#GrimmGives Donations to Doernbecher Children's Hospital

Here's the thing, for those of you who know me, I am a huge, flamboyant, unreconstructed hippy with a highly extrovert nature, who likes to live life to the max. My life has been charmed and filled with great good fortune. So I like to pay it forward from time to time.

I love the show Grimm. And because I am always looking for ways to add to my growing collection of tattoos, and I just love to mess with mythology and combine ingredients in different ways, the two Grimm tattoos I have so far reflect that.

I promised some fellow fans of The Captain (he's my favourite character) that I would share my Captain tattoo with them...

This is the design. Inspired by this painting:

We've messed with the mythology a little to create something quite different.

Now, my artist, Ty, is going to do a full colour portrait of the Captain (as I am certain you have never seen him before). In the spirit of giving, if you want a print copy of the design, unique, original, in full colour, make a donation to @OHSUDoernbecher #GrimmGives, email me at raylan.yacht@gmail.com with an address I can send a copy to, and I will post you an original print copy.

Give whatever you can. There isn't a minimum, but let's see what we can raise for a very good cause.

I've got roughly four more hours until the line work is finished. Colour decisions on the tattoo will be made later.

In progress!

And no, you are not seeing things, my hair really is blue and a mohican.

In pursuit of English

From time to time my dog sits at my feet, head on one side, top lip caught on one of his fangs. This lopsided goofy look has one simple translation, it’s the look I call ‘cheese face’. He’s dry mouth, so excited he dare not lick his lips, positively quivering in anticipation that the piece of cheese in my hand is going to be shared with him.

He’s a dog. Strictly non-verbal. He whines, growls, does something that sounds like a cross between whale song and howl but in a distinctly basso-profundo key, and sometimes he barks incessantly. My mother complains and I point out that he’s a dog, that’s what dogs do, and she would be very startled if he burst into an aria from Rigoletto.

The point being that I can interpret what he ‘says’ and he’s from another species; but sometimes when faced with something written by my fellow man, I am at a total loss.

In the last five years or so, people have started writing in initials. Strings of initials, floating meaninglessly in cyberspace, whether in facebook status, comments on status, in blogs or other places. Sometimes I receive text messages that might as well be written in Ancient Babylonian for all the good they do to me.

The point of text messages is that they are fast and supposed to convey instant information. If I have to spend half an hour interpreting what is being said or required of me then surely the point is utterly lost.

English is a rich language, expressive, some of the greatest works of literature the world has ever seen have been written in English. Yet we continue to reduce it every day. This reduction is not an improvement.

I have neither the patience nor any particular interest in learning the precise meaning of endless strings of initials. Illiteracy irritates me, I find it vexing amongst the young, but since they have almost universally been deprived of a decent education by a generation of overly liberal, lax policies of governments who like to tinker while Rome burns, their inability to express themselves clearly and concisely can be understood; but amongst those who should know better, sorry, it makes me gnash my teeth in rage.

When even university professors think that being unable to write clear, concise, legible, sensible English is not a problem, we really have hit rock bottom.

LOL… really?? You are sitting alone at your laptop baying like a hyena on speed over nothing very much? Please forgive me if I edge ever so slightly and unobtrusively in the general direction of away.

I made most of my career as a PA (that’s personal assistant, universally accepted acronym), Secretary and Administrator, mostly as a temp, but I did have two long term permanent roles.

I spent seven years as PA to the Buying Director of Puma UK.

One of the most important lessons I learnt about the art of communication was the lesson of clarity.

When you are communicating with factories in the Far East, with people whose first language is not English, if you do not state exactly what you want in clear, concise terms, well frankly you will not get what you want. If your communication isn’t up to scratch you can scarcely blame the factory for getting it wrong.

A lot has been said and written in the last couple of weeks about ‘gangsta’ culture and how our young people are turning into mini-gangstas, speaking an incoherent and ultimately faked patois that they hope will gain them acceptance in the ‘society’ which exists all around them.

There has been a positively Gadarene charge by politicians of all parties to blame the riots and breakdown of law and order on deprivation. I think in that they actually have it quite right, only the causes are not the cuts, but the systematic deprivation of a decent education, of aspiration, of judgement and leadership and a thousand other qualities which have been slowly weeded out of education over the last forty odd years.

The useful idiots of education re-engineering, with their endless social experimentation have done nothing to improve the lives of the dispossessed. They pride themselves on being non-judgemental. But without judgement, how can you possibly expect a child to know right from wrong? How can child ever aspire to anything if a child cannot judge between joining a gang and choosing a different path?

Communication is the key to the door. If you cannot communicate, how can you possibly hope to succeed in anything? So yes, it does matter. Writing gibberish filled with strings of initials that can be misconstrued or simply not understood and discarded gets you nowhere.

Communication in speech also matters. It may be fashionable to look down on the traditions of British pronunciation, quaintly known as RP (received pronunciation); or as my father used to term it, purest BBC!

The usual view of the secretary is that she (and most of them are female) is the office eye-candy, looks hot, lacks brains, makes a nice cup of tea. But the most important thing is what she sounds like. I have gained employment at interview with lesser qualifications than some of my rivals, simply because I can speak purest BBC. Very Alexandra Pellis! I have made a career out of looking rather plain but enunciating the Queen’s English in a style last heard on British radio sometime in the fifties.

Very simply put, I may not have a Barbie Doll face and figure, but my speaking voice lends cachet to those bosses who care about how their image is perceived at first contact and beyond. It really does matter what you sound like, and how you write.

Reducing English to strings of meaningless initials lowers the language itself. For those of us who know better, we should be leading by example.

Musings on Social Media

Article first published as Liking Facebook on Technorati.

When Facebook changed the 'Fan' button to the 'Like' button, I for one was not pleased. 'Like' always seemed far too tepid a word. Inadequate to express one's feelings about the film, book, play, actor or activity that the Facebook page represented.

Now we have a different situation. Social Media Marketing has exploded. Advertising revenue in the traditional places, TV, news media, radio has declined year on year as viewers, readers and listeners get wise to the ways to avoid it. Peer review is deemed more trustworthy. After all if you cannot trust your friends, who can you trust?

Suddenly it seems as though everyone has a page to promote and you feel overwhelmed with the sheer volume of things to 'like'. Having dutifully clicked the like button you add that to your growing list of things you 'like'.

So what happens next? In reality, how many of those 'like' pages do you ever visit again?

Being a fan of something implies that you enjoy doing, watching or reading this something over and over again. "Like" infers a more tenuous attraction. Now we have so many pages to 'like' isn't it time that Facebook finds some way to differentiate between the things you have a passing fancy for and those things that are your favourites?

As social media grows, it would be helpful if you could refine your interests, likes and dislikes, especially for marketing. Finding like minded people is an inexact science at best, but it need not be. The current situation provides the opportunity for the truly energetic to carpet bomb the internet in their quest for sales and self-promotion; whilst the less forward and those with less time at their disposal disappear in the incoming tide.

