Lady V

Double whammy

2011-04-15T16:49:00.004+01:00

He's out! Nicolo' Giovanni, 03.03.11

And so is this! The Proof of Love, 01.04.11

Great Expectations

2011-02-21T19:27:00.007Z

Tick tock, tick tock.

With one week to go until the forecasted arrival of the firstborn, time is moving slowly. As a distraction, we have been throwing ourselves into a frenzy of preparation, like the good little Boy Scouts that we are.

1. Cot assembled by the Man of the House: tick!

2. Suitable (and enormous) artwork affixed to nursery wall: tick!

3. Birth pool inflated, creating an ambiance that I like to think of as Californian Vacation. Mojitos in the hot tub all round: tick!

4. Hard core drugs stashed in fridge (and rapacious flatmate instructed on pain of death not to take them): tick!

5. Birthing equipment purchased and stashed next to pool: tick!

The latter including, of course, a couple of fetching black rubber sheets from an establishment in Old St, known as Expectations. On hearing that our midwife had suggested Ikea shower curtains as a preventive measure against leakages, the lovely Uncle Monty shuddered, then rallied to take matters into his own hands. A couple of days later a discreet brown paper package plopped onto the doorstep.

Apparently, if ‘You like it moist or really wet…. You can really get going with the Wetgames sex-sheets! Splash sex and massages with oils creams and all other liquids, e.g. champagne. With Wetgames you can live out your fantasies without any morries!’

When I called Monty to thank him, his attitude was, as ever, refreshingly practical.

‘My pleasure, dear Lady V. We couldn’t have you giving birth on a shower curtain. If those sheets can withstand people jizzing all over them, they can surely cope with a bit of amniotic fluid. And remember, they’re machine washable, so you can use them again.’

Er, quite, Monty, quite…

2010

2010-12-31T13:19:00.005Z

An intense kind of year, and one that I find difficult to remember, even though I wasn’t drinking for most of it.

The end of 2009, as dear Tot A has recalled, was a horrid one. This time last year I was driving through the snow to Cornwall, my belly still sore from the operation that I’d had ten days before, hoping that no-one would see me crying in the dark. Things went on in pretty much the same vein for the next 4 months, when we hauled ourselves off to the basement room at the hospital to start all over again. I can only apologise for those dark days, especially to my Tot and DJ S. I don’t think I was very easy to be around. But as he points out, we learned things from it, not least the importance of each other in our lives, and that this leap in the dark is one worth making.

May saw a return to form, with a weekend in Maremma with seven ladies, a lord and a licky little dog. Our exploits were extensive. I hadn’t laughed so much in months. Once back in London, we embarked on round two, a regime that forced me to get over my lifetime fear of needles, as I mercilessly plunged one into my belly every night. Again, as Tot says, the details will be divulged in our forthcoming joint blog (slash new memoir to be commissioned by my publishers), but it all ended up with me, legs akimbo, naked to the waist, as my faithful Tot sat by my head as a nurse brought in a tiny embryo on the end of a pipette and popped it into me.

Seven months later that little embryo is still inside - the boy that will become Nicolo’. I can’t wait to meet him.

What else? Well, the house, the house. They say that moving house, bereavement and having a child are the most stressful things in life (oh, and divorce - we managed to avoid that one). We kind of did them all this year. It’s hard to moan about the house, because it’s wonderful and I know how lucky we are to live there. But.... Broken promises, missed deadlines, builders everywhere, the smell of paint permeating every room, packing up possessions every two weeks and finding somewhere else to sleep. This was not the time to be incapable of carrying things. DJ S deserves a medal for lifting my bags and soothing my frustrations at not being to get out there and get on with it.

Like Tot says, though, it’s finally becoming home, and maybe in the New Year I can finally indulge those nesting instincts. The boy needs somewhere to sleep!

And in the meantime, I wrote a book. I don’t really know how that happened. I do know that amongst the hoo ha, and the running around between house and hospital, the library was, as ever, a haven of peace and tranquillity. The Albanian café next door fed and watered me. The internet worked. And so Spencer and Alice will be making their way into the world about a month after Nicolo’, between the covers of The Proof of Love.

