakers.

We are a living experiment.

Bombarded daily with phrases from Spanish TV, Valenciano slang in the streets of our village, and the overwhelming American English content from film, TV and radio programmes, we are stuffing our brains with language content that actually covers the greater proportion of the globe. Spanish is spoken by 500 million people all over the world, and it is the first language for about 300 million people. Approximately 375 million people speak English as their first language. But although English today is probably the third largest language by number of native speakers, (after Mandarin Chinese and Spanish), when combining native and non-native speakers it is probably the most commonly spoken language in the world.

With the internet and computers predominantly English too, the world is becoming globally accessible in a way that it never has been before. I wonder what our future will hold?

God's Bet

2008-11-13T11:04:00.001+01:00

Cynthia was showering, when she struck her ankle bone against a tiled corner.
“Jes-SUSS Christ almighty! That hurts” she yelped.
Up in heaven, God mused.
“She’s the one,” he decided. “She doesn’t believe, so no-one will realise I am behind this. She can save the world.”
In doing so, she would have to eradicate religion, he thought, so there will be no cause for further dissension.
“But sir,” queried an underling. “Isn’t that what You were trying to achieve? Isn’t this Your plan? Should they not be made aware of this eventually?”
“I’m trying a new ploy. You see, if their lives are good, and they choose voluntarily to become good people, then they will be eligible for my heavenly rewards.”
“But what if they persist in badness? What then? Won’t He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named get them?”
“I will lose a few, it’s true. Some souls will not be saved. It will take humans a long time to see the rewards of a good life on earth. Many may pass below where HWM-NBN will rejoice. His armies will grow stronger and more confident.”
“Then this will not work,” the underling shrieked. “We may be invaded, overtaken, destroyed by the multitude of demons!”
“And you do not think I am more than a match for him and his kind? Remind me, why are you here, if your faith is this flimsy?”
The underling shuddered, peering up like a troubled homunculus. He was unsure which of the answers which sprang to mind would gain him more milk and honey.
“I think it’s a great plan,” he ventured. “Let’s see what happens.”

She loved singing in the shower. Under the tumbling spray she closed her eyes and concentrated on the sound echoing from the tiled walls.
“I-i-i-i know a place that’s safe and warm from the crowds – into your arms o-wo-oh into your arms I will GO-O-O.”
Suddenly she had one of those warm and personal moments when you feel at one with the world. She felt hugely powerful, omnipotent almost, as if she could solve any problem if she put her mind to it.
“I should install a web cam in here and broadcast to the nation,” she announced to the pot-plants and lounging cat. “I’ll say I am the woman they need – to solve the planet’s problems. If they would all renounce God and all that nonsense, I could show them how to have perfect happiness in the here-and-now.”
While she towelled herself dry, the thought lingered. Over coffee and a jammy croissant, she allowed herself the indulgence of imagining what might be. Before she could change her mind, she rang the computer engineer at MBiT Computers and asked if he would pop in and install a webcam. There was a small matter of the nudity involved, but it might work in her favour that folks would think they’d catch a glimpse of bare behind. It would be the ‘tease factor’ to hook ‘em in, and then they’d listen to what she had to say, and maybe soon fans would set up a website, there would be an open-air concert where bands and artistes would support her views, a small clique of followers might establish a school to study her comments, and books would come out yearly dedicated to the cause.

After her first live webcam, where she had to get to grips with the logistics of voice projection, avoiding ‘shower curtain crackle’ and atmospheric distortion from the bathroom environment, whilst simultaneously concentrating her views into catchy sound bites; she found she improved with each performance. It was sometimes a struggle keeping goose-pimpled flesh to the minimum - hits for the blog on Google dropped if the web filtering detected high ratios of pink skin and labelled her as Porn. The reality TV show broadcast from her front lawn was an initial shock, as was the honorary doctorate from the University of Colorado, presented by George Clooney, live by satellite from his villa on Lake Como. But as the weeks lengthened into months, she settled into a kind of routine. Up at 6am for a real shower, with the heater on and no make-up, then her breakfast radio slot broadcast from the kitchen, with authentic crunching and slurping. Her first webcam was around 11am, generally something ground-breaking – Women CAN read Maps was a good one, and the infamous Make Cake Not War, which had increased her following in the Middle East, United Korea, patisserie-orientated France and Japan particularly. Then afterwards she’d fit in some shopping – maybe opening a new QuickieMart if it meant she got an hour’s uninterrupted browse down the aisles, and she could plan the week’s meals – she was often cooking for dinner parties now at the weekend, for 12 or 13 friends. Afternoons were generally spent in preparation for the evening’s peak viewing webcam, having her hair crimped and skin airbrushed with fake tan, reading her notes and humming a lot. The humming helped to keep her ‘centred’. She’d tried a mantra but that smacked of religion which was a slippery downhill slope. After the performance, she relaxed with friends, ate good food, watered the garden, took select phone-calls and trawled the internet to catch up with the worldwide reaction.

When the summer peak hit, she found herself craving some privacy and time to think. She’d covered all the basics now – schools were content to preach her first ten podcasts as the New Commandments, followed by age-appropriate interpretations of the Saturday Night Specials in which she’d first dispensed with the Big Faker. They’d moved on to Cyn and Forgiveness (the one that became a car bumper sticker) and Singular Cake – A Way to Enlightenment (the World Health Organisation’s first recommended DVD; sales of which finally eradicated World Hunger.) Now she really needed to recharge her batteries before the Autumn Season Network programming meeting.

Atop a deserted mountain in Cantabria, she had her second Golden Glow moment. The air rushing up from the cooling valley below was heady with thyme, pine and rosemary. Not a human sound disturbed the silence, only the cawing of Bonelli Eagles now nesting on the southern face, and the muted bellows of herds of goats. It was a sensation like that of a spiritual revelation, but the thought that permeated her whole being was barely containable in words. It was more of an aroma of life. Something that hinted at a global cup of nectar for all humankind. She pondered the moment, all the while scratching at midge bites on her neck. To be honest, she’d had quite enough of this fame malarkey. Did the world really need her as spokesperson? Wasn’t that half the problem with the God business? Maybe this golden moment had to be experienced like a personal affirmation, and all the folk on the planet would feel it themselves once they were at one with the created environment? If so, she could drop out of the picture quite happily now. Her work was done.

On high, God examined her thoughts, and tskked.
“Think she’s gonna blow it,” he murmured. Several underlings looked up from their hair plaiting and ambrosia stirring. One ventured closer to His Right Hand and tugged His gown.
“Maybe you should intervene? Do a shiny light doo-dah, and give her some guidance?” He smiled a winning smile.
“This is all her doing. I cannot intervene now. If this works I will not have to intervene again. There will be harmony on the planet of humankind, such as never has been witnessed before. And only you and I will know I am responsible. The idea of God will vanish and I will have created the perfect world – self-sufficient souls that ascend voluntarily to heaven. Ahhh. I may even take a holiday to experience this beautiful dew-spangled world. But she must not give in to that most human of failings – the spoilt voice of free will. ”
The ascended soul nodded knowingly. “There’ve been no rumblings from below for sometime. Perhaps this plan is working and HWM-NBN has no army left with which to taunt us.”

At this judicious point, God spun round to glimpse a naked hairy demon extending his reach into heaven.
“Foul creature! What messenger is this!”
“Not so much an ‘email of evil’ – more of a one-line text, really. Master wishes to shake your hand. The souls of foulness passing his way have increased both in quantity and quality. He anticipates a showdown in the near future, when he has catalogued and welcomed the plethora of newcomers. Adios, O Whitewasher-of-Wills, O Pious Prig of Pompous…YELP.”

God brushed the remains of the creature from his foot. His face registered no displeasure; more a thoughtful rising of eyebrows, as if a solution had presented itself from an unexpected source. Nearby, the crowd of onlookers were dismissed, with an imperceptible flutter of his fingers.