So you turn your facebook on in the morning and what do you find? Usually at least one request from a friend to 'Like' something, so you dutifully click the like button and so it goes on. Or does it? Are we now all suffering from a degree of 'like' fatigue? I know that in the last couple of months I have been faced with many pages to like. I also know that whereas I would have liked every page sent my way six months ago, now I have become more selective. Not because I don't like things, but because I don't like them enough to add them to a list and dilute my interest in other things.

If there were options to like or be a fan of something, there would be a lot of things in my like list which I would dip into occasionally, perhaps once a week; but there would be very few things in my 'fan' list which I would check almost daily.

On the other side of the fence, I would be able to detect levels of interest in the things I have created a page for. There is an argument that the ground level point of sustainability for any artist, film-maker, author is one thousand true fans. One thousand true fans are the people who are going to buy your newest work because they like your 'brand', they are going to drive two hundred miles to go to your next concert, signing, viewing or screening, they will interact with you and they will tell the world how good your work is. They are your ambassadors.

To achieve that level of engagement with your fans, the way forward is clearly social media. In the modern idiom of 'celebrity', accessibility is key, and communicating directly with the people who enjoy your work is the most effective way to gather in your magic number.

To keep social media fresh and exciting, giving the people more control over what they like or are a fan of, makes a great deal of sense to me.

Welcome to the Blog-hop

shewrites

Greetings, I am Sj. I am a blogger, writer and general marketing 'puke' living my writing dream just south of London, England.

Together with my US-based writing partners, Jason and Mel, my life is very busy. I am a partner in Throwaway Lines, a new blog website which is the showcase for fast, fun, light fiction and reviews (coming soon). I partner with Mel on My Ink Project, which is a blog about the ink in our lives and in our souls.

I am passionate about all things independent. Creative arts should be free to explore, not hemmed in by the needs of advertising and the whims of the money men. I assist with the promotion of an independent film, Pig, and administrate their blog.

In a move that could be described as foolhardy, I prefer to think of it as adventurous, I have also signed up as an Apple Developer. I will be using my own blog to chart my progress. Having already selected my victim… er, guinea pig, from time to time my vic.. guinea pig and my long suffering partners will join me in blogging about my progress as I wade my way through code, while trying to up my exercise intake and learn how to be a yoga teacher at the same time.

I have a short attention span, and I am insatiably and incurably curious. I always need to know how things work… I hope you enjoy what is here, and join me in my journey going forward!

Eccentricities

My life revolves around writing, my friends, my pets, and the running repairs occasioned by my pets' multiple eccentricities. My mother also likes to add her political commentary to the mess, she watches the hour long news at 6, switches channels at seven to watch another hour long news session. She is also inordinately fond of Newsnight and Question Time. On bad nights, I have died and am floating in some kind of political hell as my mother prods me with the pitchfork of "the country is going to hell in a handcart!" It is times like these that I really do wish I was a Medieval Court Poisoner in the pay of both Channel 4 and the BBC!

Last night I went to bed at three am. Okay, it wasn't last night, it was this morning. And yes… I know (for those of you who are about to pounce on my lack of mattress time!) it was late… I have an excuse… two late phone calls, both of which made me smile… and a sudden flash of inspiration on the fourth life.

Seven am and reality bites. Or squelches. Between my toes. Stepping on cold yoghurt on a carpet before you have even broached the first coffee of the day… words fail me (actually, they don't… but I am sure you really do not want to experience my command of the vernacular).

I ignored the squelchy feeling and pressed on, which is when I noticed the green arched streak on the white paint of the bannisters. From its curiously blotchy appearance, I deduced spinach. (It also helps that spinach was in last night's dinner). Amongst Dan's many charming little foibles he likes to take dinner bowls and cutlery, despite being somewhat long and low slung, he can jump to an astonishing height.

The slimy green trajectory suggested that the knife which I found at the foot of the stairs had fallen over the bannister as he snagged the leftovers off the tray on the table on the landing. And wiping dried spinach off painted woodwork is a nightmare…

Having scraped the spinach off the bannisters I headed downstairs. First stop is always the kittens. Quite why I am still calling them kittens, when they are two extremely substantial cats is beyond me. I know we have a problem the instant I open the study door and I can hear the relentless whine of the water fountain pump motor. They had wedged something in front of the filter, creating a dam, and causing the water to get pumped out of the bowl… Five minutes to unwedge the object (one of their toys), and refill the bowl.

My days always begin with running repairs. Irritatingly, my day has continued with them. Something of the hunter non-gatherer variety has been playing in the garden, as testified by the very nasty pile of feathers. I deduced that the culprit was fox, first by the mess, and secondly by the green substance of a nauseating viscosity which my darling Daniel chose to lie down and have a really good roll in. EEEWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! My cup truly runneth over.

My sitting room which also fulfills the role of office, yoga space, rowing machine space… my rowing machine is a vast rosewood thing of beauty, overflow wardrobe space, miscellaneous collection of junk space and I could go on, but that would be a little tedious… my sitting room is now so cluttered that I cannot find anything. I have been searching for the power cable for my netbook for almost three months.

Through the midst of this disorganised chaos I shamble. Complaining occasionally at my complete inability to find anything. Crowing with delight when something rises to the surface which I had believed had gone forever. My life may have all the outward appearance of offcuts of the script to the film Avanti, but if I am being honest, I like it like that.

Now I have to go and retrieve the catnip mouse, before Solitaire proves he is scarcely a gentleman and pins Tizzy to the ground and takes it off her.

To Self Publish

Self publishing. The publishing world has changed out of all recognition in the last few years. With the rise of eReaders, and print companies like Lulu, Lightning Source, and Create Space providing everything an author needs to get their work out to the paying public there is little to stop anyone publishing anything.

However, a note of caution. Self publishing may give you 70% or more of your costs back, but you are going to have to work extremely hard to get there.

The traditional route is still agent, publisher, possible small advance (although this is likely to be a lot smaller than you might imagine, and is supposed to be spent on preparing the author for all the marketing you will have to do!) and into print. Your return is likely to be approximately 12% after publisher's and agent's cuts. You will have to work hard, but everything will be set up for you.

Self Publishing you have to do it all yourself. All the marketing, from scratch. Socialising your book, virtual book tours, maybe even a book trailer. All these things are time intensive and costly.

So, if you are going to spend time and money in all this effort you need to start from a position of strength.

Get your work into the best possible shape to sell. If you cannot afford a professional editor, cast around amongst your friends and acquaintances for someone (or several someones) who are prepared to beta and be real friends (pouncing ruthlessly on any and all errors).

If you are going into print, the cover is important. The cover has one job, other than holding the book together; that is to sell the contents to the buying public. The very best cover you can get for the money is a key factor to success. Cover art is something of a minefield. It is possible to purchase stock images from a supplier like Shutterstock or iStockPhoto and create a cover yourself for next to nothing. My advice - bench test. Make several different options and ask friends and family for their comments. Obviously if you can afford a professional this is the best option.

