Search History Blues...

This is Kermit, giving you his
dramatic interpretation of my life.

We're three weeks into the writing of Book Three. It's flown, by, hasn't it. How's it going for you? That's excellent. I'm made up for you. Me? I'm grand thanks. I've got seven chapters completed, making a total of 14054 words. I'm well into the flow and hitting my daily target every time I type. Hurrah. Things are going nicely. 

This is a snapshot of the searches
 I made when writing last week's blog.

The only aspect that disrupts the creative juices is the pesky inconvenience of authenticity. You know, fact-checking. Research. Sometimes in the middle of writing a chapter, I realise I need to know something specific and have to choose whether to hit Google and look it up, or wait until later. It would stop my train of thought and those lovely free flowing sentences, but is essential if I want to get it right there and then. Sometimes I leave a bunch of dashes, or highlight in yellow the sentence that needs the specific info. Other times I press pause on my thoughts and follow the trail of websites that an initial search offers me. Either way, my search history is interesting.

Some of the characters from
this story  feature in the new one.

I'm going to share that search history with you now. Or at least the questions I Googled that brought up the websites within it. Not every single thing I've searched in the past week. Lordy, can you imagine? No, just the stuff that relates to the new book. Call this an early teaser if you like. I'm writing a story that involves some of the characters from Carry the Beautiful. If you've read that, this might pique your interest. Alternatively, marvel in wonder at how such a random bunch of necessary information can be woven into what aims to be, a realistic story. A story of everyday people dealing with the challenges of life. Either way, it's an interesting bunch of searches, whether you know the context or not. Can the early plot be deciphered through these clues? I'd bet money, not. Don't listen to me, though. See what you think.

NICKY'S SEARCHES RELATING TO THE FIRST SEVEN CHAPTERS.

What are some obscure sexual fetishes?
Spelling of conjure (UK)
Jobs for Office Mangers in York law firms
Do seasons have capital letters?
What herbal pills calm nerves?
How do you spell umami?
What sound does a seagull make?
What are common menopause symptoms?
Google Images - The bandstand in Aberystwyth
Google Images - sunsets
When did Led Zeppelin play at the bandstand in Aberystwyth?
What forms need to be signed when buying a house?
The stages of grief
Does York have Uber?
Does 'wing men' have a hyphen?
Double barrelled names that sound posh
Google Maps - York
Google Maps - Stockport
Google Maps - Aberystwyth

So that's where we're up to. Between fetishes, spellings, and poring over town-centre maps, it's any wonder I've got 14000 words done at all. I shall keep plodding on. I'm delighted to be completing two chapters a week. That's about 4000 words, and almost 6% of the intended length of the whole thing. If I keep it up, I'll have the first draft done by November. And then the real work begins. I have to make it not shit. The struggle is real.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Molly Ringwald and Alan Davis, Together At Last...

Even though I'm filled with the thrills of a new writing project, I'm still promoting my last one. Part of me wishes I could forget about that now. It's old news. It's done. But then my fledgling entrepreneurial side weakly raises its hand to remind me I have books to flog. My ethereal creative aura (no honestly, it's there) takes a knock when I put it like that, but that's the reality of the sitch.

I am this cool in my head.
Classic Molly.
From over 30 years ago.

With that in mind, it's time to return to a bit of Leeza chat. Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say has been out for a few months now. I forget about it most of the time. Especially now I'm concerning myself with new characters these days. But then something happens that reminds me of the McAuliffe family. Last month - as I've banged on about already - I watched Tales of the City. In the penultimate episode, an actor popped that I never see much these days. It took a second to place her but then I did. Molly Ringwald. You know? From the 80s? From Pretty in Pink and the Breakfast Club? I had a weird reaction. Initially I thought, 'Oh God, I know her. Who IS that?' Then I thought, 'But that's impossible. It can't be. That's Leeza's mum!' Then I stopped being weird and saw it was Molly Ringwald. 

When I was planning the story of Leeza McAuliffe three years ago, I decided that present day Molly Ringwald would be the ideal image to have as Leeza'a mum. Then, just to seal the deal, I called Leeza's mum, Molly. I am a creative genius! I did this with all the main characters. I found someone real that I could keep in my head as I wrote their words and worked out their voice. Seeing Molly Ringwald pop up out of the blue was a surreal moment. It was like my book had been secretly dramatised and no one had told me.

So, as part of my policy of IF IT'S IN MY HEAD I MUST SHARE IT ONLINE, here are my go to actors for some of the cast of Leeza McAuliffe Has Something To Say, coming to Netflix this autumn*. (Ha, can you even imagine!) 

Molly Hart-McAuliffe 

(Mum)

1. DIA Dipasupil/Getty Images
Leeza's mum is passionately committed to all causes that matter to her. A sporadic vegan and defender of the environment (in as much as can be convenient for a parent of several) she isn't shy in making her views known. These views are often at odds with Grandma, and occasionally Leeza. Molly is an staunch advocate of a Family Meeting, although is less keen on democracy when Leeza wants to share her views.