All’s well that ends well, indeed…

Baby’s First Gaga

2010-12-19T14:28:00.003Z

To the O2 arena for what I insisted on referring to as a ‘pop concert’, causing DJS to look at me with mild pain and panic in her eyes. Yes, as part of my unrelenting campaign to expose the unborn child to as diverse a range of pre-birth experience as possible, we braved the snow and ice to attend Lady Gaga’s Monster Ball.

And what an experience it was!

On arrival I was overjoyed to be whisked into the VIP queue and spirited upstairs to our hospitality suite complete with bar, snacks and - most important of all in my condition - lavatories complete with Molton Brown ginger and cinnamon handwash. Blessing DJS’s rock connections I settled down happily into my seat to watch the show.

Lady G was, of course, marvellous, biting off the head of a stuffed Santa between songs and peaking in a bikini that emitted sparks from her nipples and vag. The baby badger loved it, obeying her instructions to jump to the music, flipping around inside me like a 90s raver on speed.

We took the tube home, mulling over the possibility of some pregnancy pix wrapped in police tape a la our heroine in the Telephone video. Yah.

Photographic evidence

2010-09-27T16:01:00.003+01:00

Well, summer’s over, and what a summer it was…

So frenetic that only now, fortified by a steaming cup of autumn tea, do I find the time to record it.

There was the traditional Maremman romping at Porno! the Party, a quick dash back to Blighty for The Great Move (to be re-enacted all over again in 3 weeks’ time, for reasons too tedious to explain), the obligatory Summer Wedding at Cliveden and a hop over the pond for Vermont Revisited. Whilst all this was going on I found the time to do the edits on the next book. Exhausted Marjorie!

Obviously I forgot to take any photos. Except one. I like it a lot.

Out on Monday

2010-07-02T18:08:00.003+01:00

Trip to Chinatown with Crunchie and Squiggy to be arranged forthwith to procure photos of said book in front of shops to justify their trip to China last year "to help launch Lady V's novel." Gina requires photographic evidence!

Seven ladies, a lord and a licky little dog (woof!)

2010-05-18T19:35:00.018+01:00

Ah, a Maremma meadow. How delightful. How serene.

Arriving late at night, as tradition dictates, we congratulated ourselves on far-sighted purchase of produce and the perfect lesbian fridge.

Dominata did some nifty work on some Roman tomatoes and Borough market walnut bread, coming up with some fabulous Greek-style bruschette, which we gobbled with gay abandon, washing it down with some last minute additions from a roadside stop.

In the following 48 hours we left the house precisely once, to forage for booze in nearby Scansano. Squiggy (Italian spelling at all times!) applied her not-inconsiderable tasting skills to the job in hand.

DJ S was simply overwhelmed by choice.

Back home, surrounded by swirling fog and driving rain, we applied ourselves to Making Our Own Fun. My mother would have been proud. It sort of went like this.

Prosecco swilling in profusion, combined with copious weeping at matinee viewing of A Single Man.

Constant grazing on salty snax and finger food (thus alleviating the need to sit down at table but rather, drift in and out of kitchen, drink in hand, food in other in style of glamorous-cocktail-party-slash-health-spa)

Fencing practice with various kitchen items, to burn off above-mentioned snax and release any spare aggression.

Hilarity at Misterpackit clingfilm, leading to ribald discussions on length and girth and near assault on the boi.

Prom night! A small misunderstanding led to half the party bringing slut-frox and tuxes, the others forced to rummage around in drawers for old favourites, but no matter! We all rose superbly to the occasion, aided by a small collection of Cuban cigars that we found tucked away in a box.

The main fun was, as ever, getting ready.

We groomed and picked and combed at each other like the good little primates that we are.

Although I did wonder who that young filly was in the jailbait outfit.

She seemed to get on rather well with Lord Leng.

FKJ put up a damn good fight as resident House Daddy, styled by yours truly in the style of Helmut Newton.

Although I’m still not sure what she did with that cigar.

Whilst Sherlock Squiggy (copyright Sicily) played it cool on the terrace,

And DJ S and Lady V played nicely in the kitchen,

There was a Sicilian stand-off on who got to use the potty.

Ah, making one's own fun. How wholesome. Cannot WAIT to do it all again at Porno!

Thanks to Leng for the snaps. Obviously I never got round taking any of my own....

Round Two - Ding Dong!

2010-04-29T20:14:00.005+01:00

Well, here we are again.

This time Tot A and I are bringing out the big guns. We mean business.