Perhaps the problem was simply that she needed a holiday romance. She’d been single for too long, and had started to view life like a SIM game – wind up the characters and watch what happened. The people hanging on her every word never contradicted her, nor offered contrary thoughts nor demurred. That was surely not good for a person. Not that great guys simply dropped from the skies when you wished for them…
Having said that, the guy opposite her, picking tapas from his teeth, was what you would consider handsome. Table manners aside and assuming he had no idea who she was, perhaps she could strike up a conversation.
“Is the tapas generally good here?” she tried; gesturing to his empty plate.
“Not much of a line, but it will do,” he replied, dragging his chair over to her table, and seating himself disturbingly close for a first encounter. “The name’s Jeff. Jeff, er.. Conway. Yours?”

He was an artist, and a technophobe. With no computer, and often no electrical connection in his studio, he simply painted, ate, read and occasionally sang in the shower. She felt they had an aural connection, then. Cyn began to explain her disturbing rise to fame, which he dismissed with an imperceptible flutter of his fingers, and they found other topics more fruitful to discuss – sunsets, wine, food eaten with gusto, trails worth hiking. Her holiday became a longer sabbatical in which she found time to unwind, and get back to something like her normal self. He was an amiable guy to be around, uninterested in worldly glory but fascinated with the minutiae of life on earth. She put it down to his profession that he enjoyed studying the patterns of ostrich ferns in the forest, or the colours reflected in the early morning dew.

One morning, dismissing the insistent chirrup of her mobile phone, she stood on the wooden porch of his studio watching as he made clay models of a man and a woman entwined. He couldn’t have been happier if he was God himself creating the first couple. All it needed was to keep the Devil preoccupied with some interminable task, and the world would have reached some ultimate harmony.
Perhaps, she mused, the world needed a quantity of badness in it. While the Devil was busy with those irredeemable souls, the rest of us could enjoy smelling the roses. Switching off the mobile, she took a deep lungful of mountain air, and sighed contentedly.

The Politics of Posting

2008-11-12T11:04:00.004+01:00

How much can you say on a personal blog, without leaving yourself open to unwarranted intrusion?

I've taken all the kids pictures from my Facebook site, and asked that the yearly school calendar not include their names, but does that protect them?

If I blog about issues and a potential employer/headhunter reads it, does it sway their opinion unjustly since it is really private (but foolishly in the public domain)?

There are so many social networking sites now, from those masquerading as Jobs Boards like LinkedIn to the niche-specific ones like Matador (Travel) or Last.fm (Music) plus the area-specific sites like YoPoCo or CostaBlancaConnect - and our lives are on display here like never before.

Where is it leading? Personal advertising boards outside our houses? We already have ad's on our cars, our T-shirts, our mobile phones and laptops and bombarding us from every website and publication. What's next? Personalized signs on gravestones with ad space to rent?

I fancy a rotating sign on mine that can be logged into as my descendants wish, to read my words of wisdom, left to flicker for posterity. And he would like fairy lights on his so that a visit to the grave site need not be gloom and doom for the kids after he's gone.

What do YOU want?

Uhhh?

2008-10-24T12:06:00.002+02:00

Aren't kids pics the bizness?

High Speed

2008-10-06T12:31:00.002+02:00

I don't have time to browse the internet, eat cake, put the washing out, put the washing in, shake it all about...since I am simultaneously writing Chapter 51 of the novel, re-writing the synopsis of the filmscript, sketching blog ideas for other peoples forum blogs, re-jigging articles for travel sites, and waiting on some other work to be emailed to me. I'm like a high-speed vehicle, skimming over the keyboard in gleaming chrome and metallic paint (fingernails).

But if it doesn't come in soon its gonna drop off my to-do-list as I've just discovered that the girls are off school this Thurs and Fri.

Hmm, this means I'd better break out the Barbies. Time for a terrace-top fashion contest, methinks. check back later for pics.

Forest Love - ooo get down to the forest today....

2008-08-01T11:15:00.003+02:00

It seems as if Greenpeace want us to get down and dirty in the bush, which I, for one, am all for, however, I imagine that they'll draw the line at downright pornography (although perhaps their video editors will have a happy half hour).

So be creative and send in photos of loving, snogging, tongueing, kissing, face-hugging type action in glorious green foliage, under swaying trees or right in the growing heart of your local park to help put the pressure on the EU to stop illegal logging and the sale of illegal timber from the rainforests - in the Congo, this is even taking place within so-called protected National Parks.

Read more: http://www.greenpeace.org/international/news/conning-congo-forests300708

Links

2008-07-10T09:55:00.002+02:00

orange gas bottles
coin-sized interior pain
pawprints on window
soaring strings
condensation under toast
small print
a noise like whispered moving feet
the corner of the wrapping paper caught in a drawer
someone elses letter
escapee washing
determination
longevity
doubt

No time to blog

2008-04-07T10:43:00.003+02:00

The book is gathering pace. Coupla articles to write this week. No time to blog really but thoughts spring up involuntarily. Horrified to hear about developments in the UK - anti-teen 'mosquitos'in city centres, fines for non-school attendance or holidays taken out of term time, fines for incorrect placing or mixing of rubbish, schools promoting Nintendo's Brain Gym, anti-psychotic medication being given to children under 6, entrenched racism, the cost of freedom of speech being riots over China / the Olympic torch ... since I left the UK seven years ago, London in particular seems to be swerving down ever more dangerous spirals of panic.

My main beef with this is that the more we regulate, the less people take personal responsibility. The more rigid and didactic our governing bodies become, the less we interact personally or engage with their message. It becomes simply a format for resentment, breeds anti-social behaviour, turns people away from collaboration and consent.

The process of education for instance. Did you know that you are legally obliged to educate your child, but no law says this must be at a school? Increasingly education has become the responsibility of teachers and governing bodies, and parents are left out of the loop, when in fact their involvement is what makes the difference between a child who goes on to succeed (in relationships, in jobs, in personal development...)

We are failing our kids, neighbours, family and friends when we shut our doors to one another for fear of making a mistake, (cultural or otherwise) or to avoid being ridiculed by our teenagers, punished by our local governors, or fined for inappropriate behaviour by the State.

Oooo, and it's only Monday morning...

What do you wanna be?

2008-03-10T10:43:00.001+01:00

I was at a party once, when I was asked what I would prefer to be, if I had the choice – rich, famous or beautiful. It is not such a daft question as it sounds. I often used to interview pampered rock stars, and their answers to this question were quite revealing, as it became clear that they lived a rarefied existence where such navel-gazing was commonplace. However, everyone present would feel able to venture an opinion, and clear differences emerged.
By far the biggest majority of people say Rich. In our material times, having enough in the bank to pay for daily needs, doesn’t amount to a feeling of satisfaction. We either want the outward signs and trappings of success; like fast cars, and homes in exotic locations, or we want enough to fulfill a personal dream that seems elusive without cash; whether that means owning a football club or a Fabergé egg. Some people see wealth as a way out of their otherwise dull existence, and imagine they would attract a better mate, or discover that it opens doors that previously seemed barred, although many say that being rich would simply take away the worry of providing for family.
After rich, people are divided more equally between famous and beautiful. Here the debate becomes heated, as arguments arise as to which of the three answers is ‘correct’. Some lateral thinkers amongst you will have worked out that all three are interlinked; after all, with riches you can pay for plastic surgery and may become infamous. With great beauty, may come media celebrity and wealth. Fame often comes with a pricetag, and can pay for the appearance of beauty. At this point it becomes obvious that no one answer is right, all are sides of the same coin.
The most memorable answer came from a bass player in a little known ‘indie’ band called Bark Psychosis. “Beautiful¬- like having a beautiful soul, yeah?” Faces changed as if to say “Wish I’d though of saying that!” Those who boldly stated Rich, then often wanted to justify why they wanted money, and give it a more altruistic sheen, like giving money to charity to redistribute world wealth, or pay for Grandma’s eye operation.
It seems that what we wish for is really linked to what we fear most. Our most potent dreams are to compensate for our human flaws. I wanted fame. Perhaps to avoid being that nondescript kid at school who was neither clever nor funny nor popular enough. And my adult fears are no longer about money or my looks. I have given up worrying about both; probably since I have been homeless and penniless at least once, and with a partner, three kids and a new crop of grey hairs I no longer worry about being left alone. (Some days, I positively crave being a solitary gin-sozzled old crone, with the freedom to act crazy in the supermarket queue.)
Of course, if my fame were linked to a world-class achievement like discovering a cure for cancer based on eating sugared almonds in bulk, I could justify craving notoriety. But, hey ho. I’ll settle for publishing the first Booker prize winning comedy sci-fi novel, I guess.

