Taking my inspiration from the wonderful Emerging Writers Network, I thought I'd mention just a few of the sources of great writing I've been enjoying recently:....

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Lord H and I have spent a glorious day exploring the walks of Pulborough and also visiting Pulborough Brooks. We both managed to hold up under our various infirmities - me and my shoulder, and poor Lord H and his hand which he unfortunately gashed whilst washing up at work yesterday. It's a nasty wound for sure, though not very deep. Luckily we've got enough dressings and bandages to last till Monday when I can restock. Lordy, but we're lucky to be still walking, you know. Mind you, we had a bit of technical difficulty with Lord H's muffler - every time he lifted his binoculars to his eyes, he caught the scarf as well so ended up just staring at darkness. Ah, the trials and tribulations of being a birdwatcher are many and varied indeed. Once I'd stopped laughing, I did help him tuck it inside the fleece which meant it was out of harm's way - thus gaining valuable Wife Points which I will probably need to cash in later ...


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I got some photos through of last week's workshop at the People Show Studios. They were taken by John Lloyd Davies, our brilliant director and head of Opera Genesis at Royal Opera House 2. I hope they give you some idea of the workshop production.

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Have played my first round of golf with Marian since my shoulder disaster (I think I must now always hear that word in my head a la Craig Revel Horwood - disarrrster, dahlings, disarrrster ...) and it hasn't really gone too badly. Well, apart from the score of course. Neither of us were playing at our best but, hey, at least we got round relatively intact. I have to admit that my shoulder was aching a little before we started, but I took it as gently as possible and halfway through it actually appeared to be more mobile. Mind you, it's back to the same ache level now, so I'm not sure what that signifies. Best not lift any heavy loads this weekend then ...


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My poem, Slug, is now up over at the wonderful Pygmy Giant. Go see, folks.

Also, I think I'm quite tempted by these lovely looking handmade cards. I'm not really one for Christmas and all that, but they do look good.

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Thanks to Rod on WriteWords, I’ve discovered a new form of procrastination in BT’s Ask Emma feature. This is a great idea – BT punters can ask the creepy swivelly-eyed virtual assistant why their phone line isn’t working, and be reassured that it’s probably their own fault and it’ll cost them. And because this service is aimed at the fine, upstanding British public, BT can be confident that no one will ever type in rude words just to be stupid.

I started the conversation with a few gentle questions...


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I must say that I thought last night's first episode of "The Devil's Whore" was a real class act - utterly gripping, layered, human and deep. Which is saying something indeed for the usual run of television these days. If you didn't manage to catch it, get yourself in front of the TV next Wednesday night at 9pm and enjoy. Well, that is, unless they change the schedules of course. If the next three episodes maintain the standards of this first one (even though Lord H would have preferred more on the battles, naturally ...), then I think we may have this year's drama winner on our hands.

It also struck me that, as a refreshing change from our celebrity and appearance-obsessed society, it was lovely to see that the most wisdom, dignity and simple humanity came from the plain-looking folk whom everyone mocked (aka the Puritans and Levellers), rather than the posh, pretty folk everyone was bowing to (aka the Royals, the gentry and their ilk). A lesson surely also to be learnt in the recent Strictly debacle, if I'm not much mistaken ...


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When I was first asked if I'd be interested in writing an erotic story for an anthology by contemporary women writers I wasn't sure what to say. Yes, I like writing short stories, and writing sex, and yes, the general opinion seems to be that I do it well and yes, the advance for my one story would make a considerable difference to the domestic budget. But still... I was busy hammering out what was become A Secret Alchemy: could I put those voices, those worlds, on hold while I dreamt up something else? And would my writerly reputation - such as it is - be cast forever into the outer darkness of a genre almost as literarily unrespectable as doctor-and-nurse romances? (Though to my mind the campus novel is simply hospital romance for the literati). And then I realised I did have a character I was really fond of, from a story which I'd never quite got right but whose central idea I still believed in and wanted to explore. And my agent reassured me that my reputation was not seriously at risk.

What with A Secret Alchemy being published, and my trip to Mexico, not to mention grappling with the PhD and every now and again having to take time out to cope with real life, I keep forgetting that I'll have another publication to celebrate in January. Indeed, it's already out in Australia. The conceit of in In Bed With is that we're all writing under pseudonyms, so I'm not going to tell you what my story's about, although my fellows on the MPhil at Glamorgan will recognise the opening - ah - scenario from this character's earlier life. But as you can see from the cover, I'm in some classy company.

I'm interested that whenever the subject of writing sex comes up (sorry: it's impossible to discuss without falling into a hundred snigger-making doubles-entendres) it's regarded as big issue.

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Guess what, Blogspot Buddies? I am writing again! What a huge relief; I was beginning to think I'd lost it forever. I am very excited about my new work in progress because it is one of those projects that seems to come from nowhere, yet feels as if it has been waiting somewhere at the back of my mind forever. If it carries on developing at the rate it currently is, I could be sitting on something amazing. And this all came about because I did something I haven't done in ages - I sat back and looked at the whole picture.


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James Hardy is strolling along Berwick Street browsing the record shops. A bitter, jealous loathing erupts with an intensity that both shames and scares me. But the loathing is stronger than the shame.

He looks so casual that for a moment I wonder if I have the right man. Then he stops for two pretty girls half my age who are holding towards him pens and copies of his lavishly bound novel with a submissive eagerness that momentarily pleases my misogynistic tendencies. With a winning smile he scrawls his signature and, no doubt, a charming personal message on the title page of each.

He excuses himself and the girls watch him leave with the books clutched to their chests and their hearts swelling. He doesn’t look back and the girls turn away, giggling and opening their phones to tell their friends...

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