We were living in Amsterdam. My children were 1 and 5. My husband’s cousin had come to stay and I switched on the television so that the children could watch Tweenies while we had a cup of tea and a chat.The Tweenies weren’t there. Instead there was an office building, a blue sky. As we watched – irritated, the children whining for their programme – a plane smashed into the building.
What on earth? There was no sound, but a caption on screen said: ‘Pictures from the WTC.’ I only knew one WTC…the Amsterdam WTC, right next door to my husband’s office. I must have switched onto a Dutch channel, I panicked, this must be happening just down the road. What on earth? Was he OK?
Then the sound kicked in, and it was the BBC, and it was New York. And so my first feeling as I comprehended what was happening and where, was - momentarily - relief.
Ten years on, I still feel bad about those five seconds of relief.
Sunday, 11 September 2011
Sunday, 4 September 2011
What I did (and didn’t do) this summer.
 |
| Soller, Mallorca |
1) Just before school holidays begin. Take son to buy uniform for his new school. Bought everything huge and in duplicate, so we will never have to do it again. Massive bill. Unusual and transitory sense of being organised and in control.
2) School holidays begin. Lecture family about my need to write in peace and quiet, for at least a few hours every day. They will have to amuse themselves. Tough.
3) Son has reading list for new school. Ignore instruction saying he has to read one from each genre (five books) and tell him his challenge for the holiday is to read all 25. Then change that to 24 because I don’t like the sound of one of the authors.
4) Daughter has nothing to wear. Take her to mall and buy stuff for her. Slightly less massive bill. No bikinis take her fancy. Gnash teeth. Beg her to buy bikini because it is in sale, even though she hates it. She refuses. Buy school skirts. Suggest that she tries them on so that if necessary we can change them. ‘Later,’ she says.
5) Son starts cricket summer camp. Sun is shining, son is happy. Rush to Starbucks and write and write and write.
6) Day two of cricket camp. It is raining. Son gloomy and bored. Daughter has nothing to wear. Suggest she tries on school skirts. ‘Later,’ she says.
7) Inspiration. We spend rainy day visiting lovely grandparents. Leave daughter there overnight with instructions to grandma to take her to buy bikinis. Hand over cash.
8) Day three of cricket camp. It is sunny, son is delighted. Rush to Starbucks. Write and write and write. Daughter texts pictures of bikinis she has bought with grandma. Then texts picture of price tag showing they were cheaper than the sale bargain she rejected. Huh.
9) Day four of cricket camp. Rain. Drive to grandparents to pick up daughter and bikinis, taking computer, go to their local library, write and write and write. Happy memories of visiting this library every week throughout childhood. Notice that teen section is a measly two bookcases. Do they have my books? They do not.
10) Cricket camp week two. Son decides he’s not enjoying himself as much as last week. ‘I’m not sure if I want to go this week,’ he says. Gnash teeth. Drop him off. Go to Starbucks and write and write and write.
11) Cricket camp week two, day two. ‘I really don’t want to go today.’ Drop him off. Starbucks. Write and write and write.
12) No more cricket camp. Really not enjoying it. Tell him he has lots of books to read. Try and write at home. Concentration shot to pieces.
13) HOLIDAY! We are off to Mallorca. Decide to take laptop so I can get up early every day and keep writing.
14) Midnight before holiday. We are getting up at 4am to go to Mallorca. Power cable for laptop breaks. Gnash teeth. Decide to take lightweight Netbook instead, and download manuscript onto Kindle. Congratulate self at techno know-how and calm under pressure.
15) Arrive Mallorca. Gorgeous but hot. Very hot. Family shrivel and droop in the sunshine. ‘I hope you’re not going to be too pathetic to do some sight-seeing,’ says husband.
 |
| View from the pool |
16) Too hot to write. Too hot to think. Sit in shade and admire view and read Caitlin Moran’s How to Be a Woman. ‘Stop laughing out loud,’ instruct children, ‘you’re embarrassing us.’
17) Day 2. Find shady spot and write and write. Son has made friends with other children at pool. Somehow we fail to notice that he has spent six hours in and out of the pool, only reapplying Factor 50 sun cream once.
18) Son has terrible sunburn. Plus he is vomiting (but has not got sunstroke, we check on internet). Spend day sitting in darkened room with him, reading teen romances (research!). Become obsessed with American book Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins. Why does a boy with an English accent pronounce Anna ‘Ah’na’? Why does he talk about ‘transit systems’? Why has his mother never divorced her rich but abusive husband? Daughter advises me to get a life. I pre-order sequel.
19) Husband is bored with sitting around doing nothing except reading (possibly because he is reading serious books about Spain, and not teen romances). We go on a train to Palma. Palma extremely hot, but interesting. We wander around a big department store, and I take pictures in the book department of Spanish translations of books written by friend. ‘What are you doing?’ say children. ‘Stop! You’re being embarrassing!’ We visit English language bookshop. Ditto.
20) Next day. Husband still bored. Using son’s sunburn as excuse for another day trip. Today we go to Deia, beautiful village and former home of poet and author Robert Graves. It is very hot. ‘It’ll be really interesting,’ says husband.