The composition of the cover should entice. Look to the elements you will need. Title, Author, back cover blurb, isbn and barcode (if you are planning to go that route), slugs. Eh? Slugs… those little bits of text like taglines for movie posters, offering a little intriguing nudge to purchase. Head into your nearest bookshop. Go straight to the shelf which contains books of a similar genre to yours. Examine them, what works for you, what doesn't work… Think about it. If you have a good product you do not want to let it down with bad packaging.

As a self-published author you will have to do all the work to get your book in front of reviewers and purchasers. A word to the wise here. The internet is not a private place where you can behave badly and no one will notice. People are entitled to their opinions. Their opinions are not always in sync with yours. Should you receive a poor review you will need to handle it with dignity. As a self-published author you are not alone, it is one enormous family. How we all behave reflects on our fellow self-published colleagues as well as ourselves.

Self-publishing is hard work. It is not for the faint-hearted and those unable to accept criticism. However, potentially it is a very exciting and rewarding endeavour if you have passion, enthusiasm and commitment.

To read more about self-publishing and why you can: http://pavarti.com/2011/05/9-reasons-why-im-choosing-to-self-indie.html

Blogs I Love

I’ve been thinking a lot recently about the things I like to read. How the mainstream has become less and less satisfying.

How independent writing has made me laugh, made me cry and made me think.

This is a blog post mostly about blogs, I hope you enjoy it and go out and discover the brave new world outside of what you buy in the mainstream.

First up is a writer I have admired since I first encountered his work from my time on Authonomy.

Dan Holloway is an incredible author and an amazing and highly creative individual who believes passionately in art being accessible to all.

http://agnieszkasshoes.blogspot.com/ Agnieszka’s Shoes started life as the first novel written on Facebook, and has gone on to represent the best of Indie Culture 2.0. “The View From the Shoe” offers a truly independent take on culture for the 21^st Century.

Lucy Brown is a PhD student and author who writes from the heart. In her ‘not so spare time’ she is writing a novel, but somehow she manages to squeeze a little extra time out of the standard 24 to write http://secludedcharm.blogspot.com/

Another lady who writes from the heart is Mel, my incredible writing partner on http://myinkproject.com. I know, a bit rich putting my own writing partner in here, but I look forward to Mel’s posts, they are always passionate, heart-felt and intriguing.

I fell in love with Richard Pierce’s writing the day I joined the dreaded Authonomy. I think his novel Bee Bones was the very first one I voted on. Richard writes beautiful, soul drenching, amazing prose that just gets you every time. http://tettig.blogspot.com/. His talent is just awesome, and he’s a lovely guy too.

Just when one might think that things cannot get any better or more creative, Dan Holloway comes back at you with another great blog, this time for his crime thriller series, Tommy West. In his own words: The Tommy West novels  are dark psychological mysteries very much in the vein of P D James and Val McDermid,with a small pinch of Thomas Harris’ modern gothic. http://thecompanyoffellows.wordpress.com/.

http://thepigpicture.wordpress.com is a new blog in support of the independent sci fi movie Pig. Writer/director Henry Barrial opened with a piece on identity. This is a blog to watch for the future as we chart Pig’s progress through film festivals to, we hope, general release. As Sci-Fi London Film Festival says “this is smart, indie sci-fi at its best, with a strong story and great performances that make the scenarios engaging and believable. One not to miss.”

Next up is a book. Thought this was supposed to be about blogs? It is... but it’s my rules, so book it is.

Raven Dane is a lady of infinite resource who writes a wickedly funny story, chock full of amazing and memorable characters, some of whom have wound up on my right leg. The Unwise Woman of Fuggis Mire is a deliciously irreverent and funny fantasy in which every fantasy cliché is gleefully flipped over and taken once round the dance floor. That this book is up for Best Novel at the 2011 British Fantasy Society Awards comes as absolutely no surprise. Forget the doom and gloom of modern life, indulge yourself... you won’t be disappointed.

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Stripes with Paisley

Stripes with Paisley??... I can hear the fashion Nazis screaming for miles. Guess what! Their angst is not my problem!

I freely admit that I break all the rules of dress sense every single day. But hey, I’m already breaking a substantial number of rules of female life anyway. One might as well go the whole hog whilst one is at it.

I am a size 22 in a size 0 world, and... there really is nothing left to fear. I am me, even if I starved myself and rowed for hours instead of minutes I am never going to be thin. It just isn’t going to happen. You just have accept that and move on.

Making the most of what you have got, and not sweating the stuff you cannot change is something I like to live by.

The laws of dress sense dictate that if you are larger than the average bear (in my case, grizzly) one should dress in dark tent-like garments and try to camouflage oneself so as not to be noticeable by the rest of the population.

Sorry, not a chance. My inner exhibitionist wants out... If it is bright, loud, outrageously patterned and likely to get me noticed, I’m gonna wear it. I am particularly fond of madras check in bright oranges, pinks and greens...

I was born brunette, which was not to my liking. Nature kinda dealt with that one though. I found my first grey hair at 11 or 12, by eighteen I was substantially grey and certainly by the time I hit forty, I was mostly white under all the hair dye. One of the problems of dyeing white hair back brown is that after a couple of washes, it looks like a ginger cat has upped and died on your head. The imp of mischief is strong in me. My hairdresser bleached my hair out white then added the blue fringe and the rest is not exactly history, but adds to the entire lack of mystique.

Lack of mystique?? Surely every woman wants to be an intriguing mystery??

Well, no... not really. I’m all for the uncomplicated life. Sure, I like to raise a little Cain from time to time, most of that comes from what I look like anyway, but with me wysiwyg works better. I am not especially patient... I like everything to happen yesterday. Besides, if you say what you mean and mean what you say, it saves time and distress later. If everyone knows where they stand that is one less thing to worry about.

I am loud, open, friendly, I will talk to anyone about anything, I do not have a nervous bone in my body, and like George Bernard Shaw’s arms dealer, I am unashamed.

I firmly believe that there is a lot more to worry about in this world than getting into a lather about what others might think, and if, by being me, I can show one other large person who is struggling with their confidence that there really isn’t as much to fear as one has been led to believe, then I might have done a halfway decent job as a human being.

So the hair, the inch-long quite-clearly-acrylic-fake nails and the tattoos are all very much part of the show. These things are representative of who I am. I make no attempt to hide any of them. Why would I? I am proud of all of them.

My tattoos are awesomely funny conversation starters... I went into a shop to buy a Mars Bar, Vlad (the Impala) gave me the munchies, so I just had to go out and grab a Mars Bar so that I could sit still for Stevie to finish him off. The quite elderly Indian lady behind the counter is staring at my right forearm, at first, I’m thinking... disapproval... then she bursts into giggles, and asks me if I know what it means. As a matter of fact, I do, I didn’t just pick dhoom machale out of a tattoo book, so I say yes, and we have a nice little conversation about it. I love all my tattoos, but dhoom machale holds a very special place in my heart, not just my right forearm. It’s a daily reminder that life is there for the living, because there’s only one to a customer.

Let’s party!!

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I remember it well...

I have been thinking about memory and identity a lot just recently, especially as I have begun a new writing project with my American counterpart, Mel. Here she talks about the deeper meaning behind memory, and how experience colours what we actually perceive...

