Depressing myself

I had another rejection today. It was for novel 2 and my hopes for it had increased the longer they kept it. I should know better.

But what I realised, a little later after opening the email, was that I hadn't expected it to be good news. There was nothing about the email - before opening - that yelled REJECTION but I was ready for it. It occurs to me that I have lost faith in my writing. Maybe not lost faith in my writing but definitely lost any expectation of it being published.

And then I started to really depress myself ... what if, what if I'm not a writer? I've never won any prizes or acclamation, so maybe I'm just fooling myself. I'm not really any good at writing stories. There are some things I know - I think - I can write but maybe fiction just isn't among those things. 

My self-published novel was received very well but maybe that's because it was a) mostly people who know me reading it, and b) too close to the truth to be true fiction.

On the other hand Friday seems to be a popular day for sending out rejections. Maybe agents reach the end of a week, see the pile of manuscripts they haven't read getting bigger and reject them all out of hand, to clear their desks before the weekend. Yes, that's much better reasoning. I can cope with that.

How do you sneeze?

I sat up in bed and sneezed 7 times rapidly. Husband said, 'Give your nose a good blow.' 
'Why?'
'It would clear out whatever is making you sneeze.'

I stared at him. I was confused. 'Why would clearing my nose stop me sneezing?'
'Because your body makes you sneeze to clear your nose.'
'But I sneeze through my mouth.'

Husband shook his head. 'Well, keep your mouth closed.'
'I might implode.'

I've sneezed since and I did try to keep my mouth closed but it was impossible. My sneeze forced its way out. Am I unusual?

And how do you sneeze?

Heavenly

Our annual pilgrimage to the 'secret' bluebell woods. It is impossible to capture their true colour or the scent of course. Just believe me when I say it was heavenly.

Oh George!

Husband planted out some of the summer bedding yesterday. To try and deter George from running through the front garden corner arrangements he devised the least unattractive method he could think of: placing sticks around the bed. 

This morning as we went out I said, 'Why have you left a gap along the longest front bit? Surely you need another stick there?'

He replied, 'George has eaten it.'

My Blind Date

They've come up with a wonderful idea at Swansea Central Library: Book Blind Dating.

They have one display stand given over to books wrapped in brown paper. At first glance I thought they must be X-rated but as Fifty Shades of Grey and others of those ilk had previously been displayed openly I decided further investigation was needed.

Of course I had to give it a go! The first book I chose had these clues: man/boy, Joni Mitchell and shoes. Any ideas what that could be? Unfortunately, when I got to the machine to check it out I discovered I'd already read it so had to go and choose again. I can tell you I haven't read this one but what do you think it might be?

Still on the subject of books I've just finished The Boy in the Striped Pyjamas by John Boyne. An excellent and disturbing book. I've realised that two of the books I've read recently, including this one, are intended for children/young adult readers. The other was Daughter of Venice, by Donna Jo Napoli, which I'd had on my shelf for years but only  read on my way to Italy this year. It's another book I can thoroughly recommend. It's about a young girl from a wealthy family growing up in 16th century Venice and the rules and traditions to which she is expected to conform and against which she rebels. Full of historical detail and atmosphere it was easy to read - as you'd expect for a y.a. novel - and fascinating. 

Now, any ideas on the titles of my blind dates?

Guess who's coming to dinner?

We had an unexpected - and unwelcome after knocking things over and pooping everywhere - guest in the dining room yesterday. But this magpie seemed less disturbed by its surroundings and us than we were in finding it.

A warning for internet shoppers

The trouble with seeking out the cheapest source on the internet is that there's probably a reason why it's so cheap.

In this case I ordered in February a present for Daughter from a company called parfumsparfums.com. Their price was by far the cheapest especially as it included p&p. What it turned out not to include was the product.

My first email of complaint was replied to: yes, they'd investigate.
My second email: they'd send a replacement.
My third email: once the replacement was returned they'd refund me.

I didn't receive a replacement or a refund. Today Husband, instructed by me to phone and be stroppy, reports that the number isn't accepting calls and that he's now found a number of articles on the internet suggesting the company is a scam. (And he's contacted our credit card provider who will make good our loss.)

So be warned! Avoid parfumsparfums.com at all costs!

What a smell

On her blog, Welshcakes writes about favourite smells of Sicilian women and she has a small poll in her sidebar. I opted for flowers but really there are all sorts of smells at different times that I love.

