Meet the “author”

This morning I had the privilege of being the guest speaker at my local library. They’ve been having monthly “Meet the Author” sessions in honour of the Year of Reading.  As I’m a writer, but not yet an author, I didn’t expect anyone to come to listen to me. For a while I sat there alone, in all my glory, with books and magazines spread out in front of me. I waited…waited… The librarian kept peeking around the corner, smiling pityingly at me. (I realise there’s probably no such word as “pityingly” but quite frankly I don’t care.) It was a great relief for us both when a small group finally gathered expectantly around the table. What books? What magazines? I hear you ask. Be patient; I’ll get...

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You got shoes.

Do you remember the little adage: I complained I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet? I had one of those moments the other day. I’ve been having a little debate with myself about the medication I’m on. Dr P says his aim is to keep me healthy for as long as possible. So far, so good. But, the drugs I’m injesting make me feel chronically tired all the time, yet I have trouble sleeping. (Even more so than usual, and I’ve never been very good at it.) I often feel nauseous and occasionally the other end behaves in a loose and violent manner. I either have a raging appetite or the smell of certain foods puts me right off. (I have a very confused stomach.) My joints ache. The tendinitis is raging. I get horrible headaches. So, I ask...

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Dear Ms Christie…

When we were first married, and before the offspring arrived and used up our money, the Old Boy and I lashed out and bought the Agatha Christie collection. That’s right: all her stories gathered together in a delightful, hard-cover set. Not realising we were immediately reducing the value to “just another lot of old books”, we got rid of the dreadful plain white paper dust-jackets. The black hard covers, with gold and red trim, looked smart, sophisticated and – yes, I’ll say it – had a semi-academic je ne sais quoi air about them as they perched on our bookshelves. Dear “fluffy” Miss Marples is all lace, lavender and buttery cup-cakes until she figures out you’re the murderer and then watch out! Monsieur...

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Silver, baby!

The circle of life has spun around and, once again, we find ourselves immersed in the “limplicks”. (That is what my children used to call this event. I’m just being careful. The thing is so heavily sponsored by big corporations that in some cases just mentioning the “O” word could get a person sued.) Is it just me, or has some of the joy been sucked out of it? There are still some inspirational moments. There are plenty of athletes who are thrilled to be given the opportunity to take part and represent their country. For example, I saw brief footage of a chap gamely rowing his single skull, struggling to hold on to his oar, grimacing with pain and effort, while all the other competitors had finished long before. The spectators were...

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