My agent Sid has invited me to drinks with the literary legend, Conrad Nolan. He has written fifteen novels of considerable artistic merit. Apparently. I have never read any of them. Sid thinks I will benefit from talking to one of the masters and to my surprise I am genuinely excited to meet him.

Sid calls me to stop in the John Snow for a cheap pint beforehand. He has brought a Singles Club date along; a plump, homely girl with kind eyes. She is introduced as Molly.

“I wish I’d known you were bringing someone,” I tell Sid. “I could have brought Cheryl. She’s talking to me occasionally now.”

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I've just come across this, which is Margaret Atwood talking about historical fiction in general, and in particular about writing Alias Grace:

"Fiction is where individual memory and experience and collective memory and experience come together, in greater or lesser proportions. The closer the fiction is to us readers, the more we recognise and claim it as individual rather than collective. Margaret Laurence used to say that her English readers thought The Stone Angel was about old age, the Americans thought it was about some old woman they knew, and the Canadians thought it was about their grandmothers."

Here, surely, is why I so often find close analogies between writing historical fiction, as I keep finding myself doing, and what the writers of sf/f say (is 'speculative fiction' the current term?) about why they do as they do. I confess that through no fault of LeGuin, Patchett, Asimov or whoever are in your pantheon of greats, I am almost completely missing the sf/f gene. (Thinking of Atwood, it was that strand of The Blind Assassin that made me give up). But why they do it makes so much sense.

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Managed to get the first draft of the minutes from yesterday’s meeting done this morning, so I am obviously cooking on gas in one aspect of life at least. Hurrah. Only wish the same could be said of my writing, which is rather fading into obscurity at the moment. If only I could drum up some enthusiasm from somewhere for the novel, eh, but I simply can’t. Ah well.

Still, at least we have this week’s heroes sorted in the office: they are (a) Bruce Parry, as Andrea likes him; (b) Carol’s husband for taking such a fabulous photo of a bridge built by; (c) Isambard Kingdom Brunel, whose bridges rock (according to the Dean); and (d) the new Chaplaincy flat and toilet, which are both wonderful and no-one dare use for fear of taking off the shine. As it were ...


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Just a quick note to let you know that I've a very short story, Zalon the Hairdresser, up at Bewildering Stories (and thanks to Fionna for reminding me!).

Zalon was a real pleasure to write (I think I wrote the original draft a year ago - actually, as a point of (debatable) interest, the picture, the one on the right below FOLLOWERS and above the cover of I Met a Roman... is of me reading it last September) anyhoo, back to the point. Yes. Writing it was a pleasure, not least because of Don Webb's terrific editorial input.

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Last night in my dreams I found the most wonderful stuff on an indoor market stall; there was a set of dishes that fitted together, some kind of condiment or jam thingy. One of them opened like an oyster and had a kind of pop-up detail inside with little ducks and water lilies. I asked the price and was amazed at the £2.98 tag, so naturally I couldn’t wait to buy it. I’d taken a china teapot with a cane handle to use as a bag and had carefully placed it on the table so that everyone around could see that it was mine, that I’d arrived with it – I didn’t want it to get mixed up with the ornaments and ceramics for sale, but I thought I could always show them my money inside. It was gone.


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A sharp autumnal day today. I really needed my hat and fingerless gloves, in spite of the sun’s deceiving brightness. Though actually I do rather enjoy autumn. Indeed the season has most definitely turned towards winter, so the bad news is cold weather, but the good news is no more nasty insects, hurrah. Not that there have been that many of the latter this year, a miracle for which I am truly grateful.

This morning I have caught up with the last-minute panics about Freshers’ Week, and am still trying to thrash some of them out. Double dammit. I do like to feel in control at this stage (a false illusion, but a nice one), and this year I really don’t. I also had a phone call from the hospital admissions department asking me if I wanted to be transferred from the consultant I saw about my operation as she’s not free till next March to actually do anything. Um, yes please. I really can’t wait till the spring, dammit. So I said I didn’t mind who did the operation as long as they were (a) alive, and (b) sober, and am now awaiting their response. Mind you, once they’ve seen the extent of my notes, I guess it’s whoever draws the short straw, poor them …


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A lazy start to the day today, and a welcome brunch of scrambled eggs, mushroom and chicken - as made (just about acceptably - cooking not being one of my strong points) by me, hurrah. I then leapt womanfully into Sunday Suburbia mode and washed the car (well, gosh), while Lord H mended my brakelight. What a hero.

Talking of heroes, I struggled on with Hallsfoot's Battle and am now just about at 37,000 words where Johan's about to start his battle training. He's confident, but it won't go well, I fear. Well, the Gathandrians don't really do violent stuff so they're not used to it. I suspect he will have to swallow his pride and ask for Simon's help, in the long run ...


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When I was looking after my mother I didn’t have time to wonder when she would die; a client who calls me for tarot advice often asks me when her mother is going to die. The first few times she asked this I got a perverse pleasure from saying, ‘…not any time soon.’ There is also a man who puts this question to me about his wife; he’s been waiting for her death a long time. This all sounds bad but I really do understand where they’re coming from and just how difficult it can get – and how madly insane you can end up; the day I got my mother into a wheelchair taxi and onto the ward I had my clothes on inside-out and back-to-front, and my hair hadn’t been brushed for days.


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Lord H and I have spent a lovely day out, lurking behind bushes and staring at birds. As you do. We started off in Pagham Harbour (hard "g" if you're saying it in your head ...) and had a great time staring at lapwing, godwits, herons and the usual sea-loving suspects. Mind you, we were surprised by a determined flock of linnets who had obviously decided there was much safety in numbers and were brave enough to lurk on top of the bushes we were in and stare back at us. Shades of Hitchcock indeed ... We were also treated to an incredible and long-lasting view of a kingfisher flying up and down one of the creeks. Marvellous. All that electric blue and orange. And the turnstones were nice too - once we'd spotted them about ten yards away from us - the only reason we saw them at all was the slight clicking noise they made on the pebbles. They therefore win the Best Camouflaged Bird of the Year award - well done them!...


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Here it is. I love it! I had no idea what to expect, so I was a bit nervous when I opened the email… but it was love at first sight. Now I just can’t stop looking at it. I’m going to print it out so I can carry it with me everywhere I go, and show it to random people in the street...

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