Writing
I am in the middle of a very exciting time at the moment. After too many years of secret scribbling, and being ashamed of my little hobby of crafting my own little private masterpieces of creation with a fraction of the soon-to-be a million words of the English Language, I have finally come out of the writing closet.
(Actually, the historic millionth word is predicted to be created on or about the 29th April next year.)
Last November I decided to go for it. I'd read an excellent book by Jane Wenham-Jones called 'Wannabe a Writer?'. I can recommend it. It's well written, funny, and Jane's exploits as she struggled to become a published writer are heartbreaking, exhilarating and sometimes downright cheeky. But she made it; so I thought to myself, why shouldn't I make it too?
I'll let you into a secret - not quite a year later, I have! I've actually become a writer. A real live writer, with a top London agent, and author of a hopefully soon-to-be-published novel with ... shussssh (because my agent is still negotiating) ... talk of a three book deal with a famous imprint of a big publishing house.
Am I on the brink of becoming a middle-aged child prodigy? Will I finally redeem myself for failing my eleven-plus? Will I attend my own book signing in Kettering library, and be able to use my special pen, hoarded carefully since the early 1970s when I'd dreamed of becoming a writer and signing the book covers of coveted first editions with their gold-leaf embossed hardback covers?
I still can't quite believe that I've actually found other people who practise this strange habit, mental deviation, obsessive compulsion extremely enjoyable hobby, too. I've made some lovely friends on the internet, and we are about to arrange our third meet-up in London for lunch. We speak to each other every single week and our only regret is that we are flung far and wide across the country (apart from the lovely Helen who lives in Northampton).
In the last year, I've won a short story competition, had two short stories accepted for women's magazines and have met Iris Gower, Dee Williams, Elizabeth Hawksley and Ray Allen - who wrote 'Some Mothers Do 'ave 'Em'. Jane Wenham-Jones has become a very good personal friend and we've met up for lunch twice and been on a writers' holiday together, where I laughed and giggled unselfconsciously at Lynne Hackles' tales as a successful short story writer and author of 'Writing from Life'.
I've gone through the agonies of rejection, the joys of being signed by an agent, and the impatience of waiting for responses from publishing houses. I've been a reader for other writers, and have endured the self-inflicted torture of asking people I know to be a reader for me. I've cringed at writing even mild 'squidgy' bits, and laughed at my own pathetic efforts.
Will my books be published? I'm so close I can almost smell them and if I close my eyes and imagine very hard, I can feel the smooth, cool paperback covers and run my thumb over my name, embossed on the front. (I've got a thing about embossed covers, can't you tell?)
But do you know what is the most important thing I have discovered about myself? It's that I've finally acknowledged that have to write ... I need to write ... I always have and now I'm mature enough to admit it.
Published Date:
25/09/2008
Modified Date:
25/09/2008
Ps and Qs
My grown-up kids ganged up on me the other day laughing about all the little things they weren't allowed to do/must do when they were children. Apparently I was an embarrassment because I wouldn't trust their friends' parents. But in the light of all the recent horror stories involving children recently, they admitted that perhaps I was right after all to ring up unfamiliar parents to check that, when they went round for tea or to play, they wouldn't be allowed to play in the street. (Cringe - I don't remember doing that ....but it was only when they were very young apparently!)
It got me thinking about my own childhood. What things were you made to do/weren't allowed to do? Here is a list of mine as a 1960s child growing up in Kettering:-
Forbidden things
- Bubble gum/chewing gum
- Comics like Beano, Dandy, Beezer (Bunty and Judy - OKish)
- "Modges" - might have been a made-up word - meaning sweets/crisps/biscuits that ruined your tea
- "Rubbish" - meaning flying saucers, pink shrimps, fruit salads and black jacks
- ITV after school was frowned on (eg Crackerjack), BBC was more educational (eg Blue Peter)
- Eating chips/sweets/crisps in the street
- Playing in the garden on Sunday afternoons
- Playing in the street - until I was ten - yes ten!!!
- Lucky bags
- Swearing
- Talking to "strangers"
Musts
- Clean socks/vest/pants/hanky every day
- Eat greens before being allowed 'afters'
- Eat a slice of bread and butter with jelly
- Read all the classics
- Brownies (hated it - refused to go in the end)
- Always say please and thank you
- Never interrupt an adult when they were speaking
- Sunday school
- Eat at the table and never speak with your mouth full
My children are now all grown up, and one of them has a child of her own. I wasn't so strict with my kids as my parents were with me, but sometimes I think there was a lot to be said for the stereotypical 1960s upbringing and I'm glad that some of my mum's rules rubbed off on me, as they have done on my daughter, and that my little grandson isn't allowed to eat in the street or speak with his mouth full either.