21) Drive through Deia. Nowhere to park. Turn around and drive back. Just as I am declaring it completely impossible to park - we will have to abandon trip - a space comes up. Park. Walk through Deia. Children are hot and thirsty. Find a café, buy them drinks. Graves’ house is a fifteen minute walk down the road. Decide to leave grateful children in café (NB They are 15 and 11. We were not abandoning tots)
22) Walk to Graves’ house. It is midday. The sun beats down. Arrive at Graves’ house, feeling as though I have trekked through the Sahara desert. Discover there is large car park at Graves house.
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| Robert Graves' study. |
23) Husband is correct. Graves’s house is interesting. Also air-conditioned. Learn about his love triangle, with several wives, lovers, others. Learn about his many children, some of them abandoned in London when Graves made his home in Deia. Contemplate his tranquil study, where everything was - is – just the way he wanted it. Learn that Graves liked to work in complete silence. Huh.
24) Persuade daughter to read manuscript of book-so-far on my kindle. Her verdict: ‘You’re a pervert.’
25) Transfer from hotel to villa. We have swimming pool in garden. We have short walk to beach. We have no internet connection though.
26) We have satellite televison. Husband and I watch interesting play set in WW2. Seems to be an experimental script in which a narrator described every action on the screen. After some time realise that this is not an experimental script at all, but we are on a channel which has a commentary for blind people.
27) Ask husband if he’d known that all the time. He thought it was an experimental script as well.
28) Satellite stops picking up a signal at the climax of the play. Does this every night of the holiday.
29) Decide on a strategy to make the most of holiday without suffering from the heat. We have to get up and do things early in the morning, then take a siesta, then do more things in the evening.
30) Next morning wake at 11am, as usual. Kindle battery is flat. No way to charge it.
31) A few lazy days, in which I read a lot and write a bit. Go to Irish pub to watch Manchester United play Spurs. A Chelsea fan says to my husband: 'I see you support Manchester United, I don;t expect you come from there.' 'Actually, I do,' he replies.
32) Visit Alcudia which has a bull ring and Roman remains. Complain loudly about having to walk (in searing heat) through fields for HOURS to see Roman theatre. Surprised to find on walk back that HOURS was only five minutes.
 |
| Red devil |
33) Church of St Jaume, Alcudia. Find picture of St Michael trampling on Manchester United mascot, the red devil.
34) Holiday comes to an end all too soon. We agree that we had a brilliant time, we love Mallorca, the heat was no problem at all.
35) Back to England. Pouring rain greets us at Luton Airport. House smells musty and damp. ‘This is the way the house used to smell when we moved back in from Amsterdam!’ say the kids Hmm.
36) Go through post. Where are daughter’s exam results? Where is new electrical cable for laptop? It is a bank holiday, and we will have to wait two whole days for these things. On the other hand, a box of books has arrived from Amazon, the books my daughter wanted to take on holiday with her.
37) Try and email holiday writing from Netbook. Netbook’s internet server seems to be broken.
38) Shall we go and see The In-Betweeners Movie at the cinema or One Day? Daughter is horrified at the idea of us going to see the former. Manages to persuade husband that we will be thirty years older than anyone else there. So we see One Day. Hoot with laughter at Anne Hathaway’s accent, otherwise unimpressed. Two self-pitying people fall in love excruciatingly slowly, then..WHAM! And more self-pity. Nothing like as good as the book.
38a) Manchester United beat Arsenal 8-2. Family united in joyous celebrations (err...apart from my brother and nephew who support Arsenal).
39) Bank holiday over. Pick up power cable for laptop at post office. Charge up laptop, and try and load Netbook writing onto memory stick. Netbook does not seem to recognise memory stick. Hit head against wall.
40) Son is due to do watersports summer camp this week. Arrive at camp. Lady at reception points out that I have not booked the six hour day camp, but instead the two hour evening camp. ‘Come back at 4.30pm,’ she says. I protest that my booking letter said 10am. Go home. Booking letter says 4.30pm. Gnash, gnash.
41) Daughter and I set off to mall to buy dress that she spotted over the weekend - it was too big, so we ordered it in a smaller size. Halfway there, remember her exam results. Ring school in panic, they say we will have to come in and get them. Buy dress (and jumper, and jewellery, and other stuff that I have forgotten), eat sushi, rush to school. Hurray! Daughter has done very well in her sociology exam (half of GCSE). Very proud of her. Join queue to buy school uniform - which can only be bought from the school. After two minutes realise that we will be in queue for approx three hours, in order to buy one jumper and a tie. Abandon queue. Remember doing same thing last year. Gnash teeth.
42) Son loves evening class at watersports centre. I go to Sainsburys.
43) Next three days, son learns canoeing, kayaking and sailing. I write for one and a half hours each lesson in local café. Each day I rewrite the same chapter. Cannot move on without words trapped in Netbook.
44) Friday. There is a get-together planned for son’s new class at new school. They had one earlier in the holiday, and I enjoyed meeting the parents and getting a look at the kids. This time son and friend would rather play on the Wii. ‘We’re going to know these people for the next seven years,’ they say. ‘We've friended them on Facebook. We don’t have to go and spend time with them now.’
