A Less-Sexy Craig David...

Not since I was in 1R at high school have I been structured so restrictively by a weekly timetable. In September of 1989 I kept a cellotape-laminated copy of my week in my blazer's top pocket. These days there's no need to go to such lengths. My day to day activities are imprinted on my brain. Tattooed on my memory through repetition and the lack of anything unexpected or novel. 

I know. I'm as surprised as you that I dug this up.
(Cellotape-laminate for the win!) More surprising,
 however, is that a timetable was handwritten,
and that ass was celebrated in the chapel every
Wednesday. Different times, people.
Different times.

This time it's not Games on a Tuesday that's set in stone. There are other anchors that pinpoint which day of the week it happens to be. Monday, for example, is Only Connect night. If you had mislaid your phone, your calendar, or your etched wall markings, and had no clue what day it was, you'd know it was Only Connect Monday by me shouting NEXT at the screen whilst throwing out random words that bear no relation to any subsequent quiz question. Monday evening is when I stretch my brain but still come up short. 

Tuesday is less clear. I don't shout at the TV on a Tuesday. It's still early doors in the week and there's no real fun to be had. Those evenings usually see me rewatching something of old. At the moment it's Taskmaster. I'm working my way through from the beginning as I listen to each episode's podcast that drops weekly. A Taskmaster rewatch is an activity that was made for lockdown. Silly, fun, fascinating, and in plentiful supply. There are currently seventy-two episodes to be streamed. They liven up Boring Tuesday considerably.

A dramatic reconstruction
 of my Wednesdays.

Wednesday is the point when things get a little more hopeful. It's Food Shopping Day for starters. Also known as The Day I Leave The House And Go To A Place Where Other People Are, although that's less catchy. Wednesday is only two days away from Friday and Friday means wine. So compared to Tuesday, Wednesday is the more glamorous sibling. Wednesday is the Princess Margaret. As well as food shopping, I usually batch cook and spend a happy afternoon away from my laptop. Because Wednesday is my official non-writing day, my brain gets a rest. So come the evening, I've got the mental bandwidth to watch something requiring a little more concentration. Sometimes it's an old Vera from ITVPlayer. A two-hour whodunnit could never take place on a day I've been looking at a screen for hours. Other times it's a film. Most recently I've been working my way through Russell T Davies' back catalogue and so last Wednesday saw me box off several episodes of Cucumber. I'm going backwards chronologically so my next RTD is Doctor Who. I know. There's loads of them to work through. Lockdown schmockdown. Wednesday evenings are a delight.

Perfect lockdown viewing. BBC3 on the iPlayer.

By the time Thursday kicks in, the mood is even lighter. Thursday is Almost Weekend Night. It's Drag Race UK night too. The second series is well underway and is exactly right for these times. Upbeat, supportive, escapist, and the complete antithesis to the more polished, less fun US version. Thursdays are when the wind of change is in the air. Thursdays are when an evening not sat in front of the telly is nearly here. Thursdays are when the bliss of delayed gratification is disguised as a day of a week. Thursday night's TV is the amuse bouche to the following day. Have I built up the tension enough? Because suddenly it's here. It's Friday! 

It's a fisherwoman's platter, no less!

Friday is when unhealthy food paired with lovely booze gets a look in. That's the first change from the norm. The second is that the dining table - also known as the storage place, the jigsaw area, or the dusty wooden thing in the room I never use - gets rolled out. Not literally. It stays where it is but I sit there to eat. Friday night food is spread out, picky, and involves small dishes or a platter. It is never a knife and fork job, and it flies in the face of people that balk at licked fingers. The evening usually ends with me YouTubing songs I haven't heard for ages. This tradition started several weeks ago with the shock of Morton Harket being outed as a Viking. (If you know you know.) Every Friday since, I've listened to his unplugged version of Take on Me. This leads me into my favourite game -  DJing with Alexa - where I play all my favourite singalong tunes. Did I say there's wine? There's wine. I belt out all my faves until the bottle is empty. Try it. It's fun. 