Not only shall I be injected nightly with the urine of post-menopausal women - now we're making the cocktail a little more interesting by adding a hormone produced by genetically engineered Chinese hamster ovary cells. That's right, hamsters.

I don't know why they have to be Chinese. It seems somewhat overly specific. But hey ho, what do I know? I am simply a vessel.

Chanting as we speak...

A triumph of our times

2010-03-22T20:47:00.008Z

Some of you may remember stories from about a year and a half ago, when I dutifully accompanied Tot A to his posting on The Continent to set up something that none of us really understood very well - Ze Hub.

Imagine my pride, therefore, when I nipped over to Milan this weekend (successfully evading BA strike action - I am a travel scab) for the opening of said venture.

We arrived to a throng of Milanese notables, nibbling on light snacks and quaffing prosecco. Pleased at our decision to dress only in black, we joined right in, quaffing with the best of them and making like models.

Sort of. Inner poise at all times, that's us.

Leaving our hero surrounded by an adoring throng, we nipped out for sustenance at a nearby pizzeria, marvelling as we left at the queue that snaked around the corner. Desperate social entrepreneurs begged for entry, dropping Tot A's name like tabs of acid at an illegal rave.

We missed the swing band but made our way back in time for a bit of jigging about to the DJ. By this time most of the Milanese were outside smoking furiously. We left at 2am, the party was still rocking, and a certain third sector networker from Bologna was licking his lips at the sight of a buff young Swiss man dipping a cucumber into a tub of cream cheese.

Next morning we left A to his hangover and tidying, and trotted up to the top of the cathedral in the sunshine.

The rest of the weekend was spent eating raw fish with Sicilians (am still not convinced it's right for a pregnant woman to eat raw prawns), a day trip to Genoa and its splendid aquarium and even more splendid pesto, more munching in a restaurant that delighted me by playing Edith Piaf, and moving A's sofa bed up from the vaults to the much brighter glass mezzanine level so he can imagine himself as living in a New York style loft apartment rather than as Quasimodo.

Terribly proud of my tot. I think the post-it says it all.

Country pursuits

2010-03-14T20:05:00.007Z

The purchase of new swimwear is an activity guaranteed to strike fear into my heart. And into those of my nearest and dearest, forced to witness tears, tantrums and on occasion, full-blown and prolonged depression.

This year, however, we are spared. Yes, DJ S bypassed the whole traumatic process by presenting me with a marvellous black costume, which not I not only liked the look of but which actually FITTED.

She is in charge of my leisurewear from now on.

Suitably equipped, we skipped off to Hartwell Hall, a delightful country house hotel somewhere in the Home Counties, to sample their spa facilities.

Imagine our rapture on being told we'd been upgraded. To a room with a four-poster bed.

Which was of course perfect for....

Porking down smoked salmon sandwiches and slurping Sauvignon Blanc, swathed in robes at all times.

We lounged by the pool reading Vogue.

Piqued our appetites with a selection of delightful amuse-bouches.

Battled at after-dinner backgammon in the library.

And avoided the Mother's Day crush.

I tried to get her to dive into the lake for a Mr Darcy moment, but she wasn't having any of it.

Am seriously thinking of buying a twinset and tweeds.

Bouncy bouncy

2010-03-08T17:53:00.004Z

DJ S doing her bit to promote 'LGBT community involvement' in this year's Sport Relief.

The drag queen appears to share my feelings about going to the gym...

Spotted in Brixton train station

2010-02-25T22:05:00.004Z

The OCD side of me wants to give it a jolly good iron, natch.

The rest of me is just feeling rather pleased.

All things come to she who waits

2010-02-10T00:33:00.015Z

I do not usually give good wedding. They seem to provoke bad behaviour (topless posing on Cadillacs, sleeping with the priest, crushing feet under stiletto heels, diving topless into swimming pools, that kind of thing).

But this time I like to think I did my best for the lovely Diana, partner in crime from when we were seventeen.

She waited 20 years for this, and so I therefore:

Wore high heels and edgy folded grey silk frock. Tick!

Burst into tears when she walked into the castle drawing room (stopping short of looking like unrequited-obsessive-lesbian-best-friend) Tick!

Did reading of obscure yet accessible poem without breaking down or stuttering. Tick!

Wept lightly at rendition of I dreamed a dream by male voice choir. Tick!

Drank champagne with my mother and refrained from telling her off for wearing fur. Tick!