45) Weekend. Husband and I go and see The In-Betweeners. Notice with some relief that we are far from the oldest people there. Laugh hysterically throughout. All the way home husband shares reminiscences of teenage holiday to Fuengerola with best friends. Remarkable similarities.
46) Meet another parent whose child is going to son’s school. How many books has he read from the reading list, I enquire. ‘He’s read four out of five,’ he says. ‘How about your son?’ ‘He’s read 20.’ Later, Son: ‘Olly’s only read four of those books.’ Daughter: ‘You were conned. You’ll never hear anything about them again.’
47) First football match of the season for son’s team. It is pouring with rain. Goalie fails to turn up, so son is in goal for second half. He has no goalie gloves, but it doesn’t matter because he has no saves to make. His team wins 2-0.
48) Tomorrow is the last day of the school holidays. Our plans…I’m taking Netbook to be mended. Dropping off daughter and niece at the mall. And then son and I are going to the school uniform shop. Funnily enough, I forgot to buy sports shoes. ‘Last time I drove past there, they were queuing out onto the street,’ says my sister. Must remember to get daughter to try on school skirts.
49) Tuesday. Son starts new school. From now on he will leave the house at 7.10am and not return until 5pm. I will be able to write and write and write. But hang on, it’s daughter’s first day too. Or is it? ‘I’m just going in for an hour to pick up my timetable,’ she says. When is this hour? 2.10pm.
50) Wednesday September 7th. Everyone back at school. I have until the end of the month to meet my deadline. Tick tock.
Tuesday, 30 August 2011
Me and my shadow...
It's work! That's what I tell my family when I'm hunched over the computer 'networking' on Facebook, or staring into space, thinking about my plotline while ignoring them completely.
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| My shadow for the day |
Even when I'm doing the actual arduous, gut-wrenching, creative job of actually writing, you don't see much, beyond a slightly demented looking woman staring at a screen, often mouthing words and occasionally pulling out her hair.
On the other hand, sometimes my work is much more visual. I do school visits. I take part in literary festivals. I have lunch with my agent. Sometimes I get to go to award ceremonies and applaud as Jason Wallace picks up another well-deserved prize....
When 13-year-old Hudi Charin asked if she could spend a day with me as part of her school's work experience scheme, it was a bit of a dilemma. Drum up a school visit to entertain her? Or let her sit and watch me mouthing at a screen? Here's Hudi's report of her day...with my comments in italics..
My school's work shadowing day was something we had all known was coming up in the last couple of weeks in July.
Some people were off with their parents, others going to places that they were not so interested in.
However, I was lucky enough to be able to spend my day work shadowing the author of some of my favourite books; When I was Joe; Almost True and most recently, Lia’s Guide to Winning the Lottery.
I have always wanted to be an author, since before I can remember really, and knowing that I would be shadowing a real one (hmmm...not sure that I always feel like a real one. Actually, maybe I should go and shadow a real author one day) was an amazing experience for me and truly generous of Keren to let me do so.
Keren showed me into her house, (argh! messy!) then packed up her laptop, telling me that she liked to sit down to write after a long (short) walk in the woods near where she lives. So off we went.
During the walk, I had a chance to ask her some questions...
ON BEING AN AUTHOR
What sort of things do you do in your job?
I write and edit, go to schools, attend award ceremonies and festivals... and lots of meetings.
What hours do you work?
At least two hours a day- but it all depends on the deadline.
How much annual leave do you get?
None!
What qualifications do you need for this job?
None- anyone can write- but I worked as a journalist which was very helpful.
What sort of training do you need to get into this job?
Basic language and writing skills.
What do you like most about your job?
I like to hear from my readers and the end result is very satisfying.
What do you like least about your job?
Rejection is tough. And so are days when the writing will not flow.
What chances of promotion are there?
Awards and selling books to Hollywood. Being a bestseller! With writing, the sky is the limit.
Are there any benefits that come with this job?
The freedom to run your own life and be creative. Seeing your name on a book. Hearing from readers who have enjoyed your book.
Have any of the following factors affected your job and, if so, how?
-Changing technology
The invention of the laptop has helped and of course the internet and online access to books has affected me.
-Overseas or local competition
There is loads of competition everywhere, it is an extremely competitive market.
-Economic recession
Yes. There are now smaller advances and more people are buying second hand books nowadays where authors do not get a profit at all.
-Changing company ownership
Not so far! (Funnily enough since Hudi spent her day with me, my publisherFrances Lincoln has been bought by Quarto.)
What advice would you give a young person preparing to enter the workplace?
For journalism- start small on a local newspaper and build your way up.
For writing books- don’t get put off by rejection, keep reading and writing. Try to analyse good books that you have enjoyed.
ON KEREN’S THREE GREAT BOOKS
What got you interested in writing for children?
I always enjoyed children's books and thought my style of writing would suit them.
When did you begin writing your first book, When I was Joe?
In April 2008.
How did you come up with the idea?
I saw a news report about a family who'd been involved in an armed robbery and had to go into witness protection.
How did you get into the mindset of a teenage boy?
I just thought a lot about what it was like to be Ty - all the pressures on him, all the changes in his life.
Did you always know that When I was Joe would lead on to a sequel?