Seb McAuliffe - aka Mac

(Dad)

No idea why my brain went towards Alan Davis, but it did. Leeza's dad is calm, supportive, and fun. He is fully onboard with the lifestyle changes Molly wants, although he'd never have thought of them himself. He is happiest when he can wear shorts instead of work clothes. He also knows to step out of the line of fire when Molly and Ursula go at it. His best moment was when his coriander seeds sprouted. 

Spike

The oldest of Leeza's little brothers, Spike is a pain to live with. He calls Leeza, Loser, struggles with the concept of privacy, and tends to go hyper after too many sweets. He sings 'Let it Flow' in the style of Frozen when he wees. The image of Vern from Stand By Me was strong from the start, but as Vern has always reminded me of my own oldest little brother, there was a lot of crossover along the way.

Ursula Hart

(Grandma)

2. Photograph: Andrew Milligan/PA
Ursula is stern, convinced her views are the only way to think, and at constant odds with her daughter. But she means well. Her house is spotless, and she despairs of the more-relaxed stance Molly and Mac take to hoovering. Somewhere along the way, I must have decided that this was exactly the same as Diana Rigg. Who knows? Diana Rigg might be a slovenly pussy cat.

Willard

3. 2013 for People Magazine. Courtesy of Firenze Post.
Willard is nothing like Grandma because he is smily and fun, so it makes no sense to Leeza why they start dating. He has unlimited energy with the younger boys, but also knows how to treat Leeza like the almost-grown up she is. He introduces her to JD Salinger, and she perseveres even though she hasn't an igloo what is going on. Robin Williams would have nailed this part.

Jake Woolton

Jake is slightly older, cooler and savvier than Leeza, but a friendship is forged when she moves to his village. His shining moment is when he is honest in his feedback about the bridesmaid dress. (Read it and see.) Or when he steps up at the harvest festival? In later years, maybe Jake and Leeza have their first snog together. Or maybe Jake comes out to Leeza and she's the first person he tells. Or maybe Jake is killed in a threshing accident on the top field. Who can say? Whatever his future, Will Poulter in his younger days is the image I had throughout.

You know you're intrigued.
Come on, get involved!

What's interesting looking back, is how these images changed over time. By the end of the first draft, I'd moved away from actual Robin Williams - Willard had begun to have his own face. Likewise, the character of Jenna - not featured above because my initial mental image was of a child I used to teach - began as caucasian. By the end I knew she wasn't. No idea why, but she and the others morphed into their own identities along the way. And what about the main woman? What about Leeza? What's the mental image I have of her? Well, the answer is, I don't really have one. Yeah, I know, not cool. It's all about her and I don't know what she looks like. Nice one Bondie... NOT. But here's the thing. Because the diary is life seen through her eyes, we are also looking through her eyes at everything that happens. WE are Leeza. She is US! How's that for pretentious waffle? Beyond a brief description about her preferring jeggings and leggings to skirts and dresses, or that she once had a fringe but regretted it, there's very little to go on.

I did cover the bulk of this post
on a Twitter thread a little while
ago. It amused me, anyway.

The thing is, anyone who reads a book will visualise the characters differently. That's the joy of moving on from picture books. It's all down to the reader. The author relinquishes control the second they pass on their work. I've had these images with me for three years, but it would have been irresponsible of me to share this when the book first came out. Readers have to be left to forge their own ideas as they read. But here we are, months later, and I'm taking back a smidge of control. Or sharing my creative process. Or trying to fill a blog post when I can't think of anything else. You decide.

Have a lovely week, folks.



*It is not coming to Netflix this autumn.


Photo references
1. https://www.newsweek.com/molly-ringwald-why-small-moments-film-relatable-and-when-shell-return-1294705

2. https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/shortcuts/2013/apr/30/diana-rigg-laying-into-women

3 https://stmuhistorymedia.org/the-pain-behind-the-smile-the-robin-williams-story/

Power to the Joyful People...

The news hasn't been much fun lately, has it? I realise the term 'news' is a broad church, encompassing the 'And finally...' stories as well as the headline-grabbing stuff. Even so, it's a bit of a bin fire. From the vast majority of the country having enforced bystander status regarding the choosing of the new Prime Minister, to the clamour of some MPs to dismiss violence against women as soon as it's caught on camera or heard by neighbours, to the latest sexual assault allegations concerning the US president, to the continued US border camps where children are being held in squalor, it takes it toll. The feeling of deep rage coupled with an inability to fix the world, is no fun at all. There are charities that will take your donations, there are petitions to sign, and there's another political march this month. These are drops in the ocean. We know that, but we do them anyway. We do what we can to quench a little rage. We sign the petitions, we support the charities, and we raise issues with our elected representatives. Then we carry on. We do the food shopping, we go to work, we open the wine. When the next news alert breaks, it's awful but we carry on.

