Did anyone see the news the other night where the brother of yet another young victim of violence was talking to reproters? It made my heart bleed and my soul weep. Through his tears this young black man was imploring "Why do these things happen? We see other families on the telly about it and now look, we are the family on the telly." He then went on to say "Something has to be done to stop this. It isn't the police. It isn't racial. It is black people doing it to ourselves and each other!"


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About eight months ago I mentioned that I'd attended a book launch at my local library. A couple of months before that I'd plugged the book. I believed then and still do believe that it's important to do such things.

So, eight months on...

I was in the middle of running my writing group tonight. The author of said book appeared and asked for a word. Of course I said that's fine. I did offer him the opportunity to speak to me in private; he chose to speak in front of the group. No problems.

He wanted to talk to me about what I'd posted on the blog in March.

He said he didn't like what I'd written about him.

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A fairly quiet day today. Full of rain and darkness. Goodness me, how poetic I am, ho ho – but it’s true. According to the weather forecast, it’s going to rain at least until Friday, so we’d better get used to it. It makes the concept of hibernation so much more appealing.

Work-wise, I’m waiting around for papers to fall from heaven for the rapidly approaching meetings. If I don’t get stuff out by tomorrow (my last day here this week), people will start to hyperventilate. And that will include me. But there’s not much I can do if they’re still being written elsewhere. We do so like to take things to the wire here in academia, you know ...

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I was somewhat surprised to note when I weighed myself this morning that since I stopped worrying about my weight I have lost half a stone! How did that happen? Where did it go? I think I will have to stop worrying about my weight forever; at least that way I might get back to my ideal weight (ideal according to the media you understand). I have heard of the phrase 'Think yourself thin'. Thin I will never be but thinner-than-I-have-been-of-late sounds quite interesting. Work that one out if you can!

Hubby and I did not get all the Christmas shopping done last Saturday, despite the fact we were in Croydon for around eight hours. Hubby - who was diagnosed diabetic eighteen months ago - was not feeling a hundred per cent which put a bit of a dampener on it, but it wasn't his fault. Plus the place was absolutely heaving. With five weeks to go, people were still shopping like there was no tomorrow. You couldn't move in some places, finding yourself hemmed in by a human wall of panic buyers behaving like weird dolls whose Prime Directive was to BUY BUY BUY. I have never seen anything like it this far in advance of Christmas Eve.


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Spent the morning catching up with emails and organising meetings on top of the meetings that have already been organised. Just in case there aren’t enough. All this is made more exciting by the new system for booking catering – which has snuck up on us without trumpeting its approach. Instead of the usual email, there’s a lovely new form where you have to try to remember project codes without being prompted. A challenge too far for a Monday really, but I think I sussed it. In the end. I’ll know if I’ve done it right by whether food actually turns up on the day or not. My, how I like to live dangerously – I now have visions of starving academics weeping over empty plates ...

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Last night I listened to Lavinia Greenlaw's Sunday Feature on Elizabeth Bishop, a great poet about whom I knew almost nothing, though after hearing some read a Collected Poems has now gone straight to the top of my Christmas list. It was on Radio 3 but, shame on them, there's no Listen Again facility, or I'd put the link here. Anyway, in passing Lavinia made the point that after an extremely damaged and damaging childhood, for Bishop writing was therapy. And yet, said the programme (I hope I'm quoting right), she knew that it isn't enough for writing to be therapy. It has to be shaped and worked with craft, to become art.

Writing can be used in a therapeutic setting, of course. And, more informally, anyone from a child writing a story about finding a scary monster in her mother's bed to an old man writing a poem to be read at the funeral of his wife knows that feelings beyond a certain intensity demand heightened and perhaps metaphorical expression. But for writers it's a very different thing,


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Daily it was his responsibility to check and monitor progress, making the journey was distant and remote, for in the Nigerian swamps roads are not connected where there is no land, so movement was by water craft, usually high speed launches, cutting through the waters this fine and sunny day, passing tiny hubs of people clinging onto spits of land, as the jungle vegetation crowded closer, the coxswain throttled back slowing the craft, as it passed tiny dots of civilisations, little kids jumping up and down as the boat neared the spit of land, srcabbling around as the bags of candies landed at their feet, moving on as the next platform was just close by.
A movement at the edge of the swamp vegetation made the coxswain point, he noticed that she was chest deep in the water, standing with her hands on the side of a log boat, piled inside the log boat seemed like, looked like pots,pans, with other items that appeared to come from a home, only the sound of the water rushing past the boat and the distant called of monkeys and birds could be heard, the eyes of the woman followed the boat round the corner.
His work done at the platform, the coxswain cruised the boat down the creek to return back to the other station platform, slowing for the spit of land village, the woman was still standing chest deep in the swamp water, he took notice of her this time, she was old looked frail, but she held her head high staring back as the boat passed, watching it until it past from view.
As was his duty, the same journey was made the next day, arriving at the same spit of land village, yes she was still stood in the water, still gripping the log boat, stare now blankly as the boat pasted by, watching as the candies were thrown to the kids, staring just staring.
Later that day they again started the return journey, the old woman still along side the boat, he told the coxswain to get nearer the main area of the village, calling over the village chief, questioning him why the old woman was stood in the water, her husband had died, now there was no one to take care of her, the other villagers could not support her, yes it was sad, but what could he do, he prompted the coxswain to ask what was required, a new house ( hut ), and a new log boat, this one belonged to him, the cost was agreed, the chief was happy, now he could have his boat back, the speed boat past again from view.
The next day on reaching the spit of land village, there was no old woman, she had gone, a new house ( hut ) stood on the spit of land, but there was no one there, passing onto the platform, he wondered were she had gone, by mid after noon they again left to return, to the other platform, no old woman appeared as they passed the village, but all of the kids waved and shouted, they cruised on down the creek, still waving back to the kids, a scream reached them from the vegetation swamps edge, the old woman was stood in a new log boat with the paddle raise above her head, jigging from foot to foot, laughing and shouting with a huge smille on her face.

I have just had my first experience of joining in with The Sunday Salon , which sounds like a wonderful idea - bloggers blogging about what they are reading while they are reading! I have joined in from The Short Review blog, since that seemed appropriate, and blogged about the latest short story collection I am reading....

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Got up today - very, very slowly ... - expecting a day of dull weather and novel trogging, but was bumped out of my personal twilight zone by a very lovely email from reader, Jill Weekes, who'd really enjoyed Pink Champagne and Apple Juice and who was kind enough to put this review on Amazon:

"The story is as sparkling as its title. I was gripped from the first page and had to know what the history was behind the mysterious Uncle John. This book is so full of larger than life characters - Uncle John himself, Derek the bouncer, Heinrich the chef and Philippe the waiter. Not to mention Angie herself who shows how stubborn she is when it comes to achieving her goals. A brilliant read. I can just see it as a film or a tv drama." ...

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I've dragged myself out of the pit today, having more or less recovered from a great Friday night out at Babble. Babble nights happen every now and again, and are always fun with a great atmosphere and some shit hot music. Babble always reminds me how clubbing used to be.

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