No, I only started writing the sequel to amuse myself after I'd finished When I Was Joe and when I was looking for an agent to represent me.
After writing two books in the mindset of Ty, was it hard to write from the point of view of Lia in Lia’s Guide to Winning the Lottery?
Yes, much harder than I'd imagined it would be. I missed Ty a lot.
Lia has a very interesting personality that teenage girls can relate to but how do you relate to Lia?
She seemed to me to be a very typical teenage girl - lacking in self-awareness, and a bit self-centred, but basically a good person. I remember feeling very misunderstood when I was about her age.
Do you also relate a lot to your characters’ mothers too? When you characters are in an argument with their parents- how do you write from the character’s perspective?
I try and relate to all the characters, so I understand where they are coming from. That way the dialogue flows quite easily.
After our walk through the woods, Keren bumped into her friends (the perils of trying to work out of the house) and we sat down for coffee and cake (coffee for me. Cake for Hudi!) . Being an author was looking better and better to me!
I munched on a chocolate muffin while Keren worked on her next book- the sequel to When I was Joe and Almost True. I also had the great opportunity to read what Keren had written so far. (I was writing. But I was also watching Hudi read...seeing if she laughed at my jokes or not, seeing if she seemed to be enjoying herself. Felt very deflated when the huge manuscript I'd presented her with turned out to be so big because I'd printed the whole thing twice.) It is just as gripping and thrilling as the other two books in the series and it is not even finished! So, the minute it is published, go out and buy it! (this is assuming I ever get it finished...)
Just as I popped the last chocolate crumb into my mouth, Keren announced she had finished her writing for today.(I noticed that poor Hudi was shivering...and then I met another friend as we walked back through the woods...we went home and Hudi borrowed my daughter's hoodie...see what I did there?)
 |
| The huge stack... |
It was now time to go off to the Frances Lincoln Children’s Books building to meet the team that works with Keren. When we got to the Frances Lincoln building, we were greeted by the people there... and a huge stack of 100 copies of Lia’s Guide to Winning the Lottery, brand new with the iconic red and white cover.
Keren got to work right away, while the woman who designed the cover of Keren’s latest book showed me around her department (thank you, Arianna!)which was also very inspiring to me as I’m interested in graphic design.
When we arrived back downstairs, I helped Keren box away all the freshly signed books and it was now time for my amazing day with Keren to end. (3pm. I had to stop being a real author..sigh...and rush off to pick up my son from school. I offered to take Hudi along, so she could see the way mums have to juggle work and family, but unsurprisingly she wasn't quite so interested in that side of things)
It was great for me to learn that a writer doesn’t just have to spend their time shut up in a room typing away and, like Keren, I now try and get out and about to do my writing.
Many many thanks to Keren for giving up her day to show me what writing is really like and giving me this incredible experience! (And thank you Hudi for not complaining that watching a writer write is actually very dull...not to mention watching a writer chat to random friends...and most of all for saying nice things about the work in progress. The perfect shadow!)
Thursday, 11 August 2011
London riots
It's been a strange and scary week in London.
A week in which rumours flew around on phones and in whispers.
A week of fire and smashed windows, destruction and looting.
A week of anger and excitement, and leaps to judgement and definition, distance and containment.
I've been reading newspapers, listening to the radio, unable to switch the television off until 1am. I've been staying in after 5pm, avoiding shops that I use all the time, asking my 15-year-old what she's seen on Facebook - where's going to be next? I've found myself seriously wondering if I'm safe to go for a walk in the park at 5pm on a sunny August evening.
I've listened to politicians, pundits, churchmen and columnists. I've heard a lot of good sense and a load of old rubbish.
And I've had a few thoughts.
There was a carnival atmosphere about the looting. It was as though people had responded to news reports about one riot and, instead of feeling horror and disgust, thought they were adverts for the summer sales. 'Come on down! Everything's free! Midsummer madness!' Why did people react in such an amoral way? Why did they lack feeling for the community - the shop-owners, the people living in burned out flats?
Perhaps it's something to do with the huge inequality in British society - after eight years in the Netherlands, it was the thing that shocked me most about reurning to London. It's not just the massive gap between rich and poor, and the horror that the haves feel about sharing with the have-nots; it's the lack of care and contact between the two groups. A mutual contempt seems to have grown between rich and poor, fostered by media and politicians.
Maybe it's something to do with the rule-bending, greed and hypocrisy on display from the British establishment? If people see that MPs were happy to help themselves to tax-payers' money by falsifying their expenses, or twisting the rules to their favour - and they could get away with it in most cases by paying back the money - then perhaps they might expect to be able to help themselves to free stuff, when the opportunity arises?
It could be that if people saw politicans take personal responsibility for mistakes by resigning, that they'd take more responsibility for their own morality. Not just politicans. Business leaders. Bankers. Church leaders who enabled the abuse of children. Journalists who hacked phone messages from murdered children. Saying sorry, tinkering with the system, blaming subordinates is not enough. Removing yourself from power and making amends by working for the good of others, is the way to set a good example (would anyone caught up in a scandal now react as John Profumo did?).