I Remember It Well

We are all pathological liars. Our brains are designed to make us always "feel" as if our recollections are true, regardless of whether or not they actually occurred. In fact, science has proven that a memory is only as real as the last time you remembered it, and that the more you remember something, the less accurate the memory becomes.

Pretty powerful stuff. It brings to mind a song from the 1958 movie, "Gigi", where Maurice Chevalier sings, "I Remember It Well". If you have never seen this charming musical interaction, it is between two "older" individuals, who do not agree on the details of their first date. Of course, with his undeniable charm, Maurice manages to agree with his former love, even though he openly disagrees. I love it. (Men, take a lesson from Mr. Chevalier.)

The subject of memory has recently become a topic of conversation between me and my British blogging counterpart, Sj. She is in the throes of promoting a new movie that deals with this very topic. Interestingly enough, as I write a book that is based on my parent's love story and family history, I have personally been thrown into a trip down memory lane.

As I sift through old family photos, some of which portray folks that are unidentified, yet related, I look to my ancestral past, recollecting my own memories of those who are now gone, and whose histories are a part of my life. I recall good times and bad, but , in the end, have discovered that I have modified those memories to fit the moment that I live in now. This is why my book is reality-based fiction.

Face it, memories are random, and often strange. Marcel Proust once wrote, "The past is never past. As long as we are alive, our memories remain wonderfully volatile. In their mercurial mirror, we see ourselves." Jonah Lehrer, in his book, Proust Was A Neuroscientist, writes that Proust believed that, "we must misremember something in order to remember it." In other words, our mind is constantly reincarnating itself. It is ongoing and ever changing.

Lehrer writes that, "scientists have discovered that our brain is full of neurons that never touch, yet are responsible for brain activity. The spaces between these neurons are called synaptic clefts, and the area between these neurons is subject to change." Brain research has gained much knowledge of how those spaces effect memory, and how a memory is created, but only time will tell why our memories are "purely fiction."

My brother and oldest sister recall a set of parents that barely resemble the two that raised me. In fact, upon reading the love letters that my father wrote to my mother back in the 1940's, my sister remarked, "I had no idea that our father had such love in his heart." She remembered a different father than I did. For me, my father will remain tall, dark and handsome, with a smile that made women swoon.

Sigmund Freud coined the term, "Nachtraglickeit", to describe the phenomenon of transference. He surmised that we take memories of childhood trauma, and retell them at a later time in life, renamed with different characters, and through the eyes and ears of an older person. We create another version of a story, to meet the needs of our current situations and issues. Our past is actually quite different, but our memories disobey logic.

Hans W. Leowald, M.D., an early 20th Century psychiatrist, tells us that, "the ghosts of the underground that awaken, taste the blood of recognition and haunt us in ways not fully understood, gradually become ancestors, buried, and much less important." It really makes me think about my life, and question, "Who am I?"

The entire concept frightens me a bit. Could Proust be correct? Should we, "Treat the reality of our memories carefully, and with a degree of skepticism"? Proust contended that there was no need to keep track of the lies of our memories, as, "Every memory is full of errors." Am I really full of unintentional deceit?

Science has also discovered that most memories are triggered by taste and smell, and that exposure to certain combinations of these two senses can actually trigger "moments bienheureux", or fortunate moments. Author Jonah Lehrer, cites them as, "the blinding epiphanies that one experiences, like a beautiful apparition, and inspires an intense creative flare."

I happen to experience these "fortunate moments" on occasion, and revel in the rapture as they burn through my brain, carving new tattoos on my inner soul. Are these memories real? Of course they are. At least in my mind. And, who are you?

A figment of your own revisionist history?

Think about it. I do.

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Five Films

Five films that are rocking my world right now. (Actually, four films and a game... but nobody’s perfect).

Sanjuro – It really doesn’t matter how many times I watch this film, or the fact that I do have to rely on subtitles, because I don’t speak sufficient Japanese to make sense of the subtleties of dialogue; Akira Kurosawa rocks. Toshiro Mifune does more with expression and body language in this film than most Western actors achieve in a lifetime. And then you have the one against eight battle. They actually teach this in books on Kendo, Mifune’s form and movement is like a ballet. A beautiful, brutal ballet. Yet there is nothing gratuitous or creepy about this, no long lingering shots of dismembered corpses. Just a melancholic genius. By the time a karate master has risen to the level of master, through long and hard training, he may be capable of killing with his bare hands, but has also attained the self-discipline not to go postal and kill indiscriminately; so it is here, nothing gratuitous, no violence for violence’ sake, just pure swordsmanship.

Alien – FilmFour was doing an Alien weekend a couple of weekends back, and I tuned in. I have the box set. I fell in love with the movie when I slithered into the cinema to see it despite being underage. The tension, the claustrophobia and the creature. Especially the creature. I first discovered Giger in 1976, and his stuff was a revelation. I was quite an odd child, who found Goya fascinating, all dark, brooding and very intense, so Giger’s work plugged into that intense side of my nature instantly. Even today, my three favourite artists are Goya, Giger and the Spanish Surrealist, Salvador Dali. Add to that the complexity and construction of Escher’s work and you have a sense of what goes through my strange brain.

Dhoom 2 – okay, you’ve probably read the criticisms, you are probably thinking of this as simply silly, glossy fare... but... honestly, it has heart and charm. The set pieces are huge and wildly over the top, clearly the cast had a ball making it. Hrithik steals every scene he’s in. The songs are fun and advance the action nicely. So what’s not to like? At three o’clock in the morning when my brain is going a mile a minute and I cannot sleep it’s the perfect kick back movie.

Pig – okay I have an unfair advantage here, I’ve seen the film even though it was not yet finished, and my version is a rough cut. I could wax rhapsodically on lots of elements that add up to a completely satisfying, and emotionally engaging story. It is a thoroughly modern, twenty-first century tale, but retains a genetic blueprint of film story-telling that we last saw in the Noirs of the forties and fifties. It unfolds slowly, building in intensity as the man seeks clues to his past, and it isn’t an easy journey. Nothing is what it appears to be. Written and directed by Henry Barrial, the script asks questions of the audience that certainly, for me at any rate, made me start to re-examine the way I look at memory and identity.

With any movie it is rare for me to look and not re-cast in my head. There are a few notable exceptions, Casablanca is one... could you really see any one but Bogart and Bergman in those roles? So it is with Pig. The cast are just pitch perfect. Special mention has to go to Rudolf Martin, after all, he is the man; lost, confused, scared, finding out things about himself that he doesn’t necessarily like. And none of it really fits. So who’s lying to him? It would be easy to overplay this role, Martin keeps it simple and utterly convincing. The emotional payoff at the end is incredible.

Assassin’s Creed: Brotherhood – is my game of the moment. Actually, AC II was where I discovered the joy and AC:B... well, I didn’t join the midnight queue to pick it up instore... but I came pretty close. A rich and extremely playable game even for a frightful klutz like me. This game totally rocks... and despite my extreme clumsiness (poor Desmond has been swimming around in the basement for what seems like hours now) I get immersed in the amazing detail. There is just so much to this game. It’s as much about genetic memory as Ezio fighting his way through to the Borgia heartlands. 