Find the joy, folks. Even on a slide.

Carrying on is fine, but we need to carry on joyfully. No matter how grim things seem, to lose a lust for life because of the terrible behaviour of others, is to let the baddies win. To be openly happy is revolutionary. Taking a lesson from all that have celebrated Pride this Summer - and I am definitely NOT saying we need a straight Pride. I am NOT that person, such a ridiculous argument, purleeese - I am going to feel pride and joy in everything I can. I am going to enjoy the small things, no matter how unimportant they seem in the face of the overwhelming bad stuff - the small things that can provide a necessary break from reality, or a chance to revel in positivity and oppose the gloom. Here's a few suggestions of how I, or indeed you, might manage that.

I spent this weekend waving my
iPhone torch and singing loudly too.

Treat Your Ears...

It may be over for another year but I LOVE Glastonbury. Whilst I can never see myself re-embracing camping at this stage in my life, the BBC coverage means I don't have to. Every year I keep the weekend free, open the patio doors, and chill the beer. A live set from a legend of music is never not amazing. It is never not tingling or electric. Yesterday I watched Kylie and The Cure and they collectively made all my cares melt away. On Saturday I drank beer and belted out every Killers hit, with wild abandon. And when The Pet Shop Boys and Johnny Marr turned up? Well let's just say I was a million mental miles away from the random shite politicians say to appeal to their current base. Now it's Monday morning and Glastonbury may be technically over but BBC iPlayer has it all there. I'm going to watch stuff I missed at the time, as well as relive my favourite sets. If you don't fancy any of that, go to the pub and watch a band. Play music loudly in the car. Blast out show tunes as you shower. Music takes us away from ourselves. For the length of a song, a live set, or both acts of a West End musical if you happen to know one off by heart. (I do. It's Rent. I can perform it in its entirety, any time you like.)

Mouse has just heard how much I loved Tales of the City.

Treat Your Eyes...

I watched Russell T Davis' Years and Years recently, and it was excellent. In an attempt to escape the populist rising of far right politics and the grooming of a country into accepting death camps, it was, however, a little on the nose. And despite everyone who has watched Chernobyl urging me to change my mind, I am giving that a miss. I just need something less... apocalyptic at the moment. So instead, I've submerged myself in escapism. Realism can return another day, but for now I want to be taken away from all this. The second series of Killing Eve is just right. Thrilling, slick, and too comedic to be taken as a serious look at murder. I've hoovered that up this week. Then there's my old friend, Tales of the City. For ten glorious hours, I was transported to San Francisco, where kindness and love won over hate and ignorance. I've also made use of the steady stream of Netflix movies that pop up regularly. Always Be My Maybe, Murder Mystery, Wine Country - all fun, light-hearted, and a bit daft. Sometimes, that's the only way to unwind. The news will still be there, but my ability to stomach it is replenished from an hour and a half away.

No filter, taken with no concentration.
Look how lovely it is.

Treat the Rest of You...

Now steady on. I'm going to talk about the outdoors. About - and I'll say it quickly - nature. I need a full week of antihistamines before I venture out into woodland, I'm not reckless. Yet, getting outside and walking about a bit does seem to perk me up. Whether it's around the park, or along the river, I've got a few scenic options within a twenty minute drive. The world's my oyster, and it contains a fluttering breeze, the salty ozone, the crunch of leaves underfoot and all sorts of other poetic sensory shit. I listen to podcasts as I walk. When I really want to escape, Adam Buxton is my preferred choice. His hour long interviews with fellow comedians are gently hysterical. I've quite literally LOLZed in public, strolling past random picnickers as something in my ear has amused me. When I'm feeling I can stomach a little more grit, I listen to the Remaniacs podcast. It might focus on the political meltdown of the country post-referendum, but at least it gives me heart that I'm not the only person to feel like I do. It doesn't matter what I listen to though. The exercise, the fresh air, and the feeling of doing instead of thinking is welcome. (Over-thinking is an occupational hazard. If I had a physically exerting job, perhaps I'd do Sudokus to unwind.)

The Neph's FaceTime
portrait of me (balls included)
made me laugh a lot. 

I have other methods for living joyfully in the face of negativity. FaceTiming the Niece and Neph is an obvious one. They're at an age where I can make a joke with a punchline of 'poo', and they will laugh. (I am sure this humour will have a shelf life.) Alternatively, I can cook something new. Following a recipe and carefully measuring ingredients focuses on the nurturing creation of scrumptiousness. All negative thoughts are pushed right out of the kitchen. And then there are books. I check Twitter way too much. If I read a page of a novel every time I scrolled, I'd get through several books a week. Like I used to, you know? Before Twitter was invented. And finally, there's the football. You might not be interested in the FIFA Women's World Cup, or sport in general. But the photo of USA's Megan Rapinoe, standing tall, head raised, proudly celebrating her goal is an image that fills me with untold strength. Not only has she excelled at her job under the normal pressures of high stakes team sports, but she's also had the president of her county slag her off via Twitter. (She responds eloquently, yet firmly, here.) She deserves her pride, and I love how unapologetic she is about it. (This doesn't change the fact I still need England to beat the USA tomorrow. Come on Lionesses!)