How about restoring a bit of respect to our society? Respect means making snobbery and stereotyping (of everyone from Eton to Essex) as unacceptable as racism is becoming - sadly, that battle's not won yet. Respect means less media intrusion and pointless gossip and finger-pointing. If Britain wants to restore its respectability, it needs to embrace respect.
I'm pleased that David Cameron is going to do more to tackle gangs - and he's right to look at the work of Strathclyde Police. I'm interested though that he didn't do more before now. Perhaps the scores of young men being murdered on city streets didn't matter enough.
I thought long and hard when I wrote When I Was Joe about what might make young people less likely to arm themselves with knives. Active policing, which enables police to build relationships with vulnerable youths was the best answer I came up with. Perhaps we'll get it now. I notice though that it's the neighbourhood officers who've already been cut in Mr Cameron's austerity measures.
I'm actually not interested in hearing from the rioters. I think it's pretty easy to understand the mentality which seeks to steal and destroy. They were stupid and dangerous and vile. They need something more drastic than mere punishment. I'd actually like to see some sort of national service brought back for these stupid jokers, so they could contribute something to our society and maybe learn a bit of discipline.
I'm much more interested in hearing from the kids who don't riot. The ones who work hard and become successful against the odds. The ones who stay honest and care about their communities. What makes them different from the rioters? Who helped them find their way? What can we learn from them? Boys like this one who reminds me a lot of Nathan in When I Was Joe and Almost True.
Some wonderful things have come out of this terrible week. I loved the jokes on Twitter, the English horror that Americans were tweeting #prayforLondon; the idea that the people of Crouch End (where I live) would respond to looters by pelting them with artisan sourdough loaves.
I loved OperationCupofTea on Facebook, which signed up people in their thousands to stay in and drink tea instead of rioting - and all the sweet tea-drinking pictures posted on its page.
I loved that people came together to clean up after the riots, and called themselves the Riotwombles after a much-loved children's book.
I loved my local supermarket - hurray for Budgens - which set up a collection point for contributions of clothes and bedding to help the people made homeless in the fires in nearby Tottenham.
I was impressed and awed by the courage and spirit of those people who'd lost everything - in Tottenham, Croydon, Clapham Junction as they contemplated their future. By the smile on the face of Asyraf Haziq Rosli, the Malaysian student attacked and robbed by rioters - as they pretended to help him - who was able to say that he still wanted to stay in Britain and he felt sorry for his attackers.
And above all by the immense dignity and wisdom shown by Tariq Jahan, father of Haroon, one of the men killed during riots in Birmingham, who calmed tensions in the city by speaking out just hours after his son's death. In the light of the Islamophobia which mars our society, it's worth pointing out that both Mr Jahan and Mr Rosli are shining examples of good Muslim role models for us all.
I fear that we won't learn the right lessons from the riots. Already tonight, going out to eat in a crowded restaurant, it seemed crazy that only two days ago I was too nervous to meet a friend for a drink after dark. But if we don't change and learn - all of us - then I'm certain of one thing. It'll happen again. And next time it will be worse.
PS I wrote this and then I read this. And I thought yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. And in the Telegraph too. Maybe there is hope.
 |
| Tottenham burns on Saturday night |
A week of fire and smashed windows, destruction and looting.
A week of anger and excitement, and leaps to judgement and definition, distance and containment.
I've been reading newspapers, listening to the radio, unable to switch the television off until 1am. I've been staying in after 5pm, avoiding shops that I use all the time, asking my 15-year-old what she's seen on Facebook - where's going to be next? I've found myself seriously wondering if I'm safe to go for a walk in the park at 5pm on a sunny August evening.
I've listened to politicians, pundits, churchmen and columnists. I've heard a lot of good sense and a load of old rubbish.
And I've had a few thoughts.
There was a carnival atmosphere about the looting. It was as though people had responded to news reports about one riot and, instead of feeling horror and disgust, thought they were adverts for the summer sales. 'Come on down! Everything's free! Midsummer madness!' Why did people react in such an amoral way? Why did they lack feeling for the community - the shop-owners, the people living in burned out flats?
Perhaps it's something to do with the huge inequality in British society - after eight years in the Netherlands, it was the thing that shocked me most about reurning to London. It's not just the massive gap between rich and poor, and the horror that the haves feel about sharing with the have-nots; it's the lack of care and contact between the two groups. A mutual contempt seems to have grown between rich and poor, fostered by media and politicians.
Maybe it's something to do with the rule-bending, greed and hypocrisy on display from the British establishment? If people see that MPs were happy to help themselves to tax-payers' money by falsifying their expenses, or twisting the rules to their favour - and they could get away with it in most cases by paying back the money - then perhaps they might expect to be able to help themselves to free stuff, when the opportunity arises?
It could be that if people saw politicans take personal responsibility for mistakes by resigning, that they'd take more responsibility for their own morality. Not just politicans. Business leaders. Bankers. Church leaders who enabled the abuse of children. Journalists who hacked phone messages from murdered children. Saying sorry, tinkering with the system, blaming subordinates is not enough. Removing yourself from power and making amends by working for the good of others, is the way to set a good example (would anyone caught up in a scandal now react as John Profumo did?).