Piled onto a miniature railway (ONLY for you, Le Duc), into the bridal carriage, and poached Diana away from new husband with new gay best friends, singing show tunes all the way up the valley. TICK!

Arrived at station buffet for reception into mildly nervous arms of DJS in a suit and tie, the only obvious lesbian in the village.

Munched down vegetarian option dinner (macaroni cheese pie with sauce and mashed potatoes).

Talked nicely to farmers from my youth who seem to have taken up skiing in Gstaad on the strength of their EU subsidies.

Marvelled at mother's skill at sniffing out homosexual men to dance with (relentlessly).

Sympathised with father's sudden attack of hiccups.

Gave up all pretence at decorum and danced exhaustively with old school friends to man-and-guitar playing Spandau Ballet's Gold (punching air)

Followed it up with Bon Jovi's Living on a Prayer (with actions)

Attempted to get DJS to Join In Nicely.

Assaulted her in the toilets.

Danced the last dance to Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf.

Remembered why I left the Lake District.

......

Woke up to DJS calling me a drunken monkey.

Remembered nothing.

Something of the night...

2010-01-26T13:07:00.001Z

So I didn't win a Costa prize. Hey ho.

But I did get a mention in The Telegraph today from a certain Mrs Howard, one of the judges.

"My husband read one or two. He hadn't expected to enjoy a book about lesbian love in wartime (DoG, by Catherine Hall) but it hooked him at once."

What a nice man, I thought to myself.

Then I realised who her husband is. Yep, that's right. Michael Howard, former leader of the Conservative Party.

A Tory politician is my biggest fan. Who knew?

Merchandising

2009-12-10T09:59:00.005Z

Now adorning every fashionable publisher's Christmas tree...

Winter weekends

2009-12-08T19:56:00.007Z

Ah! December, deep mid-winter. This year I’ve decided to combat freezing temperatures by wrapping up warm, making soup and staying by the fire.

With a few exceptions for festive functions, naturally.

This weekend being a case in point.

On Friday night I found myself driving a small car up a big motorway to sunny Wakefield, ancestral home of DJ S, whose brother-in-law was celebrating his birthday. Arriving a mere 4 hours late, around 10.30, we blended in marvellously. I popped on a pair of heels and a frock and gave good girlfriend. The next morning we behaved nicely at the breakfast table, chatting to aunties and asking about the best place in town to purchase Christmas decorations.

Twelve hours later I was sticking up said decorations around the ticket booth of DJ S’s fabulous monthly club night in Camden, biting off sellotape with my teeth and trying to avoid being hit by the door as the thrash metal band who’d hired the venue beforehand made their exit. Who says being a rock widow isn’t glamorous?

Two hours after that I was grinning with delight at the burlesque charms of Miss Kitty Bang Bang and her fabulous Christmas medley. I’ve never seen a bottle of champagne put to better use, or in such an interesting manner, I must say!

The next day being one of rest, that is precisely what I did. After five years of shilly-shallying, I have finally got round to having my hearth reinstated. A hundred kilos of eco-coal have been delivered and kindling purchased. Which allowed me to indulge in one of my favourite winter pastimes ever – a nice bit of crumpet in front of the fire…

Two girls and a paddle

2009-11-23T21:54:00.009Z

I know I was there just a couple of weeks ago but sometimes I just can't keep away. And thus it was that DJ S and I found ourselves on a plane in order to revisit those balmy summer days when we first met on the side of a Tuscan hill.

It was not balmy. But we did have a marvellous time, in the company of some of my favourite Sicilians, one of whom added to the general mood of celebration by taking her first steps (staggering into the arms of DJ S, wise child).

And picked many a bagful of olives in record time (efficiency ever the Sicilian watchword, no?).

At which Tot A, DJ S and I extracted ourselves from the family fun to head off for the delightful little town of Massa Marittima and a boozy lunch.

We identified a new location in which to sample suckling pig (Le Duc being never far from our thoughts), climbed a phallic c[l]ocktower, and, in an little shop somewhere up a back alley, purchased a genuine antique pizza paddle, beautifully worn and wrought out of the finest Tuscan oak.

This despite the absence of any actual pizza oven in Maremma.

I was reminded of Eddie and Patsy flying from London to New York in search of the perfect door handle.

But in a very good way, oh yes.