Age appropriate

2008-02-22T16:18:00.003+01:00

Sometimes you have a birthday and feel that the age doesn’t suit you. Personally, I was okay up to about 40, but every digit after that seemed worrisome. I began to think those things your mother used to say – Can I still wear this? Is the bar brightly lit? Do you say ‘groovy’ anymore?

And ageing is clearly sexist. Women can’t do ‘rugged’. Less men feel compelled to base their job prospects on their looks, and subsequently get into plastic surgery as a form of career maintenance. The cliché of the boss running off with the young secretary clearly isn’t about her dictation skills.

The downhill slide is more noticeable if you had a perky frontage previously. I was astounded to discover recently that scientists believe breasts were impermanent pre-Pleistocene times; they inflated and deflated like summer lilo’s. In fact, men would have actually found them a turn-off since they signalled a woman was already impregnated. And, once they had served their purpose for baby’s nutrition, they would have dwindled away.

Imagine the horror! Not only crows feet (read: laughter lines) and chin hairs (read: erm, chin hairs) but disappearing boobs to signal that the prime of your life is over. So, maybe we should be grateful for evolution – for turning breasts into our life-long pals. After all, there isn’t much that a push-up bra and a pair of high heels can’t solve.

Ageing must work from top to bottom for a reason. Babies grow proportionately from their head downwards i.e. first the brain and nervous system develop, then the limbs elongate and strengthen, until the child can sit, then stand, then walk. Similarly, we age that way – face and hair show the first signs of deterioration, but we are left with lovely knees. Who among us hasn’t had that awful shock when admiring a shapely pair of legs only to be startled when an ancient toothless crone’s face is attached? No? Just me then.

Perhaps there is a clue in the way our relationships need to develop. As babies, our wide-eyed innocence is designed to appeal to the parents nurturing instinct, and ensure that we are looked after to grow into adulthood. As we age, find a life partner, and produce a family, there comes a time when attracting a mate is no longer useful. Our looks decline so that we can concentrate on more cerebral tasks without distraction. Luckily, our eyesight often fails too, so we have no idea how rough we look.

I have decided that if this is the game plan, there must be a way to see the positive in it.

As Jenny Joseph said:
“When I am old, I will wear purple,
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me....
...And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.”

Hoorah! Roll on my disreputable years to come.

When there isn’t time

2008-02-06T12:21:00.000+01:00

You marshall thoughts like dominos, careful
to avoid one last tap. The page erupts in its blaring white
signal of the endless now. Knowing that

you should really set out to collect them from the school gates
or there will be tears. Put down the cup, the mouse, the pen
and drag on the non-slip boots, all too mundane for poetry

but woven into your day since the redundancy tossed
you back into the maelstrom of your four-square life.
It bites, that ankle-nip you tense for but can’t avoid.

How can there not be time, as if poems grow
like nine-month conceptions, after the futon excitement,
after the furore becomes the roar of daily traffic. Bald

bellies over combats disturb you in the plaza
the careless presence of a child only a skin’s wall away
from harm. There is no time, this time, to tell them.

Conjunctions over coffee, but I am removed from the room
floating with the smoke skeins, mere inches above
each separate insistent forehead. The world turns

on a pin; a dream of longing packed into a sci-fi movie
in that square inch in my periphery, above the coffee-cup rattle
and her face where time has passed while no-one noticed.

To make a difference. To be remembered. To be eternal
in the blush of youth, an echoing chain gang of family passes
through generations in the shape of a tea-stained birthmark.

The baby hiccoughs. She leans its head on her arm
like there is all the time in the world to worry about him,
but not now, when her own pulse races, and skips.

I take their bags. Coats. There will be time to write
after they have learned trigonometry, epidermal layers,
and the intricacies of conveying their hearts desires

to me, as though I could fulfill them. If only. The cats
yawn, removing themselves from their feline Ouroboros
to make space at the PC. I must read more Vonnegut.

Screwed Up

2008-01-24T16:55:00.001+01:00

There is plenty wrong with the world. We don’t seem to be making inroads in fixing many of the problems, but we are fantastic at creating more.

I love films, stories, depiction of lives around the globe different to our own – ‘shapes of otherness’. But I am feeling despondent at how many of the brightest Hollywood actors die in their twenties. Drugs, pills, alcohol, guns, knives, cars. Heath Ledger, Brad Renfro, Kurt Cobain, River Phoenix, James Dean. Young white males taking on the psychosis of our age.

I worked with ‘at risk’ teens in London for a while. The same issues are there, just a bit less money to go around. Disconnected families, alcoholic parents, unemployed, glue-sniffing, self-harming kids. They can all watch TV and see this brighter world out there, where people have cars and homes and holidays, and they don’t get why they can’t have it. Don’t they deserve it? If they were prettier, thinner, cleverer, sneakier, maybe they could get out of the ghetto-ised suburbs, leapfrog their way to the States, or get a record deal, or a rich boyfriend.

And if they got there? To this dreamland of riches and fun and fame? How screwed up could they get there?

There’s no fun in studying every night, getting exams, going to uni’ while working in bars, studying more, applying for jobs, putting up with cheap clothes, a car loan, a student loan, a mortgage, studying more, getting a promotion, working late, putting work before family, squashing dreams, being practical. Is there?

I think I should set up a rehab unit in Spain, on our remote plot of land that’s truly miles from anywhere. A place to learn physical work, study the stars at night, read in the shade of the carob tree, forget TV and DVD and PSP. Actually it wouldn’t even be rehab – I don’t want to tell other people how to kick their habit or sort out their relationships. But when I was a teen and stuck inside my own head I had different options...

I spent a week at my nan’s once. Left London, got on a train with my cat in a travelbasket, turned up on her doorstep and was welcomed. She didn’t ask why. She said ‘Do you want fish and chips tonight? Would you be a love and walk down the hill to get it for us? Take the dog with you.’

I slept on a horrible Z-bed, in a room with paisley wallpaper and flowered curtains. I walked around the hills and didn’t meet another soul. I listened to my Walkman under a big oak tree. I wrote some stuff – all angst-ridden nonsense, but it removed it from my train of thought and cleared my head. After a while I went back to my bedsit in London, and cleaned the kitchen. Even though it wasn’t my turn.

Got a minute?

2007-12-20T19:46:00.000+01:00

After

There are moments
pinned to you as latent engrams
when life coagulates in one drop of blood
water sweat semen tears ink

her
hand wore a raven ring
the room intense with cold
when she took the whole pack of morphine pills the 400mg calculated by
current weight of 7 stone (but does that include the lumps)
and the tiniest globulous sip of water
3 days before
my first birthday without her

sweat
trickles down my freckled breasts it drops on the tiles I’ve mopped badly
so that the grime line is visible under the steel refrigerator doors
where I retrieve the bowl of Nectarines Aux Armagnac for the portly businessman
with the lechy colleague who asked me if I was aware of my own destiny
sniggering at the waitressy reply I give
since it would belittle me to talk philosophy
with a man who spat in his hors d’oeuvres so his partner would not try them

