20 August 2008

Moving to The Ritz


Those of you who know me will be aware that delayed gratification is not my thing. If I want something I want it IMMEDIATELY.

However, this August seems to be all about toiling away and being sensible. Laying the foundations, toiling and saving. I know it'll all be worth it in the end, but for now, it has put me in an extremely Bad Mood.

In the past seven days I have:

- Proofed the novel
- Carried out photo shoot and sent off images to publisher (only 3 months late)
- Cleared copyright for quoting 4 lines of a Cole Porter song in book (and paying £550 for the privilege, grr)
- Re-coded and edited 856 pages of a BBC website (dull, dull, dull)
- Converted advice leaflets for refugees on sexual health into 17 languages (photoshop)
- Taken on responsibility for a highly-strung cat (miaow)
- Fought with estate agents and finally managed to put flat on market (lying bastards)
- Moved worldly goods out of flat and into storage unit (soulless)

Am EXHAUSTED!

As I was packing up my things, I thought of what William Morris once famously said: “Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful.”

That’s all very well when one is a master craftsman and all your friends are major pre-Raphaelite artists.

I looked around at my belongings (seventeen bin bags filled with, amongst other things, a top hat from the 1860s, a seventeenth century wench frock, a ginger wig and a baby’s travel cot) and marvelled at how, aged 35, I still:

- Own nothing of any value, except sentimental (confirmed by copious tears over old photos and letters, holding up the moving process by some hours, Marjorie)
- Have no decent luggage (although plenty of baggage – as evidenced above)
- Haven’t learned to bring newspaper to wrap things up when moving

Perhaps I’ll just throw away the key to the storage unit and go and live in a hotel.

Yes, I think that would be best.

16 August 2008

This one's for Anne-Marie

11 August 2008

A tale of two turrets

Homage of the week goes to the lovely Beth, who whisked me off on a belated birthday mini-break to Kent, which as my devoted readership will recall, is the setting for The Nov.

The main attraction of the trip was to be a visit to Sissinghurst, the home of Virginia Woolf's lover Vita Sackville-West, renowned for her stunning gardens. We hoped for a bevy of literary ladies (for me) and some strapping but sensitive gardeners (for Beth).


Having dumped our luggage at our charming but chintz-ridden 16th century oast house, we arrived at the castle in the middle of a downpour.

Resisting the temptation to retire to the nearest pub, we pushed on through to the nearest hayfield where Beth's army background was put to the test in fashioning a bivouac out of a bale of hay, an umbrella and a mackintosh square.


Whereupon we indulged in a light picnic and a bottle of Macon-Villages. We started to feel rather jolly. A Spitfire circled overhead in wartime fashion, the proof of The Nov was presented to Beth for approval, and we banged on about the pleasures of the English countryside. I haven't had such fun in a haystack since 1987.


Coming to our senses a few hours later we proceeded to my new spiritual home, the turret. On purchasing Sissinghurst in the 1930s, Vita immediately claimed it as hers, banishing her husband Harold to the modest cottage next door. She furnished it with wall-to wall-bookshelves, a writing desk and a chaise longue. On the desk was an ashtray, a picture of Virginia Woolf and a painting of the Bronte sisters by Branwell. I decided to move in forthwith.


Imagine my surprise when, in the National Trust exhibition room, no mention was made of Vita and Vag's twenty year affair. Letters between Harold and Vita (they wrote to each other every day when apart) were proudly on the walls. Virginia was pictured, as 'Vita's lifelong friend', sitting moodily next to her own husband Leonard, accompanied by the stern note that 'SHE NEVER STAYED THE NIGHT.'

I thought of the chaise longue and resolved to write a short memoir entitled 'Scissoring at Sissinghurst'.



Early evening was spent with a packet of crisps and a G & T in bed watching Saturday night TV, then we took a taxi to Benenden (home of the famous girls' school) to the pub. Unfortunately it was school holidays so no teenage totty was to be found.

The next morning we woke early and set off to Scotney Castle. On arrival we were overjoyed to find a sheep trial, in which sheepdogs compete to herd sheep into a pen. We laid our the trusty macintosh square once again and spent a happy couple of hours watching ruddy-cheeked farmers managing not to lose their tempers at stupid animals. It brought back so many childhood memories that I was forced to indulge in another mini-bottle (English and organic so almost as healthy as Beth's elderflower cordial)


As luck would have it, Scotney also had a turret, although not as impressive as Vita's. But I am now resolute that that nothing less will do if I am to come up with inspiration for the next book. I have communicated the same to my partner in crime, who is touring the Italian countryside As We Speak in search of suitable locations.


On return to London, we decided to end the weekend with an epic viewing of Brideshead Revisited. Quite simply the perfect ending to a very British weekend. With yet more turrets. Bliss.

07 August 2008

Lady V makes her comeback (again)


Well I am tearful, and tits out, and, oh, well, quite frankly EMOTIONAL. And I make no apology for it.

After a vile day of data entry I return to my barren spinster shack for a light ovary nourishing salad and a session of mild self hatred.

Whereupon I happen on a padded envelope,

Which retains no less than the proof copy of THE NOV.

Yes, dear reader, after YEARS, MARJORIE, of waiting, the proof copy was waiting to be ripped apart and DEVOURED.

Here it is.