From this you would conclude that I like rich detail, great story-telling and dark and brooding art. Well yes, but I also like to seek out the independent and different, go for things that are outside a comfort zone. Try it, I promise you won't be disappointed.

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Inspiration

Inspiration. Now there’s a word to conjure with.

It was the Oscars this week, and as usual there are a million different opinions out there, this should have won, that should have won. Etc... so forth, so on...

It’s no secret that the movies have informed a great deal of my writing, and sometimes, even the things I get up to on a daily basis.

Five Graves To Cairo put an idea into my head that is yet to be realised, but who knows where life is headed.

My mind is totally random, and always has been. So, I can see a film or watch a tv show and certain little incidents within the movie or the tv show have just totally spoken to me.

All of this led me to consider what I think might be the elements of a great movie.

The starting point of any great movie, regardless of length, has to be a great story. Do you have a real story to tell? Of course, then you need a great script. Having a story is all very well, if you can’t articulate that story in a way that captures the audience’s sympathy and imagination, you won’t coax anyone into going on the journey with you.

So a great script has to be part inspiration, and part seduction, with just enough intrigue to keep the audience guessing.

When I got the chance to see Henry Barrial’s new film, Pig, I knew I was in for something that would be very different from the standard join-the-dots, cookie-cutter stuff that the mainstream has been offering of late.

Pig is simply inspired. And inspiring. I have been utterly unable to get some of the images out of my head.

In part that is the writing. Henry Barrial can really write. The script is everything I hoped it would be. Intelligent, compelling, different. A puzzle. I love puzzles.

Of course, a compelling script then needs two further elements to bring the writing to the screen undiminished. A savvy director who can interpret the meaning, and actors who can get into the skin of the characters.

Probably the person best placed to direct a film is the person who wrote it in the first place. So it is with Pig. Henry creates an absolute gem of a film. (http://thepigpicture.com/Pig.html)

The main character is a man with no memory of his past, played with utter conviction by actor Rudolf Martin. I tend to have a more analytical approach to movies than most, and rarely find myself so engaged as to feel emotionally moved by a character’s situation. Between them, Barrial and Martin conjure up something that just speaks to me in ways I really hadn’t considered before. And that moved me.

I also started to think about character in a different way. You have character, and then you have the nature of the character inside. Then a friend mentioned something that her attorney had mentioned about her former husband... and my mind exploded in another direction entirely. Suddenly, a character who had been dull as ditchwater (and unsufferable besides) in one of my latest scratchings, turned into something completely different.

That’s the nature of inspiration.

Putting things together in your head until they fit. And they can be informed from anywhere.

I always have a notebook, usually a Moleskine, somewhere about my person. You do not know where your next inspiration may come from. In my case, most of it is humbly informed from the great writing of others.

It doesn’t need to be feature length either. Doug Rao’s short, War Hero, totally blew me away. (http://www.makeshortfilms.com/). Thankfully, Doug has decided to make this incredible piece of cinema available for download. Regardless of politics, this film speaks to the humanity in all of us.

You don’t have to look far outside of the mainstream to find film-makers who are making incredible cinema with very little in the way of budget. Using imagination and vision. They can’t cover holes in their plots and cardboard characters with tons of expensive CGI and explosions. They don’t need to. They’re already delivering inspiring, thought-provoking films to you.

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Things about Modern Life that drive me clean around the bend.

Today I was a reluctant witness to the death of the English Language. It
came in the shape of a phone call, and it so thoroughly unnerved me I
nearly moved to another carriage in the train.

Now there are university professors who proclaim that spelling, grammar
and language really don't matter that much. Honestly? Well I beg to
differ.

The unwitting murderer of English was a young woman. Late teens, or
possibly early twenties. Admittedly this slaughter was a social call, so
this young woman was clearly far from being alone in her inability to
articulate a complete sentence which made any kind of sense.

First of all, I will take us back in time. For all of you out there who
remember the days of vinyl... ever put a 7 inch 45 on at the wrong
speed? Say 78? This young woman spoke rather like a 45 played at 78.
Words tumbled out of her mouth like a barrel going over Niagra Falls.

Like was used a lot, like every other sentence. Incomplete sentences,
like every other statement. She said "I don't know" rather a lot too. I
was trying to decide whether this was intended as a form of apology for
her incredibly limited like vocabulary.

I started to count the "likes" there were 97 of them between Wimbledon
and Clapham Junction... at one point they were coming along at a rate of
one every three seconds.

Apparently, the modern teenager now leaves school with a vocabulary
which barely contains a thousand words.

I'm sorry, but that is incredibly poor. It would appear that our
children are being deprived of the ability to express themselves with
anything approaching coherence. Presumably as our youngsters regress,
the English will return to dwelling in caves.

I left the train feeling confused. Sad (yes), annoyed (most certainly),
and very depressed.

I decided between appointments to have a drink and a sandwich.

Can someone tell me why, if I order a nice cold bottle of mineral water,
that the accompanying glass must always arrive with a slice of lemon? If
I want lemonade, I will order lemonade. I didn't... I wanted water. A
slice of lemon always makes your nice glass of cold water taste of
toothpaste. And no. I have no idea why. So no extraneous floating fruit
or vegetables, please.

Why, oh why, must the more upmarket restaurants do chef-y things with
classic dishes? These chef-y things don't always work. And they always
double the price of the dish.

Since most of the rest of the day went brilliantly, I suppose I really
shouldn't complain, but there you have it. Modern life... not
necessarily an improvement.

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Interview with an Author: Kim Menozzi

As many people know, I am a partner in the publishing company,
diiarts.com. As we head towards our first anniversary, I thought now
would be the moment to talk to one of my author's in the run up to
publishing her new book. Ask Me If I'm Happy is launched next month, and
here we are, talking to the author, Kimberly Menozzi, about her new
book, and what makes her 'tick' as a writer.

Q: Thank you for this interview, Kim. Can you tell us what your latest
book, Ask Me If I’m Happy, is all about?

A: Oh, I should thank you for this opportunity instead. Ask Me if I'm
Happy is a modern-day love story set in Bologna, Italy, wherein two
people meet by pure chance but have much deeper and more troubling
connections than they could ever imagine. When these discoveries come to
light for both of them, they have to deal with the emotional fallout of
having hidden the truth and of dealing with lies of omission.

At the heart of this story is their need to be open and honest with each
other in ways which prove quite difficult, due to the painful prior
experiences with previous partners. Ultimately, it's a story about how
people need to be honest and up front with one another and be able to
trust their loved ones on every level, as well as how we unknowingly
sabotage ourselves in love. Being honest and truthful isn't exactly
painless, but the struggle is worth it, in the end.

Q: Can you tell us a little about your main and supporting characters?

A: Okay. The main characters are Emily Miller and Davide Magnani
(Dah'-vih-day is the pronunciation of his first name, by the way). Emily
is an American in her mid-thirties, who is coming out of a bad
relationship and determined to leave Italy behind her. Davide is a
professor of literature and ancient mythology at the University of
Bologna. Both of them have been substantially wounded by past partners,
and they're both struggling with a number of trust issues as a result.