I touched
her shoulder and wondered if we would hug today
since her husband declared he no longer loved her or their two year old son
but preferred Natalia who had long straight hair and looked like
the photos of our mother in her sixties mini-skirt and kohl
who made jewellery for women to wear whilst sleeping with their husbands
while she was slumped into rolls of fat breasts and belly and my hand didn’t span her upper arm which used to look like Kate Moss’s
protruding from her ‘pulling dress’ with spaghetti straps from Jakarta
and the only tears she shed were for
boys who looked like girls
or her mutilated grey Siamese

dropping the pizza
off the edge of the perfect white plate
to stare at the amniotic fluid pooling under my table on the laminate flooring you laid by hand on your cracked knee for three days with Brad
while you looked for the watch timer you forgot you were wearing
and I stared at the black interior of a holdall containing the doll sized nappies
I doubted I could fasten around the waist of a doll let alone a red faced squalling thing with heart and lungs and pearlescent fingernails
that you would hold in your arms two hours later
while I investigated the hospital shower stall
and watched paint red blood
cascade down my inner thighs
to swill with water down the Art Deco floor grill

drops
from a sable brush
with a thick handle shaped like a carved chair leg
to make sweeping calligraphy flow inkily across the stretched cotton frame
of the T-shirt that Caisa hung in her flat in Göteborg that she sent the photo of
her wearing when we saw Ulrika outside the museum on Götaplatsen
and I stood in the window next to some Europeans and thought will I always feel English unable to see the future where my children speak Valenciano
and I read the digital European news emailed to me because
I need to find out if they’ve printed the article about our battle to save the Carrascal Mountain from urban developers
or if my poem’s in print
on that forum

on a tree stump
near the London to Cambridge railway line
in the shade cast behind the corona glare of a station lamppost
his penis constricted by the black mesh of my fishnets I refused
to remove, his penetrating finger adorned me with the scarlet blush
of my first orgasm
caused as much by the sight of his purple prick dripping
as by the hoot of the train
and the backdraft whoosh
and the stars coming into view
after.

The best game in the world?

2007-11-19T08:00:00.000+01:00

Reading the Inner Minx’s blog-site the other day (innerminx.blogspot.com) I discovered this wonderful game. Put your name and the word ‘needs’ into Google and find out the secrets of life. For instance, I discovered that:

Penny needs to switch meds. (Really?)
Penny needs a Bra – Bad. (How do they know these things?)
Penny needs your help to be able to continue on her antibiotics and to get her serum (Bit of a theme here...)
Penny needs a home as she was found on the side of the road completely feral (I do apologise and I’ll never drink Strawberry Daiquiris again.)
Penny needs to be supervised (Ask my boss)
Penny needs to stick with Spanish films, because that's what she does best (Ok I’ll try)
Penny needs surgery as the screws holding her wrist together have worked loose. (Blimey, better quit this typing then.)

Go give it a try. Blog-sites are addictive for the wonderful insight they give into other people’s lives. It’s the ultimate voyeurism. My favourites right now are theshamelesslionswritingcircle.blogspot.com - reallybadmovies.blogspot.com- athomedaddy.blogspot.com - singularcake.blogspot.com and wherelizardsrun.blogspot.com- although www.thebloggingtimes.com and www.blogher.org are also fun. Course, I slipped my blog in there. Us bloggers are shameless.

Monthlies

2007-11-08T15:39:00.000+01:00

So it seems I am only capable of writing a blogpoint once a month now. Following a predictable trend, I wrote regularly for about three months, then in bursts, and now I'm lucky if a sanguine moment occurs each month. But then my full-time work overspills into my weekends now, and the three girls are spiralling off into the ether with their plans and crazes, and I get dragged in their tailspin from time to time, plus Joe, plus the needs of the house....

Let alone the fact that when you write for a living, finding something unique to say that you haven't already put in print elsewhere, occurs only at unreliable erratic moments, like 3am, when the laptop is sleeping three floors away downstairs in the dark.

Hmm. How will I ever finish the three/four novels, one filmscript, one play? In fact, do I even want to finish them? Isn't their ongoing process the best bit about writing?

I can see why some writers only make it posthumously.

What Next?

2007-10-01T22:08:00.000+02:00

So they've invented see-through frogs. I must be having a menopausal limber up because the idea of a 'team of scientists' (bastards! It's always them, isn't it) deciding jointly to invent frogs with transparent skin, makes my skin crawl. Presumably these frogs will be highly susceptible to changes in heat and light which may damage their exposed internal organs. Well, I presume that's why we're not all see-through, isn't it?
And why clear frogs? Because they will not have to be dissected to be useful in experiments. Scientists can simply watch their organs, to see whether the disease they have been given is shrivelling them, or causing heart failure, or respiratory problems.
How handy – now they can avoid problems from those noisy anti-vivisection protestors. Never mind that the frogs may be suffering from life with see-through skin.

This triggers a memory of reading on the internet about the outrageous Eduardo Kac. Kac (pronounced Katz) is a Brazilian-American artist who persuaded a French laboratory to create a rabbit crossed with jellyfish genes that glows green in the dark. ‘Alba Bunny GPS’ then became an art exhibit. He wanted to get her out of the lab afterwards, but the mad scientists refused. Perhaps he wanted her in his hallway to save on lamps.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m all in favour of avant-garde artists. And I LURVE crazy ole scientists (when they are doing something useful for the rest of the human race) but what is going on here?? After five minutes on Kac’s website, my brain hurt from trying to comprehend his ‘Plant that grows solely on light emitted by a computer triggered by art-lover’s and the unfathomable ‘bee doing a bee dance’ idea. His ideas are fantastic. And I suppose only by putting them into practise can he claim them as ART. But I felt the need to scream “Was the frog thing your idea too?”

So what is the logical conclusion of all this tampering? I feel my next sci-fi novel coming on. ... “I would like to thank my mother, Eduardo Kac and the godlike Margaret Atwood when I accept this Oscar for the screenplay of Green Rabbits and Clear Frogs: The Movie.”

Seriously, can anyone surmise where the world is going with this ‘livestock-could-eat -livestock Mad Cow theme? Will genetically tampered vermin roam the sewers of Madrid, happily glowing in the sludge? Will it be see-through babies next, to make it easier to spot when they swallow a pentop?

Sci-fi Wi-Fi and Utopia

2007-07-09T19:05:00.000+02:00

Margaret Atwood once said: “More than one commentator has mentioned that science fiction as a form is where theological narrative went after Paradise Lost, and this is undoubtedly true..... Understanding the imagination is no longer a pastime, but a necessity; because increasingly, if we can imagine it, we'll be able to do it”

And this is why I want to defend videogames. Science fiction films are now huge at the box office as entertainment, but videogames are demonised as triggers for serial killers, when they could instead play a vital role.

Our world is embracing technology faster than you can say Wi-Fi. Statistics (those old chestnuts) suggest that by 2049 a 1,000 dollar computer will exceed the thinking capacity of the human race. The amount of new technological information is currently doubling every two years and will double every two hours by 2010. And that’s not far away.

Videogames are programmed simulations of life. Some even come close to affecting real life on a large scale – look at Second Life, and its list of pioneering firsts, like the recently announced link-up with Google Earth, or it’s first real-world millionaire as a result of her virtual-world business. This is the training ground where we will plan our future, and that future is racing fast towards us. We are talking research and development for the human race.

Writers, game designers and the entertainment industry already accept that all of their artforms are valid, crucial development even, but so far the mass media has lagged behind. Get with the program! Bizarrely, the United States may have a real part to play in saving the human race. Nintendo spent more money on R&D last year than the federal government spent on education. Perhaps we have to look at education in a different sense. I am not advocating that we let children become numbed with handheld game machines. But I am arguing that science-fiction has become science fact, and unless this generation of parents learns to welcome technology then we will be left in the hands of our children, who can already make global decisions at the flick of a mouse. Banking, policing and healthcare are joining hands globally through the internet. Travel is moving into the galactic sphere, since we can already traverse the globe in less than a day. These changes are just the forerunners of what will come, quicker than the final Harry Potter film. Unless we understand that we can explore our future choices now, using entertainment media like movies, novels or online gaming, we risk leaving the shape of things to come to a handful of media moguls, with the financial savvy to see the future before we do.

We can discuss and disseminate the conclusions that we draw instantly, democratically and globally through the blog world. So let’s get our best and brightest brains on the case, so that what we’re racing towards is the human race finally realising its potential.

The long way home...

2007-05-26T10:04:00.000+02:00

The strangest things occur to you when blog-hopping.