Bliss

2009-10-27T20:55:00.004Z

Another wonderful weekend in that little Tuscan hideout, despite the best efforts of Ryanair to wreck it (they hadn't reckoned on FKJ, who, on news of cancellations, swung into action with a wrath that can only be described as Valkyrian).

There is little to report.

We sat around the table drinking wine, eating wholesome winter hotpots and having mildly salacious discussions (the length of the average woman's, er, internal bits, the mating habits of attractive youngsters, how to have gay phone sex whilst evading the Singaporean morality police, fisting for beginners...)

We transferred ourselves to the sitting room and lit the fire, sporting leisure wear.

We parked ourselves on the sofa and got out the blankets.

We sat for hours, transfixed by the antics of teenage Americans, joining in showtune hits with gusto.

We cheered at a refreshing Sunday morning Nevada lesbian romp.

We resolved to buy pyjamas for those who do not already own them.

We went home, rejuvenated and resolved to do it all again, very soon.

The End.

Gay's the Word

2009-10-01T16:54:00.005+01:00

Almost twenty years ago, on a school trip to London, my teenage self stumbled into my first gay bookshop, blushing furiously as I bought a copy of Jeanette Winterson’s Oranges are Not the Only Fruit.

Today I went in to say thanks for putting my book in their window display. The nice man behind the desk gave me a big smile and got me to sign a stack of copies.

This was a good day.

Postscript

2009-09-28T21:01:00.006+01:00

I just read the leaflet that came with my medication.

Apparently it is "obtained from the urine of post-menopausal women."

Great. My girlfriend is injecting me with old women's piss. That is too kinky, even for me.

I've got you under my skin

2009-09-27T00:30:00.004+01:00

Well it’s all very much back-to-school in September, innit? Books to write, weight to lose, and, yep, that other little project we’ve been working on for the past year or so.

So far - as most of you know - my body has been refusing to play nicely and thus it was that this week I found myself in a hospital basement learning how to inject myself in the stomach with a cocktail of drugs:

Human menopausal gonadotrophin
Follical stimulating hormone
Luteinising hormone
Lactose monohydrate
Polysorbate 20
Sodium hydroxide
Hydrochloric acid

God knows how they work but the idea is to make me pop out a decent number of eggs (thus increasing the likelihood of twins or triplets but there we go, moderation has never been my strong point).

When I say I was learning how to inject I am in fact lying. Actually, I can’t face it. So I take DJ S along. She is much braver than me, and as I point out to the nurse, good with her hands.

Lady V: My husband’s away in Italy on business so I’ve brought my friend instead. I’m scared of needles you see.
Nurse: Ah, lovely! That’s so kind. What a good friend. Will you be able to stay with her overnight, just in case there’s any side effects?
DJ S: Oh, ok then.

There follows a twenty minute demonstration of mixing vials, snapping ampoules, drawing liquids in and out of tubes, swapping needles, and the tap tap tap on the side of the little glass bottle to make sure there’s no air bubbles left inside. It’s all terribly English Patient.

I had thought the needle would be some sort of punchy thing like diabetics use, but no. It is a proper one and it ALL HAS TO GO IN.

Nurse: You have to approach at a 90 degree angle.
DJ S: Uh-huh.
Nurse: And don’t worry if you hit a vein, it’ll bleed but she won’t die.
Lady V: ?!?!
Nurse: Are you sure you want to do it in your stomach. You could do it in your thigh. Anywhere there’s a bit of, er…
Lady V (through gritted teeth): Fat?
DJ S: Snorts

Afterwards we sit in a coffee shop porking down pastries (am fat anyway, so who cares?)

Lady V: I’m guessing you didn’t bargain for this when you fancied a bit of slap and tickle on a Tuscan hillside. Soz.
DJ S: Raises an eyebrow.
Lady V: Stick with me baby, I’ll show you a good time…

Summer loving

2009-09-06T17:17:00.016+01:00

Well. Gosh. Another summer at its end. Others before me have blogged more and blogged better, however, it would be bad form not to scribble down a little souvenir of what was, as ever, a fabulous 6 weeks on The Continent.

As you know, my memory is not what is was. But from what I can recall, for posterity's sake and because everyone loves a list, are some of the highlights. I took no photos so all featured here are thanks to the paparazzi.