I am quite a 'smelly' person. I can sometimes sniff the air and pick up scents that Husband often misses - which when we're walking in the countryside is sometimes a good thing - when they've been spreading chicken dung over the fields in Devon I have to walk one section of the lanes with a hankie over my nose. (Husband can smell it but it doesn't affect him so badly.)

So there are flower scents I love: bluebells, lilac, wallflowers, old and wild roses. Walking past I have to have a good sniff of any of these and try to keep it in my head as long as I can, which in truth is no time.

And food scents: fresh bread, coffee (though I don't like it to drink), pizza, roast beef, warm welshcakes.

Then there's sea air. Even though we live only a few hundred yards from the sea there are houses and roads between me and it so I can't go for too long without getting closer, especially on a breezy day so I can open my arms wide and take a deep gulp of lovely salty air.

This morning I couldn't resist burying my nose in the clean sheets that had been blowing in the wind on the washing line. It's a freshness that can't be replicated by any fabric conditioner.

People often list the smell of a baby as one of their favourites and as a doting granny you'd expect me to include it too - but I don't think it's the smell in this case that entrances me as much as the warmth of the soft plump skin that makes me want to kiss and snuggle in.

I'm a perfume wearer too. I rarely go out without it - usually Chanel No 5 or Chanel Allure for evenings - even though I can't smell it on me unless I rub my nose in my wrist. Except when I do dishes. I think the warm water must heat my blood and release the perfume. I have such poor circulation that my skin is usually cold.

Sometimes I'll smell a particularly nice fragrance on a passer-by in Sainsburys for example. I'm often tempted - and have done it - to tell the wearer how lovely she smells. Sometimes it goes down well; other times I'm looked at strangely.

And then there are the smells that bring back memories. Hard to describe these as they're usually momentary but trigger a brief but vivid memory. 

Such a vital and precious sense. Often undervalued but forms such an important part of our make-up, who we are and how we view the world.

What's your favourite?

A bad day at the office

I should have known better than to try to set the oven on automatic cooking so dinner would be ready when we returned from circuits. After the day I've had I should have been prepared.

Arriving in work to be greeted by a non-working phone wasn't too bad. I don't get many phone calls anyway. And it would have been all right if I'd just ignored it instead of trying to fix it. No, me getting down onto my hands and knees to fiddle with wires - and ending up with a socket with nothing to put in when I was convinced there'd been something in it before - was the real problem.

I started off with a broken phone; I ended up by breaking the internet too. And calling the electrician.

And then there were the ants. In the teapot.

I went in search of a fixative cup of tea; I returned deeply traumatised. Extreme measures were called for. I hurried to the shop and bought ant killer. 

On return I spotted an ant on the floor. I decided I'd track it, follow its route so I could find out where they were getting in and position my deadly poison most effectively. It was almost inevitable that I would choose a confused ant who simply ran around in circles. I stamped on it.

So really, thinking I'd be able to have dinner cooked and waiting for us on our return this evening was just plain foolish.

As Scarlett would say, Tomorrow is another day.'

Doctor Who?

"It’s tantalisingly called The Name of the Doctor, which of course has been the mystery at the heart of the series since it began in 1963. " So writes the reviewer on the BBC website about tonight's episode of Doctor Who.

Me: What are they talking about? His name hasn't been a mystery at the heart of the series.
Husband: Yes, it has.
Me; No, it hasn't.
Husband: That's the whole point of the title - Doctor Who. Who is he? He never says his name.
Me: But that's his name, Doctor Who.
Husband: No, it's not; it's a question.
Me: But there isn't a question mark!

So for the last 50 years it seems I've been misled because of bad punctuation. No wonder I never know what's going on.

Husband and I continued to reminisce. 'In the old days it was a simple story, good against bad, completed in one episode or series.'
'Doctor Who takes on the daleks and wins. End of story.'
Not like today when you have to remember minute details about something that was said in episode 5 of series 19.'

Tonight's episode promises to be the most 'audacious and emotional' to date with even dedicated fans having to rewind and view again to follow bits. So no chance of us understanding then.

Lock out!

I got locked out of work today.

Fortunately it was sunny so I was able to sit on a window-sill and wait for the electrician to let me in. Which isn't quite as bad as having to call the plumber to let me out of the toilet.