How about restoring a bit of respect to our society? Respect means making snobbery and stereotyping (of everyone from Eton to Essex) as unacceptable as racism is becoming - sadly, that battle's not won yet. Respect means less media intrusion and pointless gossip and finger-pointing. If Britain wants to restore its respectability, it needs to embrace respect.
I'm pleased that David Cameron is going to do more to tackle gangs - and he's right to look at the work of Strathclyde Police. I'm interested though that he didn't do more before now. Perhaps the scores of young men being murdered on city streets didn't matter enough.
I thought long and hard when I wrote When I Was Joe about what might make young people less likely to arm themselves with knives. Active policing, which enables police to build relationships with vulnerable youths was the best answer I came up with. Perhaps we'll get it now. I notice though that it's the neighbourhood officers who've already been cut in Mr Cameron's austerity measures.
I'm actually not interested in hearing from the rioters. I think it's pretty easy to understand the mentality which seeks to steal and destroy. They were stupid and dangerous and vile. They need something more drastic than mere punishment. I'd actually like to see some sort of national service brought back for these stupid jokers, so they could contribute something to our society and maybe learn a bit of discipline.
I'm much more interested in hearing from the kids who don't riot. The ones who work hard and become successful against the odds. The ones who stay honest and care about their communities. What makes them different from the rioters? Who helped them find their way? What can we learn from them? Boys like this one who reminds me a lot of Nathan in When I Was Joe and Almost True.
Some wonderful things have come out of this terrible week. I loved the jokes on Twitter, the English horror that Americans were tweeting #prayforLondon; the idea that the people of Crouch End (where I live) would respond to looters by pelting them with artisan sourdough loaves.
I loved OperationCupofTea on Facebook, which signed up people in their thousands to stay in and drink tea instead of rioting - and all the sweet tea-drinking pictures posted on its page.
I loved that people came together to clean up after the riots, and called themselves the Riotwombles after a much-loved children's book.
I loved my local supermarket - hurray for Budgens - which set up a collection point for contributions of clothes and bedding to help the people made homeless in the fires in nearby Tottenham.
I was impressed and awed by the courage and spirit of those people who'd lost everything - in Tottenham, Croydon, Clapham Junction as they contemplated their future. By the smile on the face of Asyraf Haziq Rosli, the Malaysian student attacked and robbed by rioters - as they pretended to help him - who was able to say that he still wanted to stay in Britain and he felt sorry for his attackers.
And above all by the immense dignity and wisdom shown by Tariq Jahan, father of Haroon, one of the men killed during riots in Birmingham, who calmed tensions in the city by speaking out just hours after his son's death. In the light of the Islamophobia which mars our society, it's worth pointing out that both Mr Jahan and Mr Rosli are shining examples of good Muslim role models for us all.
I fear that we won't learn the right lessons from the riots. Already tonight, going out to eat in a crowded restaurant, it seemed crazy that only two days ago I was too nervous to meet a friend for a drink after dark. But if we don't change and learn - all of us - then I'm certain of one thing. It'll happen again. And next time it will be worse.
PS I wrote this and then I read this. And I thought yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. And in the Telegraph too. Maybe there is hope.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
Publication day!
There's no party (August is a bit useless for parties, but we might do something in September) but there is a chance to get your name into my next book (hurry! I'm writing it now!) by entering this competition. Read about what I'd have done if I'd won the lottery when I was 16 (not that there was a lottery in those far-off days) here and about how I created the character of Lia's friend Shazia here.
You can get Lia on your kindle here , if you live out of the UK here and in all good bookshops, here or here
Read an excerpt here.
Read an interview with me about Lia here
And see a silly interview with Fiona Dunbar, me and some sensible teenagers here
That's enough links...hope you enjoy Lia, and if you do, please tell your friends/review on Amazon/let me know!
Thursday, 28 July 2011
The camisole and cream catastrophe
Twenty years ago today, July 28th 1991 was a beautiful day. I remember it well. Sizzling hot, clear blue sky, the perfect day for a wedding.
I was, to be honest, a little nervous about this particular wedding. I'd broken up with the bride's step-brother about a year beforehand, and although there was no particular animosity, it still felt a little weird to be going to a big family event. But the bride and groom (an ex flatmate) were both good friends of mine, not to mention the bride's brother (another ex-flatmate) and sister-in-law. Also my friend Laura (the fourth flatmate) had come over from America . It'd be fine, I reassured myself. I had a nice outfit, I'd know lots of people there. Laura and I could have a good catch-up.
I lived in Hammersmith in west London, the wedding was in Hertfordshire, north of London. Thinking about it now, the sensible thing would have been to go and stay with my parents (also Hertfordshire) and get ready there. But my brain didn't work like that. Instead I arranged to drive right across London, west to east, to Laura's parents' house in Woodford. We'd get ready together, then drive to the wedding.
It was the perfect plan, I thought, as I went out to my car, carefully hanging my outfit in the back of the car.
My outfit. It was great. I had a short black straight skirt, and a sheer black camisole. Over the top would go a silk jacket, patterned in red and blue and purple, a sale bargain from Monsoon. I loved it, shoulder pads and all. I was quietly confident. Never mind the old aunties clucking over me and my ex. I'd be the model independent single girl..who happened to work for The Independent. Go me!