The supporting characters include both of the exes: Jacopo Spadon and
Letizia Costa. Jacopo is the sort of man accustomed to getting what he
wants when he wants it, and comes from a rather privileged background,
besides. Letizia is the sort of woman we see countless versions of here
in Italy, nowadays; she truly defines herself by the brand names she can
buy, wear and drive, etc., etc. You get the idea, I'm sure.

Other supporting characters, all of whom influence the story, include
Emily's best friend since their teen years, Jenn; Davide's best friend
(and fellow professor) with a tendency to be politically incorrect,
Michele; and Emily's rather comically overbearing mother. Q: Do you tend to base your characters on real people or are they
totally from your imagination?

A: I have to say there are elements of both in my characters. Often they
start off inspired by someone in particular, usually by how that someone
looks or speaks or behaves, but by the time the story is truly taking
shape in my mind, they've become very much themselves. Once I've written
the first draft, it's sometimes hard to pin down who it was I had in
mind in the first place – they grow that much, in my mind and hopefully
on the page as well. Their voices become distinct and clear, and from
that point onward, I just have to trust them to show me the way.

Q: Are you consciously aware of the plot before you begin a novel, or do
you discover it as you write?

A: I'm seldom aware at the start. I had a general idea with Ask Me if
I'm Happy, but up until I wrote the final pages, I wasn't completely
sure how it was going to end. There are several incidents within the
story which I didn't know would be there until I'd typed them out. When
that happens, all I can do is sit there and think "Well, huh. I didn't
see that coming." Generally speaking, I just listen to what the
characters tell me is supposed to happen and then I go from there. On
the rare occasions where I've tried to make them to do something I'd
dreamed up at the start, it just didn't work. I'd write pages – force
them out, more or less – and then, in the end, I'd end up scrapping them
because they didn't work at all. Now, I just listen to the pretty
voices. (laughs)

Q: Your book is set in Bologna, Italy. Can you tell us why you chose
this city in particular?

A: There are many, many reasons why I chose Bologna, but I'll try to
pick just a few. For one, it was the natural choice for the start of the
story, because it's the major train travel hub for northern Italy.
Another reason is that it's simply a place I love – there's fantastic
food; a youthful, creative atmosphere (thanks in part to the
university); it is, as my husband might say, characteristic of the
region where I live – what you see in Bologna, you'll see elsewhere in
Emilia Romagna; and finally, it's just a beautiful and historic city.
Most of all, I feel it's one of the unsung locations in this country.
Nearly everyone knows about Tuscany, Rome, Naples and Venice, but very
few folks, it seems, are even aware of Bologna. I wanted my area of
northern Italy to be represented, for better and for worse, and I think
I've done that in Ask Me if I'm Happy.

Q: Does the setting play a major part in the development of your story?

A: Yes, it does. As I said before, Bologna is a major travel hub –
Bologna Centrale is the principal railway junction in all of Italy. So
it's entirely plausible that Emily and Davide would cross paths here, or
that she would be stuck there in the event of a transportation strike.
Plus, as the majority of the story takes place in winter, the foggy,
grey atmosphere of Bologna during that season really affects the mood of
the story – and perhaps, to a degree, even the actions of the characters
themselves. The fact that it's Davide's home – not hers – is also
significant, if only on a subconscious level.

Q: Open the book to page 69. What is happening?

A: Davide is alone, purchasing the train tickets to Milano. There are
some subtle, comic aspects to the transaction (I hope).

Q: Can you give us one of your best excerpts?

A: This small excerpt is a favorite of mine, because of the way Emily is
drawn repeatedly to watch this stranger on the train who has done
nothing more than smile in her direction.:
-------
The broken window fell open with a soft thump and the banging and
rattling of the train’s progress drowned out the soft hum of
conversation around her. A steady, chilling wind blew inside the
carriage. Several passengers grumbled their disapproval and tugged their
scarves and coats more tightly around themselves, but none made an
effort to close the window.

After a moment or two, the man stood and pushed his glasses up the
bridge of his nose with an air of determination. Emily observed even
more openly this time as he returned to the broken window, shoved it
upward and stuffed the wedge of paper between the Plexiglas and the
frame once more.

When he turned, he saw her watching and his smile lit up his face again.
His eyes met hers fully and she looked away, her cheeks tingling as she
turned to the window and the countryside emerging in the growing
daylight beyond it.
In spite of herself, her eyes shifted to follow him yet again when he
stepped away from the row with the broken window. His hair had been tousled by the wind, and upon settling back in his
seat he ran one hand cautiously over it, taming any wild, out-of-place
waves. His dark eyes behind the oval frames of his glasses flicked in
her direction before he turned toward his own window. She thought it was
clear that he was trying not to be obvious about watching her.

Q: Thank you so much for this interview, Kim. We wish you much success!
A: Thank you for your time and for your interest. I hope everyone will
enjoy the story when they get a chance to read it.

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15 Authors I can remember offhand

Okay... here goes, perhaps not as literary as some, but my measure of a
book is a darn good yarn. One that has me daydreaming about it for days
afterwards. In no particular order.
1) Jack London - I can spontaneously shiver even now. White Fang and
Call Of The Wild had a profound effect on me as a child.
2) A A Milne - nuff said!
3) M M Bennetts - If you don't know why by now... wait for her next
book!
4) Alexander Kent - Perhaps not as good as CS Forrester or Patrick
O'Brian, but I loved his Bolitho novels, and they really opened up the
period for me.
5) Len Deighton - for all sorts of reasons, Harry Palmer, Game, Set and
Match, Hook, Line and Sinker... and a brilliant non-fiction work
"Bomber".
6) Michael Crichton - because the despite the lame kiddie movies that
Spielberg turned Jurassic Park and The Lost World into, the books
themselves are actually thoughtful criticisms of how science sometimes
goes places it really shouldn't, just because it can. And he writes a
stonkingly good thriller.
7) Anne Rice - for The Mummy... and for bringing the Vampire genre into
disrepute.
8) Douglas Adams - for the Hitchhiker, The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul
and Last Chance to See - proving that he wasn't just a great comedy
writer but a concerned and interesting environmentalist too.
9) Lincoln Preston - These two guys, Lincoln Child and Douglas Preston,
wrote the book which became the film The Relic. In fact there are a
whole series of books featuring their FBI Agent, Special Agent Aloysius
Pendergast. Thoughtful and very creepy thrillers. Still Life With Crows
is one of the most genuinely frightening novels I have ever read.
10) Agatha Christie - She may have put murder in the parlour and bodies
in the library, but she wrote a great thriller, created two characters
which in their own way have entered into the legend of literature and
has kept us entertained through books, plays, radio and the medium of
television for over eighty years.
11) Dan Brown - for basically writing the same book over and over and
over again, but nevertheless getting published and being made into
movies - how the devil does he do it?
12) Janet Evanovich - for Stephanie Plum.
13) John Galsworthy - I read my way through the Forsyte Saga when I was
fifteen, something of a forgotten gem.
14) William Makepeace Thackeray - Vanity Fair, I loved this book I've
read it cover to cover many times.
15) Bram Stoker - for being the original master of gothic suspense.
Jewel Of Seven Stars beats Dracula any day of the week.
I can hear it now... why would I include an author that I really don't
like. To be frank, Dan Brown has a lot to do with why I am where I am
today. Had it not been for Dan Brown, Authonomy, Year Zero and the
realisation that there had to be something better than the mainstream
and the status quo, I would be in a very different place.