You see I only went outside to take the sign to the bottom of the drive. I normally take my keys when I'm on my own, just in case, but, as the electrician was in the building, I left the door ajar this time.  When I got back it was locked. 

I rang the bell but
a) it might not be working and 
b) the electrician would expect me to open the door if someone rang.

Then I thought maybe he was in the boiler room. It has a wire mesh over the window so first I had to find a stick to push through the mesh to 'bang' or rather, rustle a bit, against the glass. But he wasn't in there.

Next I walked around to the other side of the building where there are windows that look into the hall, hoping I'd be able to see him - or more importantly, he'd be able to see me. Again, no sign.

So it was at this point I sat on the warm window-sill and held a conversation with my stick-man.
'Hello, stick-man.'
'Hello.'
'It's a nice day to be locked out.'
'Pretty stupid to get locked out though.'
'Excuse me? This from a stick-man without a head or legs and with one arm longer than the other?'
'And this from a woman talking to a stick?'
'Point taken. Anyway, with a bit of luck someone will have phoned the police about a woman behaving strangely and they'll turn up soon. They're good at getting into places; I've seen it on telly.'
'Yes, but it usually involves breaking down doors.'
'Hm, true. Oh look!'

Frantic leaping about and waving from me - and the stick-man - followed as the electrician walked through the hall. And he didn't notice me! Until I banged on the glass.
'Oh, did I lock you out?'

And they're off!

So at midnight on Tuesday they were ready for the first stage of their adventure: a coach trip to Heathrow. With less luggage than I need for 2 days in Devon! Oh to be young and not worry about running out of knickers again!

We've heard - through the wonder of Facebook - that they arrived safely in Bangkok where it was 37 degrees at 5.00 pm and the fan in their hostel wasn't a lot of use. They've met up with James (who used to be our lodger) and Heather, who're spending 10 months and two years respectively travelling. And they've been cooking with Poo, in the slums of Bangkok - and Younger Son said it was amazing.

So, so far so good - oh, except Nuora took a malaria pill before eating from a street vendor and promptly threw up - whether because of the pill, the food, the heat or the exhaustion - a 36 hour trip door to door. But she's been okay since.

Exciting times for them.

Are you a suitable person to have fish?

I was in the garden yesterday - you can't call what I was doing gardening - but I leaned forward a little and my back went ping. Ever since then I've been walking with a slight tilt. It's a little disconcerting, imagining a day when I am old and haggard and bent over. 

Also in garden news, we have new fish in our pond. Of the eight originals only three remain and while they've taken advantage of the space and food available to grow into baby sharks Husband had a yen to get some more so we trotted along to Pets-r-us.

You wouldn't think it would be so hard to buy goldfish. For goodness sake, you can win them at the fair. But  the assistant almost refused to sell us any. I blame Husband.

He happened to mention that we'd had a heron in the garden at one stage and we suspected him of eating some of our previous fish. It was then that the cross examination began. What had we done to protect the fish? (Nothing.) Did we have a net over the pond? (No.) Did we intend to put a net over the pond? (Probably not.) Much head-shaking followed. She couldn't sell us fish unless we told her we'd put a net over them. 'Otherwise it's irresponsible of us. We'd just be selling them as food.'

Didn't like to point out the frozen mice they sell as snake food as we did really want some fish. Husband already hadn't helped by going on about the heron, and then, when he'd assured her he would provide adequate protection, he started talking about algae and silt and muddied ponds and blocked filters. I could see our dreams of a fish-filled pond flying out of the window or, more likely, going down the drain. 

When we'd signed all the paperwork - yes, seriously - she let us bring home 6 little fish, and true to his word Husband has put a net over the pond. Now when she said a net I had visions of a discreet fine barely-visible affair; Husband has used - well, see for yourself:

It just won't do.

Addicted to being a mam

Husband came home from walking George in the rain and found me in the kitchen. 'You're addicted to baking,' he said.
'Well, we were talking about brownies yesterday and Younger Son and Nuora said they've never tasted better brownies than the ones I make and they're going to Thailand on Wednesday and they're going to be gone for 3 months and I will worry so I made some brownies.'

Actually I went into the kitchen originally to do some ironing ...

P.S. He's just brought me one with my cup of tea. Mmmmmmmm.