Week 1: Milan/Sardinia

Tot A birthday celebrations in Milan: 1 (drunken. extensive)
Shopping trip for Tot C birthday outfit: 1 (swanky. thanks boys!)
Ferry trips to and from Sardinia: 2 (seventies lounge, spades, bouncy bouncy!)
Weddings attended: 1
Pan-African dance performance viewed: 1 (wincey wincey)
Midnight trips to Cagliari airport: 1 (hairpin bends. pukerama)
Belgian ex-mercenary/tobacco baron encountered: 1 (charming host, mildly woman-phobic)
Shamefaced uncovering of 36 year old flesh on beach: 3 (gravity has not been kind to this woman)
Obligatory birthday strop including tears/mourning lost youth and firmness of thighs: 1 (shortlived, banished by lunchtime mini-bottle)
First ever snorkelling experience with A: 1 (magical)
Shamefaced pushing of car out of sand on beach: 1 (errrr)
Consumption of seafood: excessive but delish

Sweating: profuse
Weight-gain: not-as-yet-thank-god

Week 2: Maremma

Ecstatic gambolling in Tuscan retreat: extensive
Grand planning for EP party: aiming high
Discussions over finding landrover/aeropane to plant in field: over-optimistic
Action re above: nil
Switching beds to provide self with room befitting 36 year old lady dowager: yay!
Design and construction of bedouin tent: masterful
Pick up of DJ from Grosseto station: intriguing
Discussions under the stars: entrancing
Lady V seduction technique: cheesy (Quattro Formaggi)
Pretence at resistance: disregarded
Romping on hillside: enthusiastic
Walk of shame over hillside: public
EP party: EPIC!
Hours spent in bed: 36
Interruptions: plenty
Flights changed: 1 (thanks Tot F!)
Dash to Rome: 1 (reeling slightly)
Dinner with tall Americans: 1 (drunken and delicious)

Sweating: profuse but, I feel, not unattractive
Weight gain: still ok (celebrity diet of sex and booze effective)

Week 3: Cote D'Azur

Gruelling dash along Cote D'Azur in baking heat with throbbing head: 1 (13 hours)
Jolly lunch in Antibes with 3 roguish old French sailors: 1 (they paid, I entertained)
Jolly afternoon drinks toute seule in Marseille: 3 (pastis, feeling no pain)
Lies told to sensible friends as to why I was a day late: many (far-fetched)
Lies believed by sensible friends: none
Delightful children ranging from 3 months - 7 years: 5
Hours spent dancing to Jump Little Bunnies Jump Jump Jump: 675
Hours drinking rose and reminiscing over university glory days: 789
Joy at finding rogue packet of Marlboro lights on top of fridge: unparallelled
Time spent to pork down the lot between us: 15 mins
Cheese consumed: EU mountains-worth

Sweating: garlicky
Weight gain: see cheese mountain ref above
Phone calls to DJ S: 367 minutes (roaming charges apply)

Week 4: Maremma

Ecstasy at being reunited with my Tot: infinite
Guilt at having abandoned the group: vast
Lunchtime prosecco: de rigeur
Adoration of Francesca: heart-bursting
Broody moments: at all times
Adoration of PDF's physique in and out of sarong: unparalleled
Paul and Molly: fabulous
Mankini moments: 2 more than was decent
Attempt to tape Tomasina into said mankini: 1 (an intimacy never to be repeated)
World-class cuisine: every meal (cannot claim responsibility)
Attempt at making pudding: 1 (failed)
Exercise: quick hike from car to shrine
Ladies' lunch with S & F at L'Ultima Spiaggia: 1 (perfection)
Bottles of beer consumed with S in sea discussing life, love and existence: can remember
Pre-festival panic attacks at 5.30 am: horrendous
Discussions re soft furnishings with French uber-homosexuals: hilarious
Compensatory fags smoked: 153 million
Four in a bed romp with F, J and Mom: 1 (rah!)

Sweating: with fear
Weight gain: comfort-eating took its toll
Phone calls to DJ S: many. soothing. exciting

Week 5: Edinburgh/Maremma/Brescia

Vomiting attacks: 3
Stages shared with famous writers for Amnesty reading: 1
Authors' hospitality yurt abused: 1 (extensively, post reading, free prosec with the Poet Laureate!)
Internationally acclaimed author performance: 1 (sold out,yeah!)