Of course by the time the following day comes along, it's all lies-in and leisurely loafing. I get up late. I have a bath. I shave my legs. Do tell me when I've shared too much, won't you. I listen to podcasts and do the crossword as I drink tea and chillax. Then I cook something big for tea that takes more effort than usual. And there's more wine. Hurrah. A proper film is required for Saturday nights. The kind people watched in cinemas. You know, in the olden days? The last three weeks have seen me watch the To All the Boys trilogy. Because clearly I am a fourteen year old girl deep down. Anything heavier than an upbeat rom-com isn't welcome these days. I'll be back for heavy hitting realism when I can come and go about my business willy nilly, and not a day before. By the time Sunday comes, I'm hungover but unwound. I stay in PJs and use the day to sleep, slob, and watch anything on the planner that needs boxing off. And that, dear readers, is my timetable. 

Even this involves more movement
than I'm used to.

This routine has been in place for weeks. Seven and a half, to be exact. Ever since 2021 began. As we (in the UK) know from experience, lockdown months last approximately 465 times longer than normal months. So even though this one's less than two menstrual cycles long, it's hard to remember what came before. I've forgotten there was a time I left the house in the evenings. I've forgotten there was a time when basing a whole week around the television wasn't standard. When things eventually open up a little, I'll have to carefully reintroduce out-of-house activities at an incremental rate. I'll be exhausted and overwhelmed if I try to shower and leave my home on the same day. I might strain a muscle. Perhaps I should start working out now; getting myself ready physically and mentally for the time I'll need full stamina to face the day. Yes. That's a plan. I'll start upping my game. Maybe I'll have a bath on a Tuesday. Perhaps I'll have a picky tea on a Wednesday. By the time everything's open, I'll be up for a fourteen-venue pub crawl, no mess. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

Bring on the Cucumber Slices...

Hello there. As I type, I've got tired eyes. I know this because my right eye lid keeps twitching. I've checked online and it's all fine. It could be one of several causes. I'm tired, stressed, got eye strain, had too much caffeine, or have physically exerted myself. (Re: the last point. I can confirm I have not.)

I could not agree more with
Rep. Stacey Plaskett 

It's definitely a tiredness thing. Over the past week, I was up late most nights, absorbing the twists and turns of the T***p impeachment. And then, around 1am when it had been done for the day, I went to bed and read everything I found about what I'd just watched. It was fascinating but all-consuming. That'll be the reason my eye's twitching. I'm knackered.

Well in Brigitta, with your fluttery
 fleeting. My eye is homaging you.

There's the other thing I've been doing, of course. The one that might have strained my eye to the point it flits, floats, fleetly flees and flies. (Apologies. I'm still mourning the death of Captain Von Trapp.) Over the past fortnight I've done an intense, line by line edit of the latest version of Assembling the Wingpeople. 

It's a weird thing, editing. For so long, it's about the big stuff. Does the plot make sense? Will the readers believe that character would do that, or should I add more foreshadowing earlier? Does the moving section where sad stuff happens, make people feel moved and sad? But then over time the plot, characters, and themes meld together. It can be read from beginning to end with the reader taken along with the story. It just flows. Still not glossily perfect, but the big stuff is locked in.

That's when the eye strain takes place. For hours every day, I've stared at my laptop. Not in the usual way, when I scroll, click, and glance around the room as I ponder life between bursts of typing. No, for the past couple of weeks I have properly stared. Close up, scrolling slowly, reading every sentence before rejigging, rewording, or deleting it. It's been full on.

It's amazing what a line by line edit throws up. Firstly, it should be said that to get the best out of the process, it's important to change the font. Change the font of the entire manuscript so it's like reading something new. Then, starting from the first word on page one, read it aloud.  That immediately throws up all sorts of things. Is the sentence garbled? Does it trip me up as I say it? Can the meaning be clearer? Does it have rhythm? Would an extra syllable make it land more effectively? Does it sound like something that character would say? Would she use that vocabulary? Honestly, the list of things to think about could go on forever. That's just a taster. Ultimately it's about flexing your reading ear. Does it sound right? That's all that matters. It just needs to sound right in the end.