Megan Rapinoe. I can't kick a ball like her, but
I can definitely celebrate my achievements
with as much pride.(Image Credits:
Creator: Elsa
Copyright: 2019 Getty Images)

Look, the world was probably always full of horrors. We just knew less about them back then. I don't believe we're witnessing anything new. Everything is cyclical, after all. At least that's what is less worrying to believe. Our job, I think, is to stand up and challenge injustice when we can. Do what is possible, and find solidarity amongst others. And then, at other times, accept when that is personally too hard. Regular self-care and recharging are essential. Finding strength in an escapist film, or in the image of an exceptional sportsperson, can fuel and replenish our energy. And living joyfully, proudly, and finding pleasure in the mundane, can be downright subversive. Power to the people. 

Have a lovely week, folks.

Houston, We Have Lift Off...

How do you write a book? No, really. I'm asking. I've done it twice now (three times if you count my first discarded attempt) and I still don't get the process. It just...happens. It feels confusing and messy and occasionally exhilarating, then at some point it's done. It's always a shock when a tangible product emerges. Somewhere within a fog of writer's block, demented typing, and swigs of cold tea, a story drags itself into existence.

For the past few months - whilst I've been planning for, and then experiencing, the longest skive known to woman - I've had a date firmly marked in my diary. Monday 17th June. That's the day I am due to start my next book. For the sharper-minded amongst you, it will be apparent that Monday 17th June has been and gone. And with it, I think I've got the next book-ball rolling. Or maybe I haven't. The fog has partially descended once again. I know I've done some typing, and I know I've got a planning folder of ideas, but what's the past week's output actually looked like? Am I in full flow again? Is this it? Answers on a postcard, it's too early to tell for me.

Enough of all these vague wonderings, though. Let's be analytical and systematic. Let's take a look at the evidence. 

Monday 17th June
It's finally here. The day to which I've been looking forward since mid-April. Over the weekend just gone, I've mentally prepared myself to be up with the Monday morning lark. It's a serious business being An Author. Note the capitalisation. This. Is. Important. Literary. Work. 

Evidence of Monday's achievements. 

Unfortunately, when the alarm went off this morning, a mixture of pre-menstrual aches and general apathy meant I spent much of the day distracting myself away from literary genius. I made a big pan of black bean daal. I listened to a two hour podcast involving a mate. Then I listened to another mate stand in for someone's radio show. This wasn't the most productive writing day. (The Supporting Friends and Creating Sustenance boxes got firmly ticked though.) Once I'd exhausted all other avenues of distraction - my Women's World Cup Wall Chart is now up to date - I got a grip. I opened the folder of planning files I'd collated over the past year. I read some of them. I made a timetable. I changed today's diary entry from Start Writing Book Three to Plan the Organisation of Writing Book Three. A subtle distinction, but it means I achieved something after all. Then I switched off for the evening with the intention of doing better tomorrow.

Tuesday 18th June
Now this is more like it. I was in front of my laptop by 10am. Unwashed, PJ-ed up to frig, and intent on avoiding all distracting temptations, I opened a new Word Doc. 

Typing Chapter One is an odd feeling. At this point, it's all so exciting. There's huge potential for greatness, with no pesky reality to burst the optimistic bubble. I've got all these ideas and plans, and I know in my head where this is going to lead. But also, my God, there's so much to write down before it's done. Whilst it's still a planning notebook, its potential isn't realised. It could be amazing. It could be the greatest novel ever written. It could be EPIC. I don't linger long on these thoughts. If I did, I'd have to consider the opposing position. It could be a pile of shite. Instead, I open my planning file on the Chapter One page, and remind myself of all the plot points, teasers, and bits of unexplained info, I want to drop in. And then I start.

The first line has to be brilliant. It has to grab the reader from the start. It should be enigmatic and cheeky and full of hints, without giving away anything beyond a whimsical clue of what's to come. Today, that's a bit too much to handle. I skip over the first line's significance, and put a place holder in. I'd be here all day if I didn't. The spectacular, attention-grabbing first line can be sorted later. The place holder I chose was, 'It had been a lovely day.' I know. LOLZ. (I'd have told a Year Four kid to have another go. How about using your ambitious vocabulary, Nicky? Is that really going to make people want to read on?) But by jumping into the flow two feet first, it meant I could hit the ground running. So I did.