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Say what I mean... and mean what I say...

So it's goodbye to The Bill... After twenty-seven years.

You can officially colour me gutted.

I've been watching since Woodentop first aired in 1984.

Whilst TB has been one of my favourite programmes over the years, it has
been so much more in this household. In one of those "not a lot of
people know that" type stories, let me try to put into perspective what
TB meant to my family, and explain why its loss for some of the behind
the scenes, blink and you'll miss 'em crowd extras and walk on bit parts
is something of a disaster.

When my father passed away in 1976, I was still a schoolgirl. My mother
therefore fell back upon the only thing she was trained for. Acting. I
didn't think of school fees and all that jazz in those days, hey I was a
confused (and somewhat angry) child. "I, Claudius" was the first, but
you can trace my growing up through the television and filming work my
mother did, she kept me at that school, paying the extortionate fees...
until I was 18 and had staggered somewhat unsuccessfully through my A
Levels.

Acting is a precarious profession at best. Work cannot be relied upon.
Fortunately for my mother and me, my mother believed in consummate
professionalism, it would have never occurred to her not to turn up on
time to do the work she was hired to do, even though sometimes it was
deathly dull. The nature of the acting world meant that my school fees
and general living expenses came about in the most fantastical ways.
Michael Cimino's "Heaven's Gate" paid my year's school fees and sorted
out the flat roof over the study in 1981... I could bang on at length
about the various films and televisual highlights which kept the wolf
from the door until I started full time work in 1985.

Then along came The Bill. Suddenly, something of a sea change took
place. Suddenly my mother's agents were asking her if she had done The
Bill lately, suddenly there was almost a guarantee of work. Something
almost unheard of in the industry. Through the late 80s, 90s and up to
2004 when my mother really retired from work, The Bill kept her in a
reasonable living. Where money was tight, she would get a walk-on or
crowd work and somehow bills would be paid and the wolf wouldn't be
licking paint from the door again.

The list of stars who got their breaks in TB either in the regular cast,
or as guests, is endless.

Now all that has gone. Almost three decades of virtual job security,
chucked away... and for what? Darned if I know... I only know this. It
is a very sad day for British Television.

Thank you, "The Bill"... for all the times I've laughed, all the times
I've cried... and for the amazing friends I've made along the way
because of you... and thanks to all those friends for putting me back
together when I somewhat lost the plot after my marriage collapsed. The
second time in my life I've been somewhat... angry.

TB maybe gone... but not likely to be forgotten...

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Agent or No Agent...

Everyone is suddenly talking about them. So I thought I would chuck my
ten cents worth in there. Okay, I have to admit that a lifetime's
experience of agents has not been the best proving ground to trust their
abilities. My mother's theatrical agents were, broadly speaking, quite
good. But that was because she ditched the ones who made grandiose
promises and did zilch. By the time I was going to secretarial agencies
I was a committed cynic who heard blah, blah, blah when they started
speaking. First thing to remember, it is in their interests to keep you
on side. You are the cash cow. There in lies the first real problem. A farmer never has just one cow.
He has a whole herd of them. This is true of agents. They don't have
just one author, they have a whole herd of them. So they are not overly
worried about touting your work about. "I have got an agent." is just
the starting point. Once you have got one, you need to keep after them.
Not in a crazy stalker-ish way, but in a "I am not going to be fobbed
off and go quietly into the night" way. Some agents will only work hard
if their backs are to the wall and they are cornered like rats in a
trap. This is a simple fact that has served me well over the years.

Frankly, some of them are not up to the job. Being an agent requires the
persistence of a door to door brush salesman and the patience of Job;
but it also requires a deep understanding of markets, reading habits and
literature itself.

It pays to keep your ear to the ground. If you just leave everything to
your agent, it may be years before you hear anything at all. My view is,
that you will only get out what you are prepared to put in, an agent is
as potentially hard work as doing it all yourself.

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The Arts?

Royal Society for the encouragement of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce
(RSA)
I had high hopes when I was proposed for Fellowship of the RSA. A
meeting of minds perhaps; a place where my interest in the arts, in the
process of creation, in the celebration of things that make life grand,
might be shared and appreciated.

Over the weeks and months, not very much has happened with my
fellowship. True, some of this is my fault, I haven’t particularly
engaged with any of my fellow Fellows, or gone to any meetings.

Therein lies the problem.

I am confused. Very confused.

The Royal Society for the encouragement of the Arts holds meetings
with titles such as: “The Big Society Approach to Anti-Social Behaviour”
and has projects for Drug Addiction and Citizen Power, and the
Environment.

Okay. These are all very worthy subjects, but seem to have remarkably
little to do with the arts (in any form), or manufacturing, or commerce.
I am not entirely sure what I did expect from the RSA but did not expect
to see a agenda focusing entirely on social issues.

There are any number of quangos, interest groups and government
departments whose sole purpose is the discussion and policy making in
relation to Society, or Drugs, Citizen Power, the Environment. I am
curious as to why the Royal Society which is supposedly for the
ENCOURAGEMENT of Arts, Manufactures and Commerce appears to be only
interested or engaged in the duplication of the work of all these other
quangos, interest groups and government departments.

There is a big problem with the Arts in this country. One that goes
largely unrecognised; and I need hardly add that Manufacturing and
Commerce amongst this once great nation of “shopkeepers” is floundering
too. Surely the Royal Society should be engaged in activity which does
something to right these problems. Yes, some social engagement is
necessary, in fact vital, but for it to be the bound and centre of
everything that the RSA does seems wrong and inappropriate.

Which leads me neatly to my next bugbear. The Big Society. Let me say it
now, and get it out of the way quickly so that the shouting and whining
can be over and done with.

95% of the people who are likely to read this will not have the
slightest nodding acquaintance with what the government and people with
posh job titles and high salaries are talking about. Politicians won’t
either. The media paints a view for the clucking classes to shake their
heads over and feel secretly grateful that they don’t have to live like
that. Very, very few of these people have ever lived the lives that
they talk about in such grandiose terms. They don’t understand it, and,
I am certain they wouldn’t survive it if they were suddenly plucked from
their nice hermetically-sealed, money-cushioned lives and dumped down in
this world.

I have. I moved up to Leeds, and for eight months I lived the life. And,
let me tell you that on my own, I would not have survived it. It is a
different world. Some of the societal ills people like to pontificate
about are inflicted upon the people living them. It is simply stunning
the number of times these shortcomings are brought to the attention of
the powers that be, and still nothing is done. This is not about the
last thirteen years, this malaise has been growing for at least the last
thirty years. You can probably trace the origins back to the post war
period.