So, when we arrived at the wedding, I was not feeling so confident, nor very fragrant or sophisticated. My hair was frizzy, my silk jacket wrapped firmly around me. Every now and again I realised that the neckline had slipped beyond the decent level, and had to give it a quick tug to get it back in place.
The ceremony was gorgeous, the perfect day for a romantic outdoor ceremony. The bride was beautiful, the bridesmaids lovely in flouncy lilac, the mothers of the happy couple, glorious in papal purple. The groom was dashing in a top hat. I hung onto my jacket and avoided my ex.
Naturally I took a quick glance at the table plan well before dinner. I moved some people around so that Laura and I could chat more easily. But there was a name I didn't recognise on my left hand side, and I left him where he was. You never knew. Maybe he'd be the man of my dreams.
Time for dinner, I sat down and glanced to my left. 'Aaw,' I thought. 'Not my type.' My type at the time was skinny, cynical, nervy and wise-cracking. Ideally working in the media. This man lacked that quality of nervous energy, plus I wasn't sure about his profile (oh, yes, I was that shallow. Forgive me). But, polite as always, I asked him how he knew Sylvia and Richard. 'I'm Sylvia's boss,' he said. 'I don't know anyone else here.'
Well, it was no surprise when he asked for my number. And he called me a few days later, and we saw a Woody Allen film, and then we went out for dinner and talked and talked and talked (and he told me the 11 plus story). And we've been talking pretty much non stop for the last twenty years, although it took us three years to get around to getting married, because believe me, nothing makes my husband go at any pace except his own. Which is one of the many things that I love about him, even as I am infuriated.
One thing I didn't do at the wedding was take his picture (although I have one of the ex, hiding behind a fan). And I waited some time before telling him about the camisole catastrophe. 'Didn't you notice that I had a really low cleavage?' I asked. 'I liked it,' he replied.
I still have the jacket hanging up in my cupboard, I never liked to get rid of it. The shoulder pads are drooping now, but the silk still shimmers and glows. How lucky I was 20 years ago (not to mention how lucky he was), and how clever Sylvia and Richard were when they plotted their table plan. Happy anniversary!
(apologies for the poor quality of the pictures...my scanner wasn't working, so these are copies of prints)
PS I mis-remembered! Laura was actually over to get married herself! Happily the weddings were close enough together so she and husband Ian were able to attend Sylvia and Richard's wedding as well. And Ian's presence at the second wedding meant I wasn't neglecting Laura as much as it may appear...
 |
| The lovely couple |
I was, to be honest, a little nervous about this particular wedding. I'd broken up with the bride's step-brother about a year beforehand, and although there was no particular animosity, it still felt a little weird to be going to a big family event. But the bride and groom (an ex flatmate) were both good friends of mine, not to mention the bride's brother (another ex-flatmate) and sister-in-law. Also my friend Laura (the fourth flatmate) had come over from America . It'd be fine, I reassured myself. I had a nice outfit, I'd know lots of people there. Laura and I could have a good catch-up.
I lived in Hammersmith in west London, the wedding was in Hertfordshire, north of London. Thinking about it now, the sensible thing would have been to go and stay with my parents (also Hertfordshire) and get ready there. But my brain didn't work like that. Instead I arranged to drive right across London, west to east, to Laura's parents' house in Woodford. We'd get ready together, then drive to the wedding.
It was the perfect plan, I thought, as I went out to my car, carefully hanging my outfit in the back of the car.
My outfit. It was great. I had a short black straight skirt, and a sheer black camisole. Over the top would go a silk jacket, patterned in red and blue and purple, a sale bargain from Monsoon. I loved it, shoulder pads and all. I was quietly confident. Never mind the old aunties clucking over me and my ex. I'd be the model independent single girl..who happened to work for The Independent. Go me!
 |
| The hair! The gardening top! |
So I drove all the way to Woodford. It took about an hour. And it was great to see Laura. Here we were, just like old times, getting ready to go out to a party. There was just one problem. No camisole. A frantic phone call to my landlady later, and we worked out what had happened. It was lying on the dusty pavement, back in Hammersmith. It must have slipped off the hanger as I got into the car.
Disaster! Misery! Catastrophe! There was no time to go shopping (and I can't even remember if shops were open on Sundays back in 1991) Laura's mum had nothing suitable for me to borrow. 'There's nothing else for it,' said Laura. 'You'll have to wear this.'
This turned out to be a knitted black top. Luckily it was black and sleeveless, with (not so luckily) a plunging neckline. Unluckily she'd been wearing it all that hot and sticky day while she worked in her parents' garden. It was just a little moist and pungent. 'Never mind,' she said, peeling it off. 'Just spray yourself with a load of perfume, and no one will notice.'So, when we arrived at the wedding, I was not feeling so confident, nor very fragrant or sophisticated. My hair was frizzy, my silk jacket wrapped firmly around me. Every now and again I realised that the neckline had slipped beyond the decent level, and had to give it a quick tug to get it back in place.
The ceremony was gorgeous, the perfect day for a romantic outdoor ceremony. The bride was beautiful, the bridesmaids lovely in flouncy lilac, the mothers of the happy couple, glorious in papal purple. The groom was dashing in a top hat. I hung onto my jacket and avoided my ex.