The temptation to edit every single line as I write, is strong. But I've learnt that this hinders everything. I just have to write. I have to write everything down that I want to include. I have to get from the first to the last line of the chapter without stopping every five seconds to ponder a word-choice, or question whether a semi colon looks pretentious in that sentence. I just have to get it done.

Cheers Sefton Park. You are now
my post-writing walking place.

I wrote from 10-1. Then I ate crackers and tapenade. (Yeah. Tapendade. Handle it.) I carried on for a couple more hours and got to the end of the chapter. Not that it really matters at this stage, but I checked the word count. (The word count will differ greatly by the time it's whipped into shape later on.) For now, even if it's irrelevant, I still like checking. It's the tangible evidence that I've done some stuff. Today I wrote 1333 words. If I typed out the phone book for five hours, I would have a much bigger number. But today's five hours of writing included pondering, googling, deleting, rereading, and doubting. A thousand plus words will do me fine, ta.

I had a shower, drove to a park, and walked around for a bit. It was time for a stretch. 

Wednesday 19th June
Technically, Wednesdays are my day off. Except they aren't really. It's just the day I use when I have to do things mid-week. So after a cracking weight gain at WW, (damn you, you lovely French holiday!) a Costa tea, and a trip round Marksies, I was back at Chapter One. I read through it again. I won't be doing that much more until the whole thing is finished, but it was good to read yesterday's mad typing, and catch some typos and punctuation fails. I also did some researchy bits.

The book is mostly set in Aberystwyth. In Chapter One (I've now decided it's a prologue and not Chapter One) there's an eye-witness account of a potential dramatic incident, from a jobbing musician. I researched orchestras, events at the Aberystwyth bandstand, and musical references I could drop in that could provide a bit of backstory and setting. I looked at photos of the Aberystwyth sunset so I could fathom the best words to convey the mid-evening summer setting. I also booked a ticket for an open air cinema night showing Dirty Dancing at Aberystwyth castle in July. (It isn't at all necessary for the book but it looks like it'll be brilliant.)

Then I watched the England v Japan match with a beer and forgot about the Prologue. For the time being.

Thursday 20th June
Today was all about The Artist Formerly Known As Chapter Two, but is now called Chapter One. Yes, we've moved on! Are you keeping up? I like the ordered feeling of starting a new chapter every Monday morning, but I can get myself in the zone before then. I read over my notes for TAFKA Chapter Two, and worked out what my opening line was going to be. I visualised how I was going to get from the plot points I'd planned, and I wrote down a few more notes along the way. I'm now primed for Monday morning.

Friday 21st June
I wrote this blog, didn't I. YOU'RE WELCOME.

So there we are. A slightly delayed start to the week, but Book Three has begun. I'm a whole prologue down, with only thirty-six chapters more to write. (That number will defo increase as I get further into it. No worries about that.) But now it's the weekend. I've got a busy schedule of eating, slobbing, and mentally preparing myself for the task that follows. Before we all know it, it'll be March, and the first draft will be done. Bring it on! I AM UP FOR THE CHALLENGE. Probably. And even if I'm not, I've got an open-air cinema evening to look forward to. Hurrah.

Have a lovely week, folks.

The Importance of Telling Tales...

Netflix has a new show. 
ASK ME WHY I'M COVERED IN GOOSEBUMPS. 
As soon as I can set aside ten hours of uninterrupted viewing time, I'm diving right in. 
ASK ME WHY IT'S MAKING ME SO TINGLY. 
It's not one to squish into a spare hour a night, or one to start with good intentions, only to leave hanging because life's got in the way. 
ASK ME WHY IT MEANS SO MUCH
Before I'm blown away by a slew of questions, I'll cut right to the chase...

HERE'S THE TIMELINE OF HOW I DISCOVERED MY FAVOURITE EVER AUTHOR; AN AUTHOR WHOSE MAJOR WORKS HAVE JUST BEEN MADE INTO A NETFLIX SERIES.

Mid 90s - Late night Channel 4, after the programme I'd been watching had finished, I stumbled across a US mini series called Tales of the City. It was thrilling. A 1970s world set in gay, bi, trans, and straight San Francisco. I wanted to be there. I wanted to see more. I videoed the subsequent episodes and devoured them. 

From clockwise left: Mouse,
Mona, Mary-Ann, and
Anna Madrigal.

Some time after that, I realised - pre-Internet, so no immediate Googling - the mini series covered two books by someone called Armistead Maupin. Tales of the City, and More Tales of the City. I read them both. A few times.

2001 - I was in Australia. On my cousin's wife's book shelf was the third book in the Tales series - Further Tales of the City. I read it on the plane home, posted it back, and buzzed off the literary reunion I'd had. Michael Tolliver (Mouse) was my favourite character. Anna Madrigal was the maternal glue of the piece. Mary Ann Singleton was the straight eyes guiding me through the story. It was like being on the other side of the world but bumping into old friends.