The cycle of dependency that has been created will not easily be broken.
The feelings of injustice and hopelessness will not be easily put aside
by some sort of social programme dreamed up by politicians and quangos.

The Big Society is another political initiative, put together by people
entirely divorced from the true reality of the lives they are talking
about. It will not succeed in the way that politicians think it will,
because they have failed to grasp the nettle of the things that have to
happen before it can have a hope of success.

Oddly it is in the Arts, and Manufacturing and Commerce where the
answers to some of these riddles would ultimately lie. Not in the social
agenda but in areas that the RSA apparently feels no need to commit to.

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Un-Common Places

When I started out on my publishing adventure, and it is an adventure, I
never suspected the places I would be finding and falling love with.
Some of them from my own living room.

I signed up for Second Life only this year. I'd known about it for a
long time, sure; but there were always reasons why not.

Everyone was so friendly and helpful. Lovely ladies, Selina and Arton,
made me welcome, Arton fixed my shop for me; Imarad let me share mike
time on readings of my writings... I found a whole new place to be, and
people who were happy, interested and engaged with reading and writing.

So when we launched the seventh novel from our tiny publishing "cottage"
(house is much bigger and grander), it seemed natural to come to Second
Life for a reading and discussion.

Common Places by Paul House launched last Friday at the Winchester
Writers' Conference, and now has the distinction of being my first
launch on Second Life too.

It was an excellent reading, and discussion, everyone really enjoyed
hearing the book, it was slightly unfortunate that audience was
curtailed by technical glitches, but this was more than made up for by
the generous enthusiasm of the audience.

So, thanks to everyone who could make it, and an extra special thanks to
Paul for sharing his marvellous new book with us.

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Now I really have read every damn thing!

For the uninitiated, and my non-UK friends who would otherwise not see any of this, in the UK we have newspapers. Actually, the word in itself is a bit of a stretch... apparently “news” includes stories about people you have never heard about (and from seeing the reports, never want hear about again) walking down the street.

British newspapers also have a serious obsession with the value of people’s homes and their ages. Presumably, so that the reader can orientate themselves on the pity scale, by adding up the value of the home and the ages of the owners and making value judgements about their likely class or political persuasion.

All of which leads me neatly to the point of this diatribe.

A couple of nights ago, twin baby girls were attacked by a fox as they slept in their cots in their parents’ home.

Now you would believe that such a horrific incident would illicit the sympathies of almost anyone who read the story. Nine month old babies attacked by a wild animal.

Not a bit of it.

In fact the responses I have read tonight on one website in particular make me question if there is any point, value or need to preserve the British people, especially the urbanites, for the future.

In between blaming the parents, suggesting that they are covering up for the family dog (the family don’t have one), even suggesting that the twins’ four year old brother let the fox in, and postulating that it’s a Tory conspiracy to re-start fox hunting, this little gem was posted.

“Hate to say it, but even if 'bite marks' are proven to be that of a fox still, it still doesn't mean the fox did it. Is it not possible for a human to take a dead foxes jaw/teeth attach them to make a pliers type of device & then sink away into flesh. A very sceptic thought I know, but possible nonetheless.” 

WTF??? That isn’t scepticism... Honestly, I don’t know what that is. A product of a very unwell mind most likely.

Most of the comments championing the fox are drowning in a tide of anthropomorphism and nauseating sentimentality that is simply not rational. Watching a few wildlife programmes does not make you an expert. Urban foxes have existed for decades. They are getting bolder, because people are actually trying to attract them into their gardens, leaving food out for them, and trying to make contact with them. If you care about the fox, leave them alone, interaction with humans is bad in every way for the fox. Wild animals do not benefit from contact with Man.

For the record, I am no fan of hunting. I don’t believe in killing things unnecessarily, and if it becomes necessary a cull by professionals with high-powered rifles would seem to be both more efficient and more humane. I believe we are here to care for weaker creatures and the less fortunate among us, not to exploit everything for some kind of meaningless political point.

Where is the humanity? I’d just like to know. 

Posted via email from mock-ing-bird's posterous

Absentee Landlords and Rotten Boroughs

Unless you have been hiding under a rock, or up the Amazon completely out of touch from newspapers, television, radio and gossip, you will know that the most infuriating and important election in at least the last twenty years is upon us.

I have always voted. It would never ever occur to me not to vote. It is my right and my duty. Braver women than I chained themselves to railings and chucked themselves under racehorses to win the vote. It's the least I can do, frankly.

I was up and ready this morning before the 0700 alarm. No mean feat as I crawled away to bed at 0315 this morning, carried away by writing again.

The least I can do. That particular statement carries even more irony when you consider that my vote doesn't really count. I live in what is laughingly termed, a safe seat. Not so much from my cold, dead hands as from my safe, warm seat. In my case, the incumbent has been in residence since the dawn of time... or so it seems. Actually he was first returned in this seat in May 1997, it just seems like forever.

I rolled up this morning fully intending to cast my vote for the Lib Dems; perhaps the least dire option amongst some real stinkers. I picked up my two papers. White for National Government (surely a particularly grubby shade of grey would have been more appropriate), and Green for Local Government. I walked over to the booth. Unfolded the papers and stared at them.

A list of names, the candidates' addresses, box to make a cross in. Simple.

Yeah, right.

First of all, at the top of the paper, the incumbent. Fair enough, I wasn't going to vote for him. Second on the List, the Labour Candidate.

Apparently, Surrey matters so little to the Labour Party that they can't even be bothered to field a candidate who actually lives here. The Labour Candidate lives in West London.

Then my eye fell on the listing for the Lib Dem Candidate.

Apparently, Surrey matters even less to the Lib Dems, whose candidate did not even put down an address, but stated in brackets that she had addressed in Hampstead and Kilburn.

Hampstead and Kilburn, those well known boroughs of Surrey!!!

I refuse to vote for candidates who don't even live here. How can they know anything about Surrey if they don't actually live in Surrey?

I cast my vote. After all, it makes no difference according to Voter Power Index.

In Mole Valley, one person does not really have one vote, they have the equivalent of 0.073 votes.

The average UK voter has 3.45x more voting power than voters in Mole Valley. 0.253 to be precise! [Source: Voter Power Index].

I didn't vote for whom I wanted to. I didn't vote tactically... apparently I can't even do that. And I refuse to spoil my ballot paper.

NONE OF THE ABOVE was the option I wanted. It is the option we should have for when all else fails.

* * * * * *

Those who know me well, know that my music in the truck is usually played at a fairly ear-splitting level.

Right now, I have an irritating problem with my truck and a loose wire somewhere in the system.

As I drove away from voting this morning, my truck's front right tyre hit a particularly large pothole. For a few seconds, my music was at psychological warfare volumes. It was that point that I remembered that the party mostly in power and responsible for things like the potholes (which in my town are enormous and have done untold damage to many cars)... is the Liberal Democrats.

Maybe my wasted vote wasn't such a waste afterall.