Naturally I took a quick glance at the table plan well before dinner. I moved some people around so that Laura and I could chat more easily. But there was a name I didn't recognise on my left hand side, and I left him where he was. You never knew. Maybe he'd be the man of my dreams.
Time for dinner, I sat down and glanced to my left. 'Aaw,' I thought. 'Not my type.' My type at the time was skinny, cynical, nervy and wise-cracking. Ideally working in the media. This man lacked that quality of nervous energy, plus I wasn't sure about his profile (oh, yes, I was that shallow. Forgive me). But, polite as always, I asked him how he knew Sylvia and Richard. 'I'm Sylvia's boss,' he said. 'I don't know anyone else here.'
Well! My protective nature took over. The poor man! He needed looking after! Plus I remembered Sylvia telling me that I should meet her boss. 'He's into books and films and he's got lots of lefty friends,' she said. At the time, I made polite excuses. I was a media snob and they worked for a toothpaste manufacturer. But he was, it turned out, a nice person to talk to.
So we continued chatting as the first course was served. And went on talking through the soup and the salmon (it may not have been salmon, I can't really remember. I'm just taking a wild guess here). And we were still talking through dessert. Once or twice my neglected friend Laura leaned over. 'Can you repeat that?' she asked him, 'I didn't quite catch it.' Startled, he did, and then we went on talking. And I forgot all about the camisole disaster, and the lurking ex, and just enjoyed myself.
Until, that is, the coffee was served. 'Would you like cream?' asked the waitress - and poured a jugful into my lap. All over my black skirt! I was mortified, but my new friend lent his napkin and mopped me up. And then he asked me to dance.Well, it was no surprise when he asked for my number. And he called me a few days later, and we saw a Woody Allen film, and then we went out for dinner and talked and talked and talked (and he told me the 11 plus story). And we've been talking pretty much non stop for the last twenty years, although it took us three years to get around to getting married, because believe me, nothing makes my husband go at any pace except his own. Which is one of the many things that I love about him, even as I am infuriated.
One thing I didn't do at the wedding was take his picture (although I have one of the ex, hiding behind a fan). And I waited some time before telling him about the camisole catastrophe. 'Didn't you notice that I had a really low cleavage?' I asked. 'I liked it,' he replied.
 |
| The jacket, twenty years on. |
I still have the jacket hanging up in my cupboard, I never liked to get rid of it. The shoulder pads are drooping now, but the silk still shimmers and glows. How lucky I was 20 years ago (not to mention how lucky he was), and how clever Sylvia and Richard were when they plotted their table plan. Happy anniversary!
(apologies for the poor quality of the pictures...my scanner wasn't working, so these are copies of prints)
PS I mis-remembered! Laura was actually over to get married herself! Happily the weddings were close enough together so she and husband Ian were able to attend Sylvia and Richard's wedding as well. And Ian's presence at the second wedding meant I wasn't neglecting Laura as much as it may appear...
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Harry Potter and the Huge Pile of Dosh
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| Gratuitous? Moi? |
'You'll be the next J K Rowling!' is what everyone (believe me, everyone) says to children's authors, and it's as irritating as it is false. Even JK herself went through years of low or no income before her books took off. The week's Bookseller has a depressing story about the financial pain being suffered by children's authors in the current climate. Agent Caroline Sheldon estimated that fewer than half of the children's authors who previously made a living from writing five or 10 years ago are now doing so. She said: "The big things are getting bigger and the middle area is getting squeezed." Authors are getting fewer chances and less time to prove themselves, royalties are lower because children's books are cheaper than adult ones, commissions for children's non-fiction have been hard-hit by competition from the internet.
It is difficult to make a living from writing. I haven't cracked it yet, although I can see my income growing as I get more interest from foreign publishers and - crucially - manage to keep on producing books. If I compare it, though, to my career in journalism, I'm quite happy. Although I could earn considerably more with a staff job on a national newspaper (and they aren't any easier to come by than getting a book deal), my salary would be pretty much my limit. Whereas a book..well, anything could happen. It's possible for a book to earn for you again and again - a foreign sale here, a film deal there - while you're working on other stuff.
Once you're a published author, other sources of income open up to you. I earn money from school visits, and occasionally from selling my own books myself. I could possibly earn more if I critiqued manuscripts and ran creative writing workshops. If I developed this blog (or another) into something with loads of readers, I might sell advertising space. If I could think of clever things to sell associated with this blog (Lia's red shoes? handbags?) then I could do that too.
I love watching The Apprentice, and I can't wait to see who wins the final tonight (my money's on lovely but bumbling Tom, although it ought to be super-competent and equally lovely Helen). This year the contestants are competing for moneya nd backing to start their own businesses, rather than a job. Writing a book is a little bit like starting a business, to be honest. Gone is the security of a regular salary (but who has that security now?), the benefits, the chances of promotion. Instead you get a load of risk and hardship - but you've got more control and you're potentially playing for higher stakes. Hard work, tenacity, a good agent, and a willingness to do some self-promotion all help. After all, someone's got to be the next JK!
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