Mid 2000s - I read the next three books in the series. Babycakes, Significant Others, and Sure of You. I was still reading retrospectively at this point and so topics such as AIDS were having a huge impact on the lives of characters, having been written in the mid-80s. At the end of Sure of You, where Mouse accepts his HIV+ status as the death sentence it was, I felt huge grief. The power of Maupin's characters, and the intimacy I'd been afforded as a reader, was intense.

2007 - In the decade since the last book, so many real world changes happened. Treatment and management of HIV meant my favourite character could survive. Michael Tolliver Lives was here! The realism of the writing and the inclusion of sociopolitical events of the time allowed this to happen. The Tales books were becoming a historical resource; a reflection of society as it changed over decades.

It was early days in my Smartphone
 ownership. This photo is pretty much
 the only evidence I have that I was there.

2008 - I celebrated my 30th birthday in San Francisco. It was somewhere I knew well, despite having never been. Maupin's writing had transported me repeatedly over the years. There was no where else I wanted to go. 

2010 - The fact I was now hanging on for release dates, and being able to see interviews with Armistead Maupin in real time, was great. I couldn't be around in the 1970s at the start of it all, but I was fully onboard now. Mary Ann in Autumn was another triumph. Still, at the heart of the story were Mary Ann, Mouse, and Anna Madrigal. They were ageing, dealing with different issues than before, but still authentic and real. They felt like family. 

2014 - The day had to arrive at some point. Armistead Maupin explained that his new book - The Days of Anna Madrigal - would be the last in the Tales series. (Noooooooo!) With that in mind, I made sure I got a ticket for his reading at the Liverpool Museum. He read the opening pages in the most unassuming, gentle manner. I had worried that when I met him - my favourite author, a huge influence in my own writing, the creator of the best characters ever - I'd be disappointed. I wasn't. What was lovely was that he wasn't a loud, superstar egotist. He hid his (deserved) superstar status under a kindly, 'guy next-door ' exterior. His anecdotes were filthy (they really were!) but shared with a twinkly avuncular charm. Despite that, his politics and passion for equality were stamped through everything he discussed. He didn't hide his anger at injustice, but rather communicated it eloquently to give it the weight it deserved. He was the real deal. Saying hello at the signing was a life-highlight. (I wrote about it - and other stuff too - here.)

2017 - As part of Liverpool's Homotopia festival, a screening of a new documentary, The Untold Tales of Armistead Maupin was shown. I got a ticket, was the only straight in the village, and watched one of the best profile docs around. (I think it's on Netflix now. Check it out.)

2018 - Armistead's memoir, Logical Family, was released. Despite dealing with non-fictional topics such as his white-supremacist father, the internalised homophobia he felt as a young man, or the breakthrough to becoming one of the most beloved gay authors around, the lyricism of his writing still leapt from the page. I reviewed it here (scroll down) and meant every word.

2019 - And now here we are. Right up to date in the present day. I've heard about it for a while now, but Netflix have come up with the goods. The Tales of the City series has been given a new lease of life. Picking up long after the initial mini series/first books are over, the new series starts with Mary Ann's return to 28 Barbary Lane. (Somewhere around the Mary Ann in Autumn time I think.) I've seen the trailer and I'm beyond giddy. It's San Francisco in all its beautiful glory, along with Mouse, Mary Ann, and Anna once more. What's particularly lovely is that some of original actors from the 1990s mini-series have reprised their roles. Laura Linney will always be Mary Ann to me, and despite the fact she wouldn't (and arguably shouldn't) be cast today, Olympia Dukakis' Anna is still my go to image whenever I revisit the books. 

We've all aged. Whether we exist on a fictional page, or in real life, the years have rolled on and we're older/wiser/more cynical than we were twenty years ago. But the telling of stories, the sharing of experiences, and the highlighting of lives other than our own, will never date. It's the lifeblood of creativity. Or, to put it less pretentiously, it's what makes a reader return to the same book time and time again. It's what makes characters created for the San Francisco Chronicle forty-odd years ago, enthral and enliven decades later. 

The Tales series has peppered my adult life, giving me reassurance about the human condition, an insight into a world different from the one I live, and gloriously joy-filled escapism with characters I wish were real friends of mine. What powerful storytelling that is. And so now, if it's all right with you, I've waited long enough. I'm going to close the curtains, make a massive cup of tea, and sink into ten hours of the best stories around. Take me to San Francisco, Netflix. I've got a reunion to attend.

Have a lovely week, folks.

England Expects...

Hello from my hotel room! I am communicating from a completely different part of the world this week. And as much as I'd like to play Guess the Country for the next ten minutes, I'll cut to the chase and tell you it's France. I know, the glamour! I've jetted in for five days of footballing shenanighans, which I'm partway through. You'll be pleased to know, I'm having a marvellous time.

