Today, and I mean all day, was spent writing a short story. Well, the first draft of one anyway. I have just finished. And, at the moment, I'm pleased with it. It was the result of a prompt I gave my writing group a week or so ago. The prompt was: It reminds me of coleslaw. You're all welcome to use it.

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A medium dose of Monday morning gloom today so I’ve dosed up with Vitamin B pills and the De-stress ones too. Just in case. A girl can never have too many medicines. I am also facing the nightmare calculation about how many bank holidays and University days that I, as a part-timer, am allowed to take this holiday year. It’s such a trauma, I can tell you. Firstly, I’m not convinced we should have to pay for our bank holidays just because we’re not full-time – but I can’t be bothered to make a fuss which won’t have any effect. Sigh. Ah, the wisdom of age – Choose Your Battles. Anyway, after working out (with Andrea’s help and Ruth’s calculator) that if I were full-time, I’d have 25 holidays, 2 free days, 8 bank holidays and 7 University days – all of which need dividing by 0.6, thus making 25.2 in total, or less depending on whether I do or do not count the bank holidays which fall on Thursdays and Fridays, ie Good Friday, Boxing Day, Christmas Day and New Year’s Day which I can’t have as I don’t work on Thursdays or Fridays (usually) – are you keeping up at the back?? – then if I swing from a rope with a rose in my teeth I might owe the University 2 holidays, or not – thus bringing me to the point where I have given up entirely and asked HR if they can help ...

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Dear Psychic Pam

I was waiting for my little yellow bus today but a white one turned up. Things like that throw me off balance. Do you think it means something? Is it a sign that things are moving on without me? Our usual driver sat behind the wheel and spun my ticket out of the machine but there was someone in my seat. Somehow, the day is getting out of control. My hands keep attracting my attention; they look different – much, much older than they were yesterday, though I haven’t really noticed them for a while...so maybe it all started weeks ago, months even. Do you think it’s possible that I’ve been abducted or something?

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Well, they say that every cloud has one, don’t they? Perhaps it’s just the fact there’s spring in the air, but I have to admit to being in a rather good mood today. Last week, I had two short stories rejected. One on the grounds it used lyrics from a popular 80's song and the other because it was too ‘Tolkienesque’ for the magazine in question. That’s ok, it was meant to be.


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Chrissie Gittins (whose collection Family Connections is reviewed here) will be reading from her collection at the Edinburgh International Book Festival on Monday 11th August 4.30pm, at the Writer's Retreat, with Gerard Woodward and Gerard Donavan. Also a poet, Chrissie will be giving a solo children's poetry performance at Edinburgh in the RBS Theatre, also Monday 11th August, at 11.30pm.

Guernica has an interview with Ursula K. Le Guin (her collection, The Birthday of the World is reviewed here):....

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A leisurely start to the day, followed by a quiet hour in the Godalming Quakers service. Sometimes it's lovely to relax into silence and have a definite period of thinking/meditation. Words can be such a barrier on occasions. And it's nice to sit while the silence flows by. It's funny but it does have different colours and stages. Like a river. Sometimes it's stretched thin and you can barely see it, and sometimes, it's like a great flood of gold, and there's no rhyme nor reason as to which it might be at any given time. Very strange. Anyway, before I get too carried away with it all, I must say that I do wish they'd make the benches more comfortable. Next time (and now I suspect there probably will be a next time, sometime) I'll sit at the back where the wall is. And maybe take a cushion. I also played it cleverly in that I didn't order a coffee afterwards so I could slip away without talking to too many people. Aha! I am indeed a sociopath ...

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This morning I got up earlier than I consider altogether decent for a Saturday morning, in order to drive to Hampton Court to do some research. It was cold and grey, with dull light and a nasty east wind, and there was scarcely anyone about except for security people with their coats buttoned up to their chins and an air of bracing themselves for the day as much as the weather. I found my way through arches and past gates as instructed, collected my pass, and trudged past the backs of low buildings - storehouses, offices, goods yards and so on - and through the gardens. Under not-yet-leafed trees what must have been spectacular carpets of daffodils are brown and shrivelled now: between them a few bluebells are showing. Seemingly miles away, and far above our heads, the roof of the Tudor hall and the chimneys and pinnacles of the great gateways are elaborate and remote: an untidy accumulation of Wolsey's blood-coloured grandeur, staring down everyone who approaches. I could smell the woodsmoke where they were lighting the fires in Henry VIII's kitchens. It began to rain.

Through a door in a wall, and round a corner and a couple of centuries, the long, long William & Mary front stretches away.

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It’s very strange, coming across these old pieces of writing and getting a glimpse into my old self; I’m glad I covered some of my thoughts. I remember me, at twenty-odd, standing in a bar, trying to capture remnants of old politics but nothing survived because they hadn’t been written down. I keep telling Amazon that she will regret not writing. So she has scattered bits of diaries (which are better than nothing) but the laptop makes all the difference; now it’s easy to nip in and type a quick note, and Bibo will save her. I can just see her old self cackling at the language of messages and outrageous statements of her twirling twenties.

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I am utterly (and possibly very sadly) thrilled to have received my Torchwood certificate during the week. Signed by the great Captain Jack himself. Ah, I'm now an official operative, you know. And they may well need my services at a future date, should Godalming ever be threatened by alien invasion. Oh no, I'm already too late. Dammit. Never mind, I can still hold my torch in the special Torchwood manner and wear a long black coat. Hmm, in that case I fear no-one will notice the difference ...

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