My other big take-away from this process - apart from eye strain - is that I've noticed my tendency to omit the inverted comma from the end of a piece of dialogue when a question has been asked. It's seems I get confused by the question mark at the end of the sentence and assume it covers the speech punctuation too. I lost count of the times I spotted I'd done that. It's always useful to learn something new about yourself, so there we are. Something to watch out for in future writing endeavours.

It's still not completely finished. And that won't be the final line by line edit that gets done. Nope, not at all. There'll be a couple more before the text gets transferred to the interior template. But for now, I'll have a break from that level of intensity. For the next few weeks, I need less stressful activities for my eye. I've still got to write the blurb, formulate the acknowledgements, work out a timeline for preparing the finished book, and start thinking about the marketing strategy. But now I've typed my next steps out, the other eye has begun to twitch. Perhaps I need a few days in a darkened room, with refrigerated cucumber slices and whale music. Maybe that's what it'll take to ease my injury. If you need me I'll be having a home spa day and making sure I continue to avoid any twitch-causing physical exertion. It's what my eyes need right now.

Have a lovely week, folks.

And the Next Lockdown Project is...

Lockdown 1. Lost my mind. Batch cooked for Britain. Dyed half my head blonde. 

Lockdown 2. Bought every type of Christmas food. Ate at the table for the first time in years. Put fairy lights in the downstairs rooms. 

Lockdown 3. Erm...? Not sure really. Wore pyjamas? Watched telly? Not much else tbh. 

I am, Moira. I am.

It seems I'm experiencing Lockdown Burnout. It's a thing. I just invented it. At least I thought I had. I was all set to alert the General Medical Council and School of Tropical Medicine when I read an article about it*. Anyhoooo. Lockdown Burnout. I'm so over it. It's no fun. There's nothing new to do. Not even a new fear or panic to mix things up. No new ideas to alleviate the monotony. Just the year-long rumbling of fed-upness, angst, and a low threshold for any kind of excitement. It's almost a year since the first lockdown. That means, along with a lot of other scary, sad statistics, it's also the first anniversary of the last time I dyed my hair brown. And the last time I sat in a theatre. And the last time I saw a mate close up. And the last time I took a million and one other things for granted that I'd give an arm and a leg to do right now. Funny old world, innit. 

But that was eleven months ago. Three lockdowns ago. And - because of the cruel timing of the start of mass restrictions - nearly two birthdays ago. So we know the score. We're used to the rules. We keep a distance, we mask up, we stop touching every individual potato until we find the perfect one. We buy the first one we handle and on we trudge. 

But now I've diagnosed myself with Lockdown Burnout it's my responsibility to do something about it. It's not enough to simply set the table to up the mealtime ante. It's not enough to debate, with every glance in the mirror, whether to keep the blonde or keep the roots. It's not enough to switch on the remaining Christmas lights every morning like I've done since the first week of November even though it's February. I need more. And Readers, you know where I'm going. I have a plan. 

This is what I'm
 working with.

My plan takes the form of one word. That's all. It's brief and simple. Whisky. I'm going to attempt whisky. Not a drink I have much experience with but I like a new challenge. Here are a couple of things I learnt recently. 

1. Whisky is Scottish but whiskey is Irish. 
2. I can't stand whisky. Nor whiskey.

This will not put me off. Oh no. I will persevere. The only problem is the taste. It makes me feel like I've inadverntantly ingested nail varnish remover. Or meths. If it hadn't got anything else going for it, I'd not bother. But the problem is, it looks so cool. I want to hold a iced tumbler in my hand, swilling around its contents as I brood and dwell and reflect. I want to look like the adult in the room. The woman who has GOT this. I want to get in from the office, (what office?) stride over to the drinks cabinet in my Katharine Hepburn wide-legged trousers and brogues, pour a slug from a decanter, and knock it back, with one hand in my pocket and a cigarette holder dangling from my mouth. (I've not worked out the logistics yet. I'm sure it's doable.) I want to be a whisky/whiskey drinker so bad. 

This sort of thing, yes?

I have tried, of course. The first time was years ago in Scotland where I had a bash at a couple. I gave up after each sip. I once tweeted into a Riverside radio interview where Joe Wadsack - drinks coach extraordinaire - was discussing this very topic. I asked him what was the best whisky for someone who doesn't really like whisky. He very sweetly gave me the time of day and said Speyside. So now you know. 