Published Date:
14/09/2008
Modified Date:
14/09/2008
Wet Feet and Rats' Tails
On Tuesday morning people could have been forgiven for assuming they were living on the edge of Hurricane Ike, which was then passing through the Caribbean. Thank goodness for my nice, cosy car, I thought to myself as I bundled a little ray of sunshine into his car seat to take him to his pre-school playgroup, complete with Thomas the Tank Engine umbrella and wellies, sunglasses and Ben 10 thingy on his wrist.
Arriving at the playgroup I assumed there weren't many people about because of the howling gale and driving rain. It turned out there was a distinct lack of activity because the roof had sprung a leak and the session had been cancelled.
We trundled back to the car: I was bedraggled and my young charge was bereft and complaining loudly. Harassed and somewhat flustered after having made suitable alternative arrangements for my grandson, I set off on a car journey to Northampton. Only it appeared that I had other things on my mind and the car drove itself to the Cattle Market car park, where, surprised, it parked itself in its usual spot.
Damn! I thought. I was supposed to be going straight to Northampton.
As I was about to reverse out of the spot and drive back out of the car park, I was struck by a sudden attack of good citizenship. Why don't I catch the bus? I pictured myself saving tons of carbon emissions and feeling very smug and self-satisfied at the huge sacrifice I was making, and, not only that, I would have something to write about.
So I left the car in its usual spot and marched off in the rain to catch the bus.
Only I had open sandals on; and my hair got wet and hung in rats tails. Then I stepped in a puddle and my feet got even wetter. I began to regret the whole idea, but it was too late to turn back.
I waited for the bus. It arrived early. The driver wouldn't let us get on, because he was going off duty and a new driver was due to arrive. After waiting in the wet for about ten minutes, the new driver arrived complete with all his paraphernalia.
I proffered a £20 note for the return fare, which was £6.50.
The driver shook his head. 'No change, I'm afraid,' he said. 'I'm only a stand-in and I've got no money yet.'
'That's OK', I said. 'You can give me my change in Northampton when you've got some.'
He shook his head with a sceptical sharp intake of breath through his teeth.
'Doubt I'll have that much change.'
Silly man, I thought. There'll be loads more people to get on the bus in Isham, Wellingborough and all the other places on the route to Northampton. He's bound to have collected enough cash to give me my change.
I was right – there were lots more passengers; but hardly any of them actually paid a fare. There were senior citizens entitled to free travel, students with passes, commuters with weekly or monthly passes and only two or three people actually paid in cash.
I was beginning to regret my decision and although I was quite enjoying not having to brave the congested roads in such filthy weather I suddenly realised that my hair was a complete mess – and that my comb was in the car. I looked in my purse – 23p in change. I began to panic. What if the driver couldn't give me my change? I needed to buy a comb in Northampton. I couldn't turn up at a meeting looking like a scarecrow.
When the bus arrived in Northampton the driver looked round and smiled at me.
'Just about got enough change,' he said, handing it over as I marvelled at the level step off the bus (I hadn't seen one of those before: isn't it clever how the bus goes up and down to let people get on and off easily?)
I breathed a sigh of relief.
I haven’t done the sums, because that's just silly and I don’t know how, but I did feel quite pleased with myself because I'd taken the bus instead of driving, and have probably helped save the planet from global warming. (OK, OK, I know I only drive a Micra and it was only one journey – but please let me have my little moment of martyrdom.)
Apart from the lack of change for my £20 note, the journey was pleasant and the bus was on-time both ways. I estimate that it probably only added about an hour, if that, to my little excursion to our county town.
Published Date:
11/09/2008
Modified Date:
14/09/2008
Ben Martin - An Urban Legend
Ben Martin was a joker: his loud booming voice delivering random snippets of quirky wisdom about anything and everything could be heard all across Wicksteed Park Lake.
He worked there for nearly thirty years as the park's Chief Engineer.
His workshop was on the edge of the water, hidden behind some bushes - out of sight of the thousands of day trippers who descend on Wickies Park in the summer. 'The Lady of the Lake', 'King Arthur' and 'Cheyenne' were his babies. He knew every single nut and bolt and took them to bits, serviced them and put them back together again endlessly. How many people enjoyed a ride around the lake on the miniature railway, kept safe by Ben's meticulous maintenance on the trains? How many children squealed with pleasure on the roller coaster, not realising how much dedication went into keeping it in perfect working order?
When his nephew, Rob, was a little boy, Ben decided to take him on some mad expedition or another involving a farm, pigs and lots of mud. The only thing was, eight-year old Rob didn't have any wellies with him. Did that matter? No, course not. Don't be silly - there's always a solution somewhere! Seven pairs of socks and a pair of size 10 wellies was the answer. Rob says he could hardly drag his little legs along the track, let alone through all the mud and pig muck.