Book signing: 15 (yeah!)
Adrenalin rush: coursing through veins
Evening with publisher: alcoholic, on the house
Drunken outpourings of love and appreciation to above: 3 am, embarassing
Intoxicated photo shoot in posh Edinburgh gardens: 1

Naked photo shoot a few minutes later: unfortunate

Early morning dash of shame to airport: 1 (shaking lightly)
Texts of reassurance from editor: much appreciated
Midnight dash from Fiumicino to Maremma: 1 (thanks Uncle Luigi!)
Joyous welcome to bosom of Tots and Tom: 1 (bottle of wine, 10 fags)
Guilt at abandonment: profuse
Discovery of lake and delightful swim with K & S & Clementine: 1
Hot and bothered vineyard tour in Tuscan hills: 1
Cases purchased: 2 for the road
Afternoon dash up the peninsula: 1 (conversation delightful)
Weekend at Tot ancestral home picking out chaise longues for River St

Fags smoked with Mommy D: 697 million
Badger scratches to soothe my Tot: various

Sweating: extensive, from carrying furniture in midday sun
Weight gain: starting to show
Phone calls to DJ S: uh-huh

Week 6: Marseille

Trains from Milan to Nice: 1 (air-conditioning ferocious)
Trains from Nice to Marseille: 1 (air-conditioning non-existent)
Nudist beaches ogled: 1 (men only, bah)
New husbands encountered: 1 (charmant!)
Old friends catch up time: not enough
Boat trip around Les Calanques: 3 hours, beautiful
French spouted: fluent, at all times
Ladies' lunch in Aix en Provence: 1 (extensive, rose-ridden)
Hours spent in beauty salon impending hot date: 2 (painful)
Emotions at seeing flesh flop on waxing table in post-summer splurge: indescribable
Resurrection of spirits with well-judged bottle of rose: swift. (thanks girls!)
Late night son et lumiere around Marseilles: delightful

Hot date in Clerkenwell with DJ S.: aaahhhhhhh (thanks Sicily for the flat)
Another train trip to the Lakes for triple-fisting family christening: why? why?
Renouncement of evil as fairy godmother to Baby Daisy: because I had to
Bottles of wine consumed to block out the shame: 556

Sweating: not in the Lake District
Weight gain: oh god oh god oh god
Phone bill: oh god oh god oh god

So there it is. The summer is over. Thanks to all for making it, once again, a marvellous romperama of delight.

But no winter of discontent for me - au contraire!

Girlfriend found: 1
Lunatic grinning: extensive...

Method writing

2009-07-17T17:13:00.008+01:00

It’s all very well setting my new book in the Lake District, but having left the godforsaken county as soon as I possibly could, I actually have very little memory of it. So this week I hopped on the train to Penrith to do a bit of research.

This involved feeding my parents copious quantities of wine and grilling them on farming techniques in the 1970s (checking sheep for foot-rot and maggots and cutting off lamb’s testicles, anyone?), listening to a radio programme about my father called From Pythagoras to Pigs (cue Dad clipping piglets’ teeth and merrily commenting ‘I don’t think animals feel pain’ to a background of furious squealing) and looking through the family albums for pictures of agricultural implements and myself aged ten.

I took a trip back to the ancestral family farm.

Spent an hour or so with my godson Billy, climbing trees.

And then set off on an excursion. My hero lives in an old sheep hut on a mountainside so I decided to take a tent up to the top of the fell in order to experience true solitude and find out what noises you might hear in the middle of the night.

Rucksack firmly strapped to my back, I climbed the fell, sweating lightly and bashing my way through the bracken. Within an hour and a half, I was at the top, looking down on Blea Tarn. The last time I was there was aged 16 with my friend Eddie with a bottle of vodka and twenty Marlboro Lights. This time it was just me, a bottle of Evian and an egg sandwich. Times have changed, indeed.

I put the tent up in record time, then kicked off my shoes and went wading into the lake to gather stones to put around a fire. Collected sticks from the old hawthorn bushes on the other side of the mountain, built my fire and sat next to it, watching the sun going down, munching on my sandwich and congratulating myself on marvellous Scoutish preparedness and survival technique.

Then realised I had forgotten to bring a pen and so had to make all my notes by writing laborious texts on my phone and saving them to drafts.