50 mls of whisky, 50 mls
of amaretto, and a couple
of cherries. Cheers.

All this came to a head on Burns Night when I had another go. I felt it was important to be authentic. (Whisky with no E, thank you very much.) One mouthful in and I was struggling once more. Then I had a brainwave. I'd make a cocktail! Yes! Who'd have thought this was even a thing? Not me! With my genius invention fresh in my head, it was quite dispiriting to search for Whisky Cocktails and find literally thousands of results. It seems other people have had the same idea too. My innovative, entrepreneurial bubble was burst. At the time, it was too much to deal with, so I simply added a glug of Amaretto to my drink and spent a happy hour getting tipsy as shit. Who'd have guessed that a tumbler full of hardcore spirits would have that effect? I know. Every day's a school day. 

This weekend I'm taking the scientific approach. I've done my research and got a few ideas. I'm not interested in bells and whistles, olives and onions. I want simple ways to look cool and grownup without actually having to be. Cool and grown up that is. And without having to drink neat whisky. That too.

Full disclosure, I've had a bit of help on the inspiration front. On the Off Menu podcast from 27.1.21 Ed Gamble said he 'only started drinking whisky because of Mad Men and because cool people drink it in films'. I related immediately. Co-host, James Acaster, then commented how 'whisky looks delicious in films before you've tried it. It looks like it's literally a caramel drink.' All this hit home. So for you, and let's face it, really for me, here are two whisky cocktails I'm going to try this week. 

Whisky and soda with a twist
Don't be fooled. The twist is not what you think. Instead of lime, which I believe it traditional in these matters, I've twisted the concept of the soda. Behold CHERRY sparking water from Dalston's. I'm going to recreate my amaretto and whisky masterpiece with less alcohol and sugar content. I know. It's practically a health drink. As for a recipe, I imagine I'll do a shot glass of whisky, and a third of a can of cherry water. A glass from the freezer and maybe shaken over a bunch of ice cubes. Who knows? I'll work it out as I go. Like improv. Or jazz.

I don't understand ounces
but I completely get ratio!

Rob Roy 

This one is, I understand, an official cocktail recipe that the Tom Cruise shakey types will know. Whisky, vermouth, and bitters. I am going to venture down the spirit aisle next time I do the food shop, and search for the things from the list that aren't whisky. This is the drink that James Acaster discussed in the same podcast. He said that a Rob Roy looked the way he imagined whisky tasted before he had tried it, so I'm going for it. It's my new lockdown project. I've got a cocktail shaker waiting for some attention and I'm ready to oblige.

 

Much more likely, tbh.

Of course if I chicken out, or worse, if I spend a bunch of money on all sorts of fancy booze that gets shelved after one mouthful, I need you to do my a favour. Picture me swilling a clinking glass as I brood. Make me commanding, capable, and in charge of my shit. Add the cigarette holder if it works for you, I'm not fussed. But give the image of Cool Me a bit of airtime. And that can be my next lockdown activity. Sod the whisky. I'm attempting mind control.

 
Have a lovely week, folks. 

*It seems I didn't just invent it. This article was published the day after I wrote the first draft of this. If you want to read a more scientific and less whimsical piece about the specifics of pandemic burnout - with no references to whisky at any point - this is for you. 

Fictional Ghosts and the Pleasure They Bring...

ANSWER: Reading out the notices, dealing with Pam, organising the summer fete.

QUESTION: What do you think the Hot Priest from Fleabag is doing now?

A Fleabag-less Hot Priest.
Sigh. It's probably for the best.

Don't tell me you've not thought about it. I do daily. Of course my real answer is 'leaving the church over a matter of conscience, telling Fleabag he made the wrong decision and then... but you know what? I'm not so sure. What do I actually want for Fleabag? Her ending was perfect. Perhaps I'd prefer the HP to stay in his parish and let her mend and grow without him. Maybe. Maybe not. The good news is I can have a different opinion every time I consider the issue. The joy of fiction.

No biggie. Just one of my
fictional ghost mates checking 
in whilst I sleep. 