When Rob and I were teenagers we helped him push an old green Morris 1100 across a field from the farmyard to Ben's house in the heart of the Northamptonshire countryside (please don't ask why!). I laughed so much my sides ached for a week afterwards, as he kept telling me to push harder, because the herd of cows that were following us were catching us up fast.
He told me I was beautiful on my wedding day - in a very loud and embarrassing voice! When Rob and I eventually had children he sat them on his lap and pretended to steal their nose and find it behind their ear. Once my boys were big enough he helped Rob teach them how to mend their cars for themselves, and how, if they couldn't find a part that needed replacing, they should have a go at making one. Ben's philosophy was "if you can't mend it - then make sure no-one else can!"
His big hands were always grubby, his fingernails caked in oil. His overalls did actually stand up themselves in the corner of his workshop. Everything about Ben was big, loud, jolly and fun.
Sadly, Ben died in July this year of a blood clot in his heart. No warning. No nothing. His devoted wife, Janet, son Scott and daughter-in-law Kathryn are devastated. His death has left a big hole in so many people's lives.
He left his legacy though. On the day he died he was in the middle of mending a tractor. It stood mournfully in bits in a glorious rendition of his last joke! So Ben, if you are up there reading this, no-one knows where all the bits go. Can you come back and give them a hand!
Ben Martin
24.7.38 to 5.7.08
RIP
Published Date:
09/09/2008
Modified Date:
14/09/2008
My Town Centre - The Next Generation
One bleak Sunday morning in November 1964 Grandad and I went for our usual weekend walk.
"Why are we going up the town on a Sunday, Grandad?" I asked.
(In those days it was unheard of for the town centre shops to open on a Sunday.)
"Because we are going to watch an old building being demolished," he replied.
That
morning Grandad and I stood with a crowd of locals, tutting and puffing
and shaking their heads in disbelief, as we watched the sombre, but
proud, Old Grammar School on Bakehouse Hill being reduced to a pile of
Victorian rubble as it made way for what is now called 'Newlands Phase
One'.
Being a Kettering gal, born and bred, as I was growing up
I can remember the redevelopment and modernisation of the town centre
that took place in the 60's and 70's, and which began on that chilly
November morning. I can clearly recall, as a teenager, the fight to
save the Queen Anne Beech House from the clutches of the gurus who
worshipped at the altars of pre-stressed concrete and pre-fabricated
steel sections and presumed they knew best when it came to the
buzzwords – 'Central Area Redevelopment'.
In the early 1970s a
local hack called Tony Ireson fought like a Trojan to save our
heritage. He had the full backing of townsfolk as he embarked on his
crusade to save Beech House. Well-known and not-so-well-known residents
of the town alike made their views known in the Evening Telegraph and the
Civic Society eventually took off its velvet gloves and replaced them
with iron fists in the quest to save the unique and majestic buildings
at the heart of this busy market town – all to no avail.
No-one
was listening, and if they were, they had their hands over their ears
and their eyes tightly shut as Kettering's residents tried in vain to
make themselves heard outside the closed doors of the Council Chamber.
Beech
House was demolished and all that remained of this grand old mansion
was the blue front door, fixed defiantly to the wall just inside the
Tanner's Lane entrance to the Newlands Centre (then called the
Newborough Centre).
'Ketrin' ent never gunna be the same agen,'
people said, with a morose shaking of heads. There was a general
feeling that Kettering had irrevocably lost its unique sparkle when the
Gold Street shop frontages and the Dickensian cobbles of Richards Leys
had also been sacrificed in the name of modernisation.
Tony then
embarked on the fight of his life to save his quaint and quirky home,
Beech Cottage, from the concrete-worshipping timelords who hid behind
their gigantic mechanical monsters. This time he was successful, but
sadly sacrificed his lovely garden, which was replaced by a road
running right outside his front window.
My home town is now facing another comprehensive town centre redevelopment, but this time, I think, the decision-makers are listening.
Mindful of the mistakes of the past, residents are being given the
opportunity to let the decision-makers know how they feel, and what
they think. The Council has rented out a vacant shop in the town centre
to stage displays and answer questions about the new-look multi-million
pound town centre. Its a far cry from the whisperings in smoke-filled
chambers of the sixties and seventies when people were ignored.
Don't
you think, though, there's a touch of serendipity here? The town centre
shop, where people can go and have their say, is on the site of the
first building demolished all those years ago -The Old Grammar School.
Published Date:
09/09/2008
Modified Date:
11/09/2008