For those not up to speed, we're ankle-deep into the FIFA Women's World Cup. Woohooo! England's group stage matches are being played in Nice, and so I am in Nice. And it is nice! (Hahahahahahahahahahaha for ever.) Last night I had the thrill of watching England play Scotland in both their opening games. (Cracking match. Properly edge of my seat, at times.) It's a whole different ball game from the men's tournament. England Women, AKA the Lionesses, are currently ranked 4th in the world. There's a more than realistic expectation that they'll go far in this competition. It's not even ridiculous to suggest they could win the thing. Within that context, being here brings a lovely, hopeful feeling.

I'll be the Clint to your Meryl.
Just without the republicanism.

I'm sure you've all printed off your wall charts. If not, here you go. I also imagine you've been glued to the TV coverage. Coverage that exists in an elevated state since the last World Cup. (It didn't help that 2015's matches were in the early hours of the morning. France as hosts mean the viewing times are much more sleep-friendly. As well as the TV channels recognising there's a growing audience that wants to watch.) So as the excitement simmers away at home, let me provide you with a personal eye on the ground. Let me try to exude the sporting atmosphere as it unfolds all around me. In the spirit of Clint Eastwood in Bridges of Madison County - who transports Meryl Streep to Bari just by verbally describing it in the heat of a sexy moment - let me transport you to Nice. Let me take you to the 2019 World Cup. Let me ooze all the thrills of this fabulous sporting event. Come on England! Come on Lionesses! Come on ALL OF US.

This truly was the flight of the stars. According to the woman next to me (who was IN THE KNOW) I was flying alongside Nikita Parris' dad, Steph Houghton's in-laws, Toni Duggan's boyfriend, and a woman from FIFA. There was also a Scottish girls' team onboard, that led an impromptu rendition of Flower of Scotland as we landed. The woman next to me started a God Save the Queen retort, but then I remembered Theresa May in that hotel bar and so stayed quiet. But still, it was QUITE the flight.

It was completely unnecessary of Nice to put on fireworks for my arrival, but very lovely, nonetheless. After getting rid of the bags, I was out of the hotel and wandering along the prom looking for food. Lots of football fans walked past. Families strolled along wearing different football shirts as I ate my pizza. The woman in the hotel told me lots of English people had checked in that day. 

Just chillaxin' on the eve of the ENGSCO match. Do you feel like you are here? Have I done a Clint yet? Let me know if you need more a bit more oomph' to get you here.

Here's a bit more oomph for you! Palm trees, a sweeping coastline, people walking along the road! It's all kicking off here. And it did later that day when England and Scotland faced each other.

I was in a sports' bar! This is not my usual kind of holiday, but here I am. I caught the second half of Australia v Italy, alongside lots of Brits, a few Scots, and a bunch of Aussies. Everyone seemed to be rooting for the Matildas so it was a bit gutting when Italy broke the 1-1 deadlock with a second goal, twenty seconds before the end of extra time.

Here's where the action happened last night! The Allianz Riviera stadium in Nice. it was proper massive and ev. Loads of Scottish and English fans, mingling away in the sun. Good natured and chilled were the vibes here.

COME ON LIONESSES

Loving it, loving it, loving it. Loving it like that.

I was critical of Phil Neville's appointment to England manager when it happened. It was nothing personal against him, but rather an irritation that a less qualified professional from the men's game had been promoted over more qualified names in the female game. But that's what happened. However, here's something lovely I witnessed as I took this photo. Phil had been in the middle of the huddle, giving his post-match chat to his team that have just secured a not-easily won three points. Then, as the huddle continued, he walked away, towards the Scottish players. (Off to the left of this photo.) He shook every player's hand, and said a few words to each. Then he walked back to his team, and to the interviewer waiting for him. He didn't need to do that, but he did. Fair play to him.

And so there we are. I'm here for another three days, and have one more match to watch on Wednesday (France v Norway.) It is very hot, I have had lots of beer, and the Nice coastline is very beautiful. I have also eaten a lot of cheese. If I've transported you here for a tiny second, then that's marvellous. If I haven't, then I can only apologise and plan to do better in future. So, keep filling in the wall charts, enjoy the daily matches, and let's all get behind the Lionesses as they move on to certain victory. Well certain-ish.

Have a lovely week, folks.

The Accidental Tourist...

Ooh it's been a busy few weeks. What with a houseful of Aussie cousins alongside the top notch family wedding, there's been a lot going on. It's a funny old thing, hosting people from another country. There're only so many episodes of Drag Race released a month to entertain us all, so beyond the initial catch-up, I can only assume I've been boring AF. And because I feel like I live in the middle of nowhere (albeit on the motorway network) it takes a bit of thought to consider the alternative options. But Reader, there ARE alternative options. Right on the door step and beyond. So, let me guide you through my northerner's guide to impressing overseas guests.