I love checking out other parents blogs, for sadistic reasons - I hope they struggle from time to time as I do. This means I'm not a freak of nature in my parent troubles.

And I spot recurring phenomena. For instance, the first six months to a year as a new parent are full of 'firsts'. Every stage documented - solid food, tottering steps, saying mama - or referred to obliquely by the media-savvy bloggers who know how intrusive blogs can be. But then there is invariably a hiatus. Around one year, many parents hit a kind of mental barrier. I think your own life begins to come back, choices about work and childcare loom, the novelty wears off, or baby two could be on the horizon. Whatever the reason, parent bloggers often go quiet as stresses take their toll. Then, when the problem has been surmounted, back the blog entries come in a flurry of excitement.

I am interested in the patterns. Some of us blog like crazy to deal with issues as they arise. Others take a period of solitude to process thoughts before committing them to blogdom. Which are you? A blog-first, think later? Or a concrete blogger - I know what I'm saying, man!

And I bet some of this is gender based. There's probably a course on the psychology of blogging at a university near you right now. But here in the boondocks (can a village in the mountains be in the boondocks?) I don't have a course tutor, and I'm just winging it. Hey, you out there! Tell me what you think.

Meanwhile, the kids have found Clan TVE cartoons and are filling their heads with multi-coloured pixillated images that seem to send them haywire later. Gotta close down and go do parenty things with poster paints, breadsticks and baby wipes.

The Mother Mystery

2007-04-10T18:16:00.000+02:00

It struck me today, that I've been complicit in a deceit.

The continuing deceit, in fact, of generations of girls by their mothers.

If I paint you a picture, it may seem familiar. My mum worked in the home - made dinners, cleaned the house, organised everyone, - and, at times, took on variously paid work out of the home. She didn't complain. (That was the arena for the next generation of feminists.) My mum's feminism never sat still - it involved supporting kids, husband and home in a never-ending whirl of activity. She listened to my father, endured our constant queries, gave late-night telephone support to countless female friends as they divorced, dated, and divorced again. She found time to join in the divorce boom herself, and subsequently listened as my sister and I contemplated lives that would avoid marriages and mortgages.

Now, I work silently in the home, bringing up my three kids, coaxing my partner through the daily tribulations of his own business, and putting in the maximum hours in my paid job that childminders and Easter playschemes will allow.

Am I telling my girls the secret truths of what I've learned? Do I dash their hopes by telling them they will work harder for less money than their male counterparts? Do I tell them now that they will breastfeed through the night while their partner sleeps soundly? Do I counsel celibacy or life on a Kibbutz? Do I remind them that Spanish law was changed recently to give equal responsibility for housework to both partners, the failure of which can be cited in divorce proceedings, even though in our house it's just females who hoover and polish?

Or do I rant in the blogosphere... and keep my girls in blissful ignorance for a while longer.

Perhaps some mothers of boys out there are busy instilling new values in their offspring, that will bring about a true revolution... I can't see how they could do this? Maybe by paying childcarers as much as minders? By citing empathy and love for your children as really manly traits?

My mum also used to say 'Be careful what you wish for - for you will get it.' Hmmmm.

Maserof

2007-03-28T18:09:00.000+02:00

In the beginning

A deceptive Eden

Carob-green and aromatic with thyme

Uninhabited, except by fist-sized arachnids

And a lone dog

In summer verdancy

Each sun-split stone springs a bloom

Desert-rare and startling

Hot violet, gentian-blue, spike yellow

Like flesh in a convent

The cooling season

Still surprises with pregnant heat

And the breath of the Maserof

Tip-tilts up the valleys runway to the blue ache

Of sky

Standing at full height on a ridge

Child’s hand in mine

I can hear voices rise from the gorge

Ethereal, like a dream spoken aloud

The sounds dissipate.

Sept 2004

Tattoo You.

2007-03-17T11:15:00.000+01:00

She was as tall as the men stood at the bar. One bared shoulder displayed a greeny-blue tattoo; on the other, hung her empty rucksack. As Irish hodcarriers vied for position with Italian plumbers, Carrie commanded the bartender’s attention with a simple flip of her head.

“Guinness,” she stated, placing coins to the left of the copper line marked ‘Solo Camereros’.

She drank the pint in slow gulps, savouring the malty weight. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she hooked up her leather jacket from the floor and swung herself into it, dispelling a cloud of sawdust into Quinn’s pint. He harrumphed, but drank it anyway.

As she turned to the door for another shot at the motorway, Big Paul stopped her.

“Let’s see that tattoo.”

She studied him for a moment, chewing her lip, and then slid one arm from her jacket. A crowd gathered, craning necks.

The tattoo was a remarkable design – a bubble reflecting two worlds. One, the interior world, was a desert island with palm tree and exotic blooms. The other, was a reflection on the exterior of the bubble, revealing a bar-room and a figure in silhouette at a window.

“Hey, that’s some pretty shit!” Big Paul declared, and heads nodded approval. “Where d’you get that? Looks Polynesian.”

Guffaws broke out among a table of heavyset men. Big Paul silenced them with a wave.

“It’s Marquesan, ain’t it?” He squared his shoulders, anticipating her reply.

“Too right. You been to Tahiti or the islands?”

“Nah. Me mate did a tattoo convention though.” He glared at the hangers-on until men peeled away to tables, stools and the pool table.

“Is it Enata?” he asked, in a lowered voice, his eyes furtively finding hers.

“It’s unique. Enata AND Etua. Look, can I get a lift outta here? There’s trouble following me down the road and I need to outrun it. But if you’re chickenshit…”

She left the words in the air, where they spiralled in clear sight.

“I got a rig out back.”

He grabbed a checked shirt from a chair back, and they exited, squaring their shoulders in unison.

Opening paragraph of The Answer, 2007.

Personal Responsibility

2007-03-04T21:33:00.000+01:00

There I was blathering on to a friend about taking personal responsibility for all the bothersome things we’ve done to the planet when I read about the Contract With America. This was a document released by the Republican Party of the United States during the 1994 Congressional election campaign – including a section called The Personal Responsibility Act

An act to cut spending for welfare programs by means of discouraging illegitimacy and teen pregnancy. This would be achieved by prohibiting welfare to mothers under 18 years of age, denying increased support for additional children while on welfare, and enacting a ‘two-years-and-out’ provision with work requirements to promote individual responsibility.

Calling this Personal Responsibility is like saying a gun promotes peace. Yes, but at what cost? And now – if anyone reads my blog, which is debatable in the first place – people may assume that my tagline means I’m all for this sort of knee-jerk, right-wing malarkey.

This is how we erode our innate sense of right and wrong, our will to community and humanity. The Nanny State tells us what we should do, instead of empowering us to make the right decisions ourselves.

When a child learns to take personal responsibility it is usually as a result of learning by making a mistake. So to punish those who make a mistake ensures they will not learn from it, but instead will feel aggrieved at those who punish him/her. Anyone with a grievance is dangerous to society as it turns their will to help and co-operate into an overwhelming sense of self-preservation ie it makes conservatives out of socialists! Self-fulfilling prophecy, anyone?

So now I’m right pissed off with the state of things, since where America leads, so much of the English speaking world seems to follow. But I want to take a stand – and I’m sure many free-thinking Americans want the same. So although the Contract With America may have had limited affect, possibly increasing the majority of Republicans in the Senate in 1994, I am determined to re-claim the concept of Personal Responsibility, and turn it into a meaningful statement 2007 style.

Singular Cake – take one slice, you greedy fascists! Stop killing in the name of state or country or Capitalist dogma, and learn to control your goddamn rage….er, like me.

How the world goes round

2007-01-27T14:14:00.000+01:00

I get up in the morning with a plan to sail smoothly through the day.

I will NOT shout at the children.
I will NOT get wound up about the state of the house.
I will NOT get sidetracked by pointless tasks and MSN conversations and then rush through lunch and dinner desperately playing catch-up.