Hello there. You've caught me doing what I do a lot. Thinking about characters that are so well conceived, so well executed on the page or screen, that I can't let them go when their time's up. Whether it's the length of a novel, six episodes of a series, or simply an effective scene (more of that later) characters that stay with you, are the best. They help shape your world view. They teach you about things you thought you already knew. They're friendly ghosts you pick up along the way, clinging to your soul for the rest of your days. You think you're just reading my nonsense now? Oh no. There's loads of us here*. Like a perfectly sane schizophrenic. I - like everyone - is the product of the people I've met before. And some of those people are fictional characters. Soz but it's true.

It's a Sin. Channel 4, Friday nights, 9pm.

BUT WHAT ARE YOU GOING ON ABOUT, NICKY? WHAT'S YOUR POINT? Yep, it's a fair question. But if you've been consuming the same telly as I have recently, I reckon you've got a clue. Two weeks ago, a new series started that I've already decided is the best thing I've ever watched in my life. No hyperbole here. No Madam, not for an instant. I mean it. It's a Sin was broadcast on Channel Four and I've not stopped thinking about the characters all week.

There'll be no spoilers from me. Worry not about that. I had intended to watch it weekly, taking my time over the next few Fridays. But when I realised Twitter had steamed ahead and binged the lot (on All Four), I jumped right in and devoured the whole thing. For three hours and fifty-three minutes I was part of the LGBTQIA+ community in 1980s London. I heard the first rumblings about the mystery virus, I watched people I know get scared then get ill, and I outlived some of the friends I had come to love. That was the power of the writing. I wasn't a viewer. I was a participant. I was there. What power Russell T Davies and his pen have. To take the viewer on a journey so all-consuming, so visceral. It's quite the skill.

 

Jill, and real-life Jill.
An added layer of realism.

My favourite character from It's a Sin was Jill. (Seconded by the woman with only one scene in the whole thing - Ruth Sheen in the kitchen in Episode Five. Perfection.) But back to Jill. Perhaps it makes sense that the female ally was my way into the story. Over the past week, I thought about her and her mates, every single day. I know I'm going to have to watch it again sooner rather than later. That three hours and fifty-three minutes - a mofo length of time if it were a film - simply flew by. There was no clock watching, no pausing every so often for tea or toilet breaks. It was as easy to watch as my own life is to live. Naturally flowing, with all the ups and downs, joy and trauma that that entails. Last week's blog referred to making the most of lockdown's lack of social life by catching up with your mates on the telly. In one afternoon, I was lovingly dragged into Jill's group of pals, and allowed to be part of their stories. And now I'm left reeling, wondering how they and their families are doing and what happened next.**

It's advice of sorts. Just make me
care about the people. That's
the best thing.

Some writers are driven by plot. They meticulously construct cliffhangers and reveals that take the reader/viewer on a twisting path of constant surprise. I love those stories. There's nothing like a good thriller to keep you guessing. But it's not my own writing bag. I'm all about characters. I want to write like Russell T Davies. Like Phoebe Waller Bridge. Like someone who plants a pal in you head, and makes you wonder where they're at, days after you've finished the book or series.

I planned out the plot of Assembling the Wingpeople in April 2019. I'd just finished Fleabag and it inspired me to tighten up the vague ideas I'd already jotted down. It's a Sin is going to be the next fire under my arse when it comes to writing something new. An example of absolute brilliance, dangling out of reach of my own abilities, but that will forever inspire me. When people moan that all they've done is watch telly over lockdown, they don't appreciate how character-building, informative, and therapeutic that really is. Keep watching. It's more important than you know.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*Shirley Valentine, Sally Allbright, Angelique De Xavia, Fleabag, Michael Tolliver, Céline and Jesse, Jack Parlabane, Dolly Wilde, Birgitte Nyborg, Anna Madrigal... they're all here!

**Several hours after writing this, I was part of a Writers' Guild Zoom chat with Russell T Davies. He shared his thoughts about what Present Day Jill was doing, and it was immensely satisfying. I now need all writers of my favourite things to do the same please. Phoebe Waller Bridge, Christopher Brookmyre, Nora Ephron... yes?