My hero also is an insomniac and spend his nights wandering over the fells, so at around 9 o’clock I went over to the other side of the lake in search of all-time Tot favourite animal, the badger. Sitting up-wind of the setts that have been there as long as I can remember, imagine my delight when, after about an hour, Big Mama Badger and her baby badgers came snuffling out of their hole. They frolicked around for a bit, then went off in search of food. I sat there for a bit longer, looking over the lake, and feeling enormously pleased.

Back in the tent, I got into my sleeping bag and read a bit more of Ray Monk’s biography of Wittgenstein. Empathised with his need to remove himself from the object of his desire in order to achieve in logic. Wondered if I too was a misunderstood genius who must disdain true love in favour of my art. As my torch began to dim, quite overcome with feelings of loss, loneliness and despair, I tapped it against the ground. The fire was gone now, and I was horribly cold. Coughing piteously in my wretched tent, I closed my eyes and wondered how long is a day in the dark...

Happy fourth of July!

2009-07-07T12:18:00.010+01:00

Every Great British Summer requires a seaside holiday, and so this weekend I headed down to the picture-perfect little town of Deal, on the Kentish coast, to celebrate the 4th of July with a couple of my North American friends and other favourites.

At the last minute, The Producer pulled a great one out of the hat – a fabulous Georgian house right on the seafront, decorated in airy shades of white, with enormous armchairs for flopping in and shelves of the latest hardbacks to devour. I was in heaven.

The sun shone. Everyone played to their strengths.

Sparklemotion played nicely with her assband’s ball on the beach. It looked like rugger to me but what do I know?

Said assband garnered points towards his British citizenship by taking off his shirt and drinking lager like every good Englishman should on a sunny Saturday.

The Producer checked his nether regions for ginger nuts.

Marjorie produced toothsome snacks which we gobbled down before we could take any photos.

We went for a walk along the promenade looking for my future wife.

We found pirates.

We toyed with the idea of buying our very own Cinema Paradiso and screening Behind Convent Walls on a loop.

And I spent a happy hour or so practising the English Patient bath scene in preparation for the upcoming event. Almasy behind the camera at all times, natch.

Hard sums

2009-06-21T21:05:00.005+01:00

God knows what possessed me to make the hero of my next book a mathematician specialising in logic. But there’s nothing a bit of research can’t fix, and so this weekend saw me scampering off to Cambridge to talk to my friend U.

When I first rocked up there in 1992, U was a top Barbara Cartland combo, the product of a passionate love-match between a Nobel-prize-winning mathematician from Pakistan and the daughter of an English Duke. Educated at Eton – natch - he was not only frighteningly clever but also one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen.

I was a Cumbrian pit pony, still stunned at the fact that they’d let me in.

We bonded IMMEDIATELY over cheap fags, red wine and a shared love of Leonard Cohen.

Late at night, after all of the above, I used to plead with him to explain the theory of relativity, just for the pleasure of watching him speak. Of course, I never remembered the explanation in the morning.

U. never left Cambridge. Luckily he was saved from becoming too much of a crusty academic when, he accidentally impregnated the Head of Gender Studies with twins.

Said twins are now aged 2 and delightful, if somewhat hyperactive. On arrival at the house, he answered the door looking haggard and muttered ‘We’re going to the pub. Now.’

And so we did, leaving the Head of Gender Studies holding the babies.

Over a pint of lager, he asked the very question I’d been hoping he wouldn’t.

‘Why are you making this character a logician?’

The one thing a Cambridge education does is teach you how to bullshit at short notice. I banged on about Lewis Carroll and Alice in Wonderland, Bertrand Russell, romantic poetry, Greek tragedy, Wittgenstein, cause and effect and probability for a good minute of so.

‘So it’s not about your dad, then?’

‘Er, Lewis Carroll, Bertrand Russell, Wittgenstein, Aeschylus, lager, lager, umpf’

Clearly I am no better than I ever was on the bullshit front. But the great thing about U. is that he always takes questions very seriously, and usually knows the answers. We spent the next 3 hours discussing all the above, chucking in a bit about probability, the paranoia of maths departments, the difference between good and important, the difference between profundity and cleverness, and why most of the best maths is done before you’re 40. Well, I say discussed. He spoke, I took notes, and said yerrrs a lot, nodding sagely at appropriate moments.

When it was time to go, I asked him to explain the theory of relativity one last time, for the road. He kicked me under the table and told me to bugger off.

We left, laughing at our own pretentiousness.