By 1.30 lunchtime it has all gone pear-shaped. I will feel guilty from now until the kids are asleep tonight, possibly around 10.30pm. Then, I will find a few minutes of tranquillity, clutch hold of the wraith that is my inner ME, and sternly tell myself to do better tomorrow. Suitably chastened, I will shed the guilt and relax. During this moment, I will somehow convince myself that I am an okay parent, that I do give my job the attention it deserves, that my partner is happy to be with me, and that life is just peachy.

I seem to have a fruit metaphor obsession.

I also seem to live my life in circular patterns of behaviour (from Pear to Peach and Back again). This feels unsatisfying, but somehow normal.

What about you?

Sniff it and see

2007-01-07T21:56:00.000+01:00

…softening approach to dissonance

I’ll brush my teeth in case I need to kiss you goodbye

prepare my parting words.

to be inscribed via Kafka’s device upon your chest

change my T for a plunging V

brush my hair for windsweeping effect

and trail perfume on my wrist -

you looked as if you’d let the sun

touch your skin

its pigment veered traitorously towards a summer

I couldn’t envisage

my eyes declined the heat

and my skin itched to be somewhere else

under a freeze frame of you

your hand in the small of my back

proprietarily.

Instead the goodbye evaporated

from the skin of my intent

as skeins above the rim of a coffee cup

are pulled into the air. You recede from view

out of my history

like a time traveller husband

returning to your wife in your real but parallel universe.

Taken from a selection of poetry submitted to Libros International in 2006

Christmas Breakdown...

2006-12-20T12:22:00.000+01:00

Its that time of year when you end up curled in front of the dangerously tinsel-bedecked fire with three children with hacking coughs and streaming noses, in an approximation of a festive family Christmas.

For this reason, Singular Cake will be closing down for a week or two - re-opening in the new Year with thoughtful and profound insight, gained no doubt over the chocolate and brandies along with a few extra inches of waistline. Hey! You're lucky to be having a Christmas, ain'tcha - considering the state of half the planet.

Til then ...Happy Holidays, whether you're in a tent in Tibet or a commune in Catford...think on.

Why Lust is Good...

2006-12-06T14:33:00.000+01:00

I've finally sussed it! Why we need lust as well as love in our lives... Its like this.
The Pattern of Lust
We discover Lust at puberty when we first fall for someone. It's all about being selfish and gratifying our desires. WHICH IS GOOD and essential to our development ! Teenagers have to learn what they want in order to work out how to get it. And normally that means something different from their parents so they can define themselves as distinct. All those sex-crazed teens watching Buffy or Smallville - they are doing their homework on Lust. THIS IS GOOD. Without this experience we do not know how to fulfill our bodies desires.
The Myth of Love
But we've been sold this myth that love and lust are the same. OH NO - THATS WHY WE GO WRONG! All those films showing the heroes IN LURVE suggest that the two forms of love are always found together. Not so...a time and a place for Love and/or Lust.
Real Love or Lust?
Once we've got a handle on teenage lust, and tried sex, we might grow into mature beings who can offer one another Real Love ie platonic selfless undemanding love. But what often happens is we have a series of lust based relationships (dump our friends and family and go sow our wild oats) and then meet THE ONE. We wanna hang on to him or her. We think this means we've found real love but at first it can only be Real Lust... We rarely feel the sort of love that demands nothing in return at this stage.
The Object of Lust
Sometimes all that lust creates a baby, and an important shift occurs. We have to care for this creature and create a good environment for it to grow. Here's our first glimpse of REAL LOVE when we put our wants on hold for the sake of this babe. Lucky parents discover they can be selfless and giving when they look into baby's trusting eyes... Not-so-lucky ones find that lust goes out the window and one of the couple strays looking for it. Not that surprising really, when Society tells us that Sex is Dirty and Nice Women don't want It. Sometimes the new mum becomes swallowed up in all that baby stuff and only offers her partner the same kind of platonic love.
Lost Lust
So the object of Lust is really motivating our species to procreate or satiate our urges - in the sense that we are driven by 'animal passion'. But Lust wanes temporarily as we concentrate on providing for a child. Through loving a child we find that Love can be as fulfilling and wonderful as Lust (but without the distraction of passion.) PROBLEM... As the man is often not as involved in child-rearing he may not feel this overwhelming love for his child at first. So he may revert to Lust to fulfill his needs. If his partner does not offer Lust - he may go elsewhere.
The Object of Love
But if both partners stick it out, Lust does rear its head once more - either to create Baby Two, or to fulfill the personal needs of the parents. And now we have the opportunity to put what we have learned about Love and Lust together. Bingo. Those weird couples who still fancy each other after all these years... now thats IT. Accepting someone with their human imperfections and still wanting to jump their bones...

So the key to it is remembering when we need Love and when it is really Lust we're after. We need both. If we cannot find Lust in our lives, we often stray into different experiences without realising that we're looking for replacement Lust. But pure Love and sincere Lust can and should go hand in hand.

First we only receive Love, then discover Lust, then discover Love and Lust combined, and only when our needs are satisfied do we have the capacity to give Love. Without the revitalizing power of Lust in our lives, we rarely have the awareness and self-control to give selfless Love. So don't relegate those feelings of Lust as unhelpful. Get horny, get satisfied and you'll be more likely to give real love in return.

Go GIRRRRLS !

2006-11-28T12:27:00.000+01:00

I'm glad to say that the Anti-choice Bill was overwhelmingly defeated in the Commons this October.

Conservative MP Nadine Dorries' Bill to reduce the abortion time limit was defeated with 108 votes for and 187 votes against.

Christine McCafferty MP who spoke against the Bill correctly pointed out that it was ill thought out, cruel to women and not based on science.

She exposed the Bill as being part of an anti-choice campaign driven by extreme religious views from the US that were being imported to Britain.

See! When we stick together how strong and successful we are !

Urgent Information for All Women

2006-10-27T14:44:00.000+02:00

Nadine Dorries MP begins a campaign to restrict abortion for women in the Chamber of the UK Houses of Parliament on Tuesday 31st October.

If the right to an abortion is decreased or removed from women in the UK, (as it is elsewhere across the globe), how will that be a step forward?

What misogynist hatred is this? You would condemn a woman to 9 months carrying an unwanted child, to which she must give birth? She will then be forced to raise the child, be expected to care for it, provide for it and educate it, until he/she can fend for him/herself? All the while the mother will be aware that she did not want this child, and that a 'civilized society' forced her to spend her life this way. We do not give life prison sentences to some rapists, but instead would force the 'victim' of rape to endure a life caring for any resulting child?

And the children? Babies born to unwilling mothers are put at greater risk of physical and mental distress. When a child keeps you awake screaming for nights on end with toothache, and you did not want that child, what likely outcome is there? Is this what 'society' wants?

The reason behind this thinking is that life is somehow sanctified. A foetus has miraculously been created (by some Higher Power) and who are we to deny it life? What just God would allow this poisonous logic? When we deliberately breed cattle for the table, do God-fearing Christians take up arms against our intention to create life? If a woman takes medication for a life-threatening condition and suffers an early-term miscarriage, is she to become a murderer? Women do not schedule abortions thoughtlessly. They are a necessary medical procedure made to protect womens' health, mental well-being and genetic vulnerability.

Life is what we make it. Every day, many spontaneous and planned actions result in the conception of a child or children. Many of these will naturally miscarry undetected. Others may be lost during pregnancy. Others may grow full-term and be born. There is no mysticism in this. We have an over-populated planet, and many common dangers affect the balance of human beings on this planet. But I, for one, have no desire to make mothers out of unwilling women for the sake of religious or theological argument.

Please contact your MP and give him/her short shrift if you agree.

I'll get off my soapbox now and return to inane blogging shortly.
Penny Clark Lapenna, mother of 3 daughters and 2 miscarried foetuses, who fervently believes in a woman's right to a safe abortion.

Things that I am afraid of

2006-10-14T21:16:00.000+02:00

Is our fear of the Dark really a fear of that unknown disease lurking within, the unforeseen malevolent attacker, the unguessable moment of our own death?