Liverpool combines a bustling city with
a serene waterfront. With added Beatles buzz.

Liverpool
Kind of obvious this one, but it's easy to overlook. Because I used to live in the city, as well as the fact I'm there regularly for shopping, dental work, writing group meetings and walking be-headphoned along the river, I take the tourism aspect for granted. For the overseas Beatles fan, however, Liverpool is an absolute must. Mathew Street, The Beatles Story, the statue of the fab four by the Pier Head, or - as we speak - the John and Yoko exhibition in the Liverpool Museum; it's all happening in Liverpool. Still on my To Do list is a cinematic walking tour from Reel Tours. Genius in its simplicity, it's a wander round the city with big screen locations pointed out as you pass them. What a cracking way to showcase Liverpool. It's all kicking off in town. (I believe there's been a bit of footy going on, too.) It's massively easy to take my home city for granted, but lovely to view with objective eyes once in a while.

The Trafford Centre
Before Liverpool One, there was the Trafford Centre. A shopping haven, not far away, and easily accessible by public transport. When I've been struggling to find a specific outfit for a tricky event, the Trafford Centre has never let me down. It's just a bunch of shops in a posh arcade, but we forget its impact. When I was at sixth form college, there were coach trips organised for Leeds, Sheffield, and Newcastle, all places that had shopping centres; the like of which the North West was missing. And then the Trafford Centre was built - about twenty years ago. And it's still great. For customers, eaters and drinkers, or cinema goers, as well as those that like a 'mooch round the shops. I've been to my relatives' version of this in Australia (Hello Marion shops! Hello Tea Tree Plaza!) and I like to think we can hold own in comparison.

Local shizzle, right in your face. This
was the Rocket190 celebration last week.

Newton-le-Willows
No, you haven't missed the latest capital of culture announcement. This one is a bit out of left field, but hear me out. My brother - a whizz with wood - can often be found at craft fairs of a weekend, selling his stuff. On the Bank Holiday last week, he was at Newton Craft Fair. The high street of this small town was lined with stalls, selling crafts, food, and drink, with lots of local businesses represented. I'll be honest, if it wasn't for my brother, I wouldn't have known about it. But it was brill. A cute, local, fun few hours to show off a bit more of the North West. That same weekend, there was a big shebang in the village down the road from me. A celebration of 190 years since the first steam locomotive trundled along the local railway line, meant a buzz of celebration. Another big deal, local event. Stuff like this feels like a great snapshot for visitors. Sort of Midsomer Murders village life, with all the quirkiness and local eccentricities that suggests. Besides that, my cousin was made up with the taste of a Mr. Whippy. Worth a visit for that alone.

Rolling hills and scenery for days.

Clitheroe
Who knew Clitheroe was so beautiful? Not me, that's for sure. When my brother and sister-in-law announced they were getting married there, I looked on the map and thought, 'Fair play. It's the other side of Manchester and up a bit. Nice one.' And then I didn't think about it until the day before the wedding when I was suddenly in the middle of absolute beauty. Clitheroe is STUNNING. It's how I imagine the Cotswolds to be. Somewhere exceptionally English, just not miles and miles away. It was the ideal showcasing of the English countryside for Aussies and Scousers alike. On the morning of the wedding, my brother-in-law took himself off for a walk. I was busy working out which makeup brush to use with which makeup product so I had enough on my plate, but the photos he WhatsApped through, contained a up-close sheep. That says it all.

Tesco made a liar out of me when I
said we didn't have caramel M&Ms
here. These limited additions ones are
the best version ever. I'm tempted to add a
plentiful supply to my no-deal Brexit drawer.

Tesco
No, I'm not grasping at straws. We all know the buzz of a foreign supermarket, don't we? Whether it's Carrefour on French family holidays, or a Walgreens in the US, the lure of someone else's everyday products is a thrill. Tesco has provided as much of a diversion as the the priciest attraction could ever manage. Whether it's the gin aisle, with myriad flavours and strengths, or the crisp section with prawn cocktail Walkers and cheesy Quavers, food shopping has taken on more significance than before. It's been fun to re-experience things I've not eaten for years, but that stand out to visitors. The box of Tunnock's tea cakes didn't last long. And I'm going to have to systematically desensitise myself from cave-aged mature cheddar once the relatives return to Australia. Either way, it's been fun to see what products create a stir, and which are same old same old.

And now, it's done. The house is empty and my cousins have gone home. I have a few days away (more on that next week) before I return to normality, but it's nearly here. My task, as the monotony returns, and real life kicks back into play, is to remember the eye opener I've had. The Tesco run is as interesting as I want to make it. Local events like beer festivals and galas can be loads of fun. Liverpool is on my doorstep and yet my eyes are closed as I walk around it. Seeing my home turf though the eyes of others has made it much more clear. I've certainly entertained myself, if no one else.

Have a lovely week, folks.