I went to see the film Defiance last night, which is excellent, I found it very moving. I find most Holocaust-themed works moving, very personal. It's most definitely worth seeing. But before that I sat in the cinema's cafe, having something to eat, and was struck by a kind of revelation which is both quite upsetting and also makes so much sense. I will try and describe it:

I emigrated to Israel from England in 1994. I was 24, had just finished university (including two graduate degrees). I wasn't someone who had grown up in a Jewish family that was very attached to Israel; we were secular, not that interested. But I came here during the summer of 1993 and knew when I touched down that I wanted to move here. It felt like a kind of calling, a gut feeling.

Why? I couldn't have told you at the time, couldn't have explained it. But looking back, I was searching for something, a sense of community, a belonging that I didn't feel in London. And I found it here. For years I was thrilled every morning waking up in Jerusalem. I learned the language quickly, I found work as a science and technology journalist, and I loved my job. I went around the country and interviewed entrepreneurs who had set up little technology start-ups, amazing technologies, excited interviewees who were delighted to speak to me. It was fun! And I was good at it, I loved being freelance, I learned how to make contacts, to get my articles in magazines around the world.

But. But.

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I’d been woken the first time by the leaping around of the dog like an Irish dancer burling to the relentless tattoo of the window cleaner knocking at the front door. The second time by snuffing a fat brown moth up my right nostril. And now by the demented cricket-like metallic chirping from Roo’s alarm clock.


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Well, I finally found myself clicking into the novel this evening and working on it! I’m at the stage of reorganising the first three chapters and have been cutting, pasting and moving sections and paragraphs around. By golly I think I’ve got it – so I’ll be able to move on, cut/pad and write to the end.


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They looked more like mountaineers than pensioners, and certainly weren't going to let age get in the way of making a sartorial statement.


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When I was five I went through my 'Watership Down' phase and wanted to be a rabbit when I grew up. Specifically, Hazel. Hazel was my hero: courageous, resourceful (maybe I had a tiny crush on him, I don't know). To her credit, my mother did nothing to disourage me.

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We like to pretend we’re just like anyone else. Nothing strange about us.
Oh no. Trouble is, there are all those odd little foibles and habits…

1. When you hear about terrible tragedies on the news, there’s a tiny and very shameful part of you that’s thinking it would make a great story.
2. You long to have proper time to write, free from the distractions of work and life and family, but when you do finally grab some, you fritter half of it away by looking at websites and chat rooms and, um, blogs like this.
3. Your characters may be strolling around inside your own head, but that doesn’t mean they’re not living, breathing people. And when you have to finish a project, you feel a sense of real loss that you won’t be hanging out with them anymore.
4. The entire world can shrink to the size of your email inbox or your letterbox when you’re waiting for news on a writing project. Even though you’re driving yourself mad with the constant checking, you can’t seem to stop doing it. This has an added layer for the published, who have a condition known as OARCD. This stands for Obsessive Amazon Ranking Checking Disorder. There is currently no cure.

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I feel very frustrated with the book I have written because I cannot easily explain what it is about.
I have just watched a programme on C S Lewis and as a result I feel enthused again. I am embarrassed to say that this book is about the meaning of life and the search for God and spirtuality.
The plot is a device which is supposed to explain the state of the physical world, approximately 100 years from now. So I am taking the events that are current and anticipating their natural conclusion.
There is so much talk of atheism, to the point where anyone of intelligence is not supposed to believe in anything supernatural. This leaves a dark and empty gulf of nothingness. I have tried to include facts such as evolution and I am suggesting that the total evolution of humanity must be to evolve into spiritual form. As the material world is all about the survival of the fittest it should follow that those with money have better lives. They clearly do in this world. Those who survive without too much regard to others will succeed. But now we have a unique glimpse as to what happens when everyone jumps on the same bandwagon. A credit crunch. If you invest money that isn't there and then everyone else does the same, sooner or later there will be a crash. Where does this leave the survivalists? Well, it appears they get bailed out by the rest of us. To me this indicates the futility of making money for its own sake. There has to be more to life than that. Particularly, if you fall into the not-so-rich category.
This is the point from which I have begun my exploration of the journey of the soul.My hero is ordinary. He is nobody in the eyes of the world. Nevertheless he still seeks for something enduring
and meaningful. The book is about this journey and is well researched. It is a message of hope for all those who may feel that there isn't a lot. I am one of them. I still believe that if there is something you really want to find then you must spend your time searching. My own spiritual journey started 20 years ago although I was always interested in this side of life. I did find some amazing spiritual truths but it has taken years to put it all together. Fortunately, I have one person who understands what I am trying to do. You just have to keep on going.

'Anyone want the Anita Brookner? Don’t all shout at once.’

My audience of three were less than ecstatic. One glanced momentarily from a Colin Forbes, one cleared her throat and flipped the pages of ‘Jamaica Inn’, the third laid aside ‘Great Expectations’ to reach for a glass of water. Much as I’d expected.

For me, though, she's the perfect holiday read.


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As soon as we get home, I leave Jack outside bemoaning the length of the grass and the asparagus that has gone to seed in our absence, and I hit Google. 'Am I pregnant?'

I'm directed to forums full of fifteen-year-old girls. They have been informed by their schools' Moral and Social Education teachers that if they ever go to a party lasting beyond 10pm, they will, inevitably, come home pregnant.

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Anticipation milks pale courage, drills clean holes. My legs are shaking still because this life demands the actuality of teeth with bite. Yes I ran away, or rather didn’t return for that last problem, the one where during the examination he’d shaken his head and said, ‘Ooh I’m very suspicious of that one.’


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