What wakes you in the night in a cold sweat? Are adult fears just extensions of those childhood worries – is that a vampire, a witch, a lecherous neighbour? Does that translate into - will I amount to anything? Will I be found deficient in social graces and die alone? Will I achieve a significant something? Will I ever escape the daily threat of poverty?

Studying our human fears displays the underbelly of society, which most of us prefer remains hidden. And yet within the nugget of what torments us most is a core that hints at our best qualities – kindness to overcome fears, gentility in the face of man’s inhumanity, optimism that our best will be good enough if we believe it to be so.

Just a thought. Aren't we all supposed to face our own fears?

From womb to room

2006-10-10T21:43:00.000+02:00

After they exit the parasitical inhabitance of your body, they take up residence upstairs. At night you think about them, in a way that is not possible when they are awake; demanding, provoking, embellishing your own existence with extraneous de-railing thoughts and feelings.

They are.... CHILDREN.

Progeny you have spawned, often started from a moments inattention to detail, like that pill, that condom, that retraction you meant to make... Now expanding the global domination of the planet by raucous humanity, they define your every waking moment differently - no longer a solo adventurer tip-toeing a fragile way. Instead, your family spread around you like wanton proof of illicit urges you didn't curb. This seething mass of growing flesh mutates its six arms, three heads, three mouths into three angelic expressions of delight unconfined. Who would not wish to share in the anarchy of irrepressible glee that is a pillowfight fuelled by late night rations of jammy toast?

Beware. Thats how they get you.

Legoland
The freshly beaten ragrug shucks up from her mini trainers.

Light from the tall window
illuminates sides of yellow bricks, red squares, green cubes
on the cobbled base board.
She places toys that don’t fit
- a horse, lopsided Tigger, a lions head with open jaws
his plastic orange chin resting on the purely rational board -
using her three years of experience.

The outsize bricks would hurt my hand.
It’s insistence on exact longitudes and latitudes would irk.
But in my garden
I would revel in unmatched colours
and sprouting tessellations of Gaudiesque proportions
that bloom forever unwatered.

I peer through her shielded eyes
- from optic nerve along neural pathways to the brain where I must be refused entry -
with my eyes, some thirty nine summers older
my hands craggy beside her vitality of thigh, her buoyancy of cheek
her darkly penetrating gaze under fringe.

Cats can’t do lego, as she removes the tower from a pit of fur,
but I can.

July 2006 with Tabitha

...Are we Human Starfish?

2006-10-06T20:54:00.000+02:00

Starfish

The bed, a profundity, probed by toes

Immeasurable in grades of softness

Since toe tips lack subtlety

Of form; texture.

I lie indistinct as the lurk of Ophelia’s father

In wait - a lady in waiting

Spread-eagled for my Othello

Tell Iago I lie in the arms of Morpheus

If it should hasten him to my bed

Where, displayed

By retreating surf, the duvet

Uncovers my five-pronged

Opulence.

...Dr Seuss meets Margaret Atwood

2006-09-25T18:12:00.000+02:00

I have now submitted books to two publishers via online submissions. That's www.transita.co.uk and www.librosinternational.com - the former publishes great new fiction by women, the latter is a new venture based here in Spain.

It's been a strange journey, even to get this far... from my first disastrous effort at a novel (called Subliminals - Sex and Death !! I may resuscussitate it one day but for now lets say it was a 'juvenile work' written at 21, freshly dropped out of university), to the current head count of 2 completed novels, 2 unfinished novels, 2 published articles in Canada, some music reviews and interviews for indie magazines in the UK, couple of articles on the web (not including my blog) one novella for 10 year olds, a box of short stories for small children, and two overflowing crates of poems. Oh, and I didn't include that poem published in Puffin Post when I was 13 and 3/4's...

It's hard to get GOOD feedback. I go to a writers group (Jalon Valley Writers, based in Alcalali) and distribute snippets of work to friends, but I kinda hoped this blog would generate feedback. Course it doesn't...yet. Not competing with the 6 million other regular bloggers in the UK. So if you're out there in Lapland trying to get your first novel published, or write regularly for a Mexican poetry 'n' porn magazine, or whatever, do drop in and say hi... its kinda lonely without you.

Coming soon...
An idea for a screenplay based on a future where America has become Hollywoodia in the south, and the Canadian Atheists in the north, and one huge bible belt encircles the globe. What happens when a god-fearing lass falls in love with an exiled atheist, who is fighting the global power of the Media...

Those Days

2006-08-23T16:42:00.001+02:00

I loved your dainty biro-covered fists

The gentle tread of DM boots, no socks

No underwear, a subtle Mohican crest

Your re-runs of PIL’s appearance on the box

I lusted for a touch of your self-styled tattooed thigh

Curled childlike round mine, your builders vice

You arrived at 4am – I refused to cry

Over vomit in my sink, no sacrifice

Too base to prove, sans words, my love for you

I would wreck trains, split lips, and even dye

My pubic hair with bleach and ‘Opal Blue’

The bath, next day, stained like a bowl of sky

I hated your fear of phones and blood-red jeep

Parked in other roads, near Sloppy Joe’s

Where Anna worked with long-legged ease and chips

At your feigned indifference, or so I suppose

Your tranquil nature like relentless Mardi Gras

In Notting Hill at opening time near Al’s

The dealer you thought I hadn’t even sussed

After toilet duets left you like bosom pals

It’s high time rose-tinted memories expire

Love isn’t spreading honey on my bruises

Nor sharing your brothers whisky or dancing in vaults

The Catacombs blacker than a disc of Siouxsie’s

Nor absconding to fuck in a deserted house on floorboards

Although after Tequila and salt the feeling was fine

But I’ve thrown out the joss sticks, black candles and Gothic accoutrements

This sonnet’s nostalgia; my anonymous shrine.

(The sonnet is not a form that is played with much anymore, requiring as it does the discipline of iambic pentameter - here loosely applied.)

Big Ole Spaceships?

2006-08-17T16:06:00.000+02:00

So the other evening instead of lazing around on the sofa, I got all inspired with a sci-fi idea. I've never written a space novel before, but I've read all the classic goodies (Clarke, Asimov, Dick, Heinlein, Lem, Le Guin etc) and the new guys like David Mitchell, Jeff Noon. I've even read Iain M Banks. And some of those trashy ones that have girls popping all out of their spacesuits at opportune moments. But really, the best ones have one simple idea that ricochets through the whole story and gives it zing...

I can't claim to have one of those. But I can envisage the trailer blurb that says "The Answer – to the Big Bang, space travel, the afterlife, and first contact..."

So what do I do with this idea? I've written a synopsis, drafted characters, researched my factual data (to do with Deep Space and new galaxies and current & future space exploration) and I'm ready. Do I start the opening chapters, go for a screenplay, or pitch the idea itself? Who do I talk to or google for?

Come on guys, gimmee some clues...

Matryoshkas

2006-07-11T22:30:00.000+02:00

‘During the Soviet era, the ‘State Planning Committee’ decided that it would be politic to make as many nesting Russian Dolls as possible, in order that each person on the Earth could get his/her own ‘matryoshka’. The factory dolls that were subsequently churned out had none of the appeal of the old hand-carved ones. Highly skilled old masters turned matryoshkas with very thin sides, which were considered to be a special artform. Painting matroykas was secondary. The professional artists who painted the first factory turned dolls did not treat them seriously enough. Without the native traditions, the matroyshka lost its charm and became an ordinary wooden toy, primitive and simple, but certain themes and patterns were still visible in their designs. The red and black Dog-Rose with many petals was the main element of the painted aprons. This flower was always considered to be a symbol of femininity, love and motherhood.’

Women are the real Russian dolls. Inside, are their children, growing and turning, their wooden faces emerging from the carving tool, their newly painted eyes blinking into awareness. Deeper within every doll is their mother, who only comes to the fore when the babies are born. That is when we realise what it is to have a mother and be a mother – the heart-churning, chest-rending ache of it, coupled with the sweetest indescribable joys. And when we first realise what our own mothers and grandmothers have achieved.

Within the Russian dolls of a family are the minute changes in appearance that dictate the changing generations – a misplaced mole or birthmark perhaps, a tendency to a long nose or a high forehead. Echoes from this genealogy create that striking sense of a family. When you walk into the room of someone else’s family gathering, there is a moment, while you are still an outsider, when you can see these clues. Laid out before you are a mass of pale-skinned, freckled, red headed folk, or the cast of The Cosby Show, or domed foreheads of every shape, size and age like Old Masters come to life. Whatever it is, you’ll see it that first time, as clearly as a brand on sheep. This is NOT your family. Your own family has blurred for you over time, until now all you see is its familiarity. Faces that might as well be your own in a mirror; you know them that well. Auntie this, Cousin that, who may be irritating as hell individually, but taken together reflect back your sense of yourself in the world. Like us Clarks.

My family is loosely from London, England. My mother’s side (Capon, Swetman, Hammon) moved out gradually, from Edmonton, North London to Hertfordshire and Essex, the Home Counties. My Dad’s family (Clark) have dispersed erratically to Bishops Stortford, Newmarket, and Clacton, and one or two to Spain, Israel, Tasmania. There is rarely a Clark family gathering anymore. The last was probably Grandad Joe’s 80^th birthday. I think I got stoned in someone’s car in a parking lot, and avoided the milling flesh in uncomfortable party clothes all dancing to bad disco in the marquee….

‘Sometimes matryoshkas portrayed the whole family, with numerous children and other staff members of households. There were matryoshkas devoted to historical themes. They described boyars (old Russia noblemen), legendary heroes, bogatirs (warriors), or Russian book characters. Those portraying older women would have their hair covered with kokoshniks; to portray young girls they painted hair ribbons. Black drake's feathers were stuck in the headdresses. The most popular dolls consisted of 3, 8 and 12 pieces, although in 1913 a 48-piece matryoshka made by N. Bulichev was displayed at the Exhibition of Toys in St. Petersburg. Some Russian dolls depict aspects of tea making. The Russian tea-making ceremony is reminiscent of the English one, i.e. tea is served in a teapot, with bread and jam, cakes and pies. It is normally served at 5pm (tea time) but also throughout the day, and especially when visiting a friends house. However, Russians might use a samovar to heat the water, instead of an English style kettle’.

And it really is a ceremony. No matter how corny, rushed or commonplace having a cup of tea has become, it’s a potent symbol of home and family. A cup of ‘tea and sympathy’ at times of stress or grief, a heartwarming mugful to dispel shock, the ritual teapot and dainty cups with saucers when an elderly relative, vicar, neighbour or potential in-laws call by. Those late night mugs of chocolate, or continental shots of coffee are all very well, but someone only has to say ‘Fancy a cuppa?’ and I feel cosseted and welcomed. I can differentiate old boyfriends and their families by different styles of tea. The dilute milky taste of Mark’s tea, the harsh tannin laced with copious sugar of Steve’s Irish family. Joe dubbed Auntie Doreen’s ‘Guinness tea’, relishing its rich copper colour and dense flavour - that ‘puts hairs on your chest.’ And now everyone drinks green tea, red tea, fruit tea, camomile tea, Earl Grey, Darjeeling, ice tea, tea with soya milk, tea with honey…

Nanny Em’s tea was the best. One bag of PG Tips per person, and one for the pot. Scalding hot water in the teapot and straight on with the woolly tea cosy, on a tray, surrounded by little plates of French Fancies, or Swiss Roll, or a slice of homemade apple pie. The cups were a mismatched combination of white porcelain fluted cups with a gold rim, and smaller, squat white cups with a pale pink tea rose pattern, all on plain white saucers. Inevitably, I spilled some tea in the saucer, trying to sit on her plump cushioned sofa. Grandad would slurp his tea noisily out of his saucer afterwards, to the delight of us kids, sat waiting for Nan to rebuke him for his manners. Whereupon he’d roll his eyes at her, and pull a goony face at us, jutting out his lower jaw to show us his one peg of a tooth. The tea itself tasted mild, warm and soft - the type of tea that rolls round inside your mouth and is fit to drink alongside Southend’s best battered rock eel and chips, or after a late tea of marmite soldiers and runny egg, or with early morning smoked kippers, bread and jam.

The world is random

2006-06-26T12:49:00.000+02:00

While walking along the road from Alcalali to Parcent this morning, I found one credit and two debit cards in the name of Miss H. Deaves, chucked in the ditch. I wouldn't normally be scouring the ditch but the cars bomb so close at times, that you have to be aware of the roadside in case you need to make a leap to safety. (One night walking home in the moonlight I got tipped in the ditch and found the stream at the bottom. Another time Joe and I were drunk and stood in the field pretending to be trees whenever potential axe-wielding murderers drove by looking for their next victims. Of course, we used to live in London, or we'd never think such things, here in sleepy rural Spain.)
Where was I ? Oh, yeah, so I found these cards and it seemed like a message. I'd been having a tough time at home - pile of bills mounting up, Joes new business is just eating cash, the girls need shoes, teeth-braces, swimsuits, school books - an endless list. I haven't bought new underwear in over a year. How grim and unattractive that sounds! I looked at these cards in my hand - one from Abbey National, one Tescos, one HSB - and they were all in date, signed on the back, pristine-looking. A womans name and signature. And for just one second I thought about what would happen if I kept them? Hid them in a drawer in case times got even harder. Would I be tempted to try and use them? Could I even hand them in for a reward? I wasn't really sure of the procedure - should I report them to the Guardia Civil? Ring the number on the back? Would the person have already cancelled them?
I imagined a lady, pleasant-looking, very English, living over here maybe, with folks back in the UK, and a retaining back account there. Perhaps she'd been robbed last night, and the thieves used her cards to pay on the motorway toll roads. Maybe she was devastated - could she have been mugged like a friend was last week? A knife held to her throat through the window of her car, while she was made to hand over her bag and contents, possibly forced to reveal her PIN number. Horrible.
By now, I'd walked home, and was snatching a quick tea before picking the girls up from their last day at school. I stood holding the cards and picked up the phone. I thought about the arguments lately, and how I'd threatened to walk out last week. I wondered why I'd found them today. Was there a reason? Is the world just random?
Of course, I phoned to report the cards stolen - the phone operative at the other end said they'd already been cancelled. Could I please cut them up, length-ways and width-ways and dispose of them? I put them in the bin, with a strange sense of purpose. Miss Deaves would never know I'd found them, and there they were among my decomposing tea-bags, the remains of Tabi's Rice Krispies, the bill envelopes.
Tomorrow I would write the first line of my next novel - maybe the one that will get published. Maybe the one that will moulder in the Playroom cupboard until Farley finds it one day, looking for scrap paper, and hand it out in sheaves to her two sisters to cover with exotic drawings of stick people and grinning suns and wobbly houses.

Reaching

2006-06-05T23:27:00.000+02:00

Just when you think - Whats the point??!! - someone steps in and says "Read your blog. Loved it. Some issues on there. Made me think."

Isn't that where we're all going with this? Isn't it like the scene in that movie Bruce Almighty where Jim Carrey gets to be God, and has to listen to everyone's prayers (via email). You can read 20 blogs in under ten minutes - and every one has a prayer or a wish or a thought process outlined in it. You can perceive lifestyle choices, faiths, politics (duh, obviously) loves, loss and heartache... and the humanity of it strikes you, whether the blog is from Aarhus or Zimbabwe.

Of course, publishers wanna publish it - in them old fashioned bindings of paper and string, because there's a world of people immune to blogging who yet wanna know about it. But it's a vast human experiment - greater than reality tv, more open to measurement than the impact of the internet, more poignant than hacking email - because these sites are the sneak peek into your hallway that voyeurs treasure, and the rest of us claim as intellectual stimulus when in truth its more about soap opera...

The globe is changing - so fast we can't measure it or keep up. Climate, war zones, extinction of key species, barriers of geography and language are dwindling, people are getting a global consciousness. There is talk of a 'critical mass' - a point at which humans could truly learn from their mistakes. Is it round the corner? Check out some more blogs, and let me know...