Desperately Seeking Aircon...

Oomph, the HEAT. Innit warm? Today's forecast tells me we'll be uncomfortably over 30℃ this afternoon. How shit. Yeah, that's right. I'm not mincing my words on this one. I've already decided I'm hitting the cinema as soon as this is posted. I don't care what's on. The fact I've not been fussed with the listings recently, pales into insignificance when the alternative is to sweat buckets at my desk, urging my brain to work against its will. Sod that. I'll watch any old nonsense if there's aircon. Stand by for next week's Culture paragraph, where I list crap films that cooled me down. Or something.

Writing News

I can't lie. This weather doesn't help. Give me a finite task like writing this blog post, or making up a name for a minor character, and it's fine. The heat makes no difference to the output. But give me a task like creating whole paragraphs from scratch out of my head, and it becomes impossible. I'm plodding on, just. Neither speedily nor impressively, I'm keeping at it. Hey ho. I'll get there in the end. When it's cooler.

Beth Mead is having a
spectacular tournament.

Culture

The Women's Euros continue to be fantastic. England's 8-0 win last week (against a normally decent Norwegian side) showed just what the team are capable of. And I am here for it. All eyes on Wednesday when they meet Spain in the quarter finals. When the football's not on, I've been rewatching old nineties films. Mainly with my eyes half-closed incase they no longer hold up. So far, Meet the Parents, Meet the Fockers, Analyse This, and Analyse That have been ticked off the list. It's been a Robert De Niro-centric time. My conclusion? They're all still funny in places, but Lordy, there are way too many jokes about Meet the Parents' Greg being a nurse. It's not cool now, but was it even then? Bloody nineties.

Salad pizza ticks all the boxes.

Food and Drink

The heat means I've swung between eating lots of salad, and deciding it's too hot to make salad and ordering pizza. The salad to pizza spectrum is shorter than you think. There have also been regular Cornettos and Feasts.

Out and About

I had Thursday night beers with a mate in St. Helens. Two bottles of Prosecco got seen off (on a school night!) and there was bonding over shots with a nearby-seated woman. Larks! Then there was Sunday brunch in Childwall (too hot to make toast at home) and an aircon-filled, aimless drive around South Liverpool. I'll do literally anything as long as there's a chilly breeze in my face.

It can't last forever. It's not even supposed to last the week. May the aircon be with you, wherever you are, and may you chill out in whatever creative ways you find.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Life Moves Pretty Fast...

At the time of writing, the UK political scene is... well let's think of some appropriate phrases. Interesting? Nah, too tame. Compelling? Possibly. Yeah, I guess compelling is one way to describe it. Or how about utterly bat-shit? We seem to be homaging a Greek tragedy full of Machiavellian undertones, duplicitous Shakespearian characters, power-crazed monarchs, with all the drama of - best soap opera ever - Eldorado. Yep, that's it. That exactly what the vibe's like. Last week the Prime Minster might have resigned, but it was hard to tell. This week, a leadership contest has kicked off, with culture war issues being tossed into the 'debate' like grenades. It sure got ugly real quick. A couple of things to note. At several points during the implosion of the government, I had flashbacks to an old boss of mine who struggled to leave cleanly. So that was fun. And then the phrase from Ferris Bueller, 'Life moves pretty fast' was never far away. Mainly when the new Education Secretary joined the wave of resignations despite having been put in post thirty-six hours before because of the wave of resignations. Anyway, good luck, everybody! Here's to the UK having a normal one at some point.

Writing News

Word count so far: 31742. 

This means I've reached the point where it's too late to scrap everything and start again, but it's still so far from the end it feels impossible. Excellent stuff.

Culture

Let's leave several days of rolling news aside. It's a culture of sorts, but hardly escapism. No matter, because in the midst of it all, I managed to rewatch the first season of Only Murders in the Building. (Disney +) It's brilliant. The second series has also started, but in the worst way ever. One episode per week, and not dropped together. What is this? The nineties? Moving on, I heartily recommend a three part series on BBC1, called AIDS: The Unheard Tapes, all on iPlayer. As Lucy Mangan wrote, 'What sounds on paper like a terrible gimmick, works beautifully...'  and it really does. The 'gimmick' is that taped audio recordings of gay men from the 80s are lip-synced by actors today. The recordings were made at the start of the AIDS crisis in order to keep a record of the experiences of those affected. Knowing what we know today - that AIDS ravaged a generation of young men, many of whom had family that struggled to keep their memory alive - mean the recordings are brimming with poignancy and emotion. They must be heard. And with the help of this documentary, they can be.

 

Food and Drink

The Women's Euros have started. Woohoo! My general rule for football meals is you can only go big on the England matches. If I ate footy food for every game, I'd be in trouble. And what is footy food, I hear you ask. Well, it's usually crisps and dips. Sometimes vegetable sticks and dips. Or - in the case of the England v Norway game tonight - breadcrumbed and baked aubergine slices with labneh and salad. It's crisps and dips of sorts.

Out and About

I tried a new restaurant on Saturday. I say new; it's been there for years and I vaguely remember going in 2019. But this time, I went with purpose. Pesto, you were boss. Small plates are always a winner, and that's what is was. Woohoo. Other than that, I've been avoiding the heat and watching history unfold via Sky News. Yeah, I really need to get out more. 

Have a lovely week, folks. 

Story-Telling Vibes...

Lovely, lovely Ritche and 
friend from It's A Sin.

I love a bit of representation. If you can see it, you can be it. That sort of thing. It's usually smashing the patriarchy and televising more women's sport. Or smashing heteronormative society and sharing LGBTQIA+ stories in the mainstream. Or smashing the blinding whiteness of TV and including people of colour in main roles rather than as sidekicks or representatives of 'other'. That's the way representation works and with the likes of Ms Marvel, It's A Sin, and the start of the Women's Euros in a couple of days, for example, representations can be spotted here and there.

I am not florals for spring. 
I am not groundbreaking.
(Yes, I know she's being sarky.)

As a writer, however, there's a different kind of representation I need. I've realised that when I'm writing a new story - whether it's for adults or a younger audience - I'm actively looking for something that's gone before. Something that feels the right vibe. I want to know I'm not being groundbreaking. Because being groundbreaking is a gamble that might not pay off. I need to write something that hits a spot that people may already be predisposed towards. I want the vibe already out there. That way I know my story, whose idea may only be a germ at first, can find its feet and work. Why waste two or three years on a book if it's not workable?

I imagine it's a bit like having a muse. I need a muse with every book I write. The Free Dictionary tells me that a 'muse' is 'a guiding spirit' or 'a source of inspiration.' That's exactly what I need each time. As I look back, I can see I had muses for every one of my books. All different, all already out there, but each one inspiring me and guiding me along the creative path. You want to know what they are? Sure you do!

Carry the Beautiful
I recently reread one of my favourite books - The Sacred Art of Stealing by Christopher Brookmyre. It came out in 2002 and is a bank heist thriller, with the most authentic romance I've read in print. And even though Carry the Beautiful contains no bank heist, no thriller, and no current romance (there's one told in flashback), as I reread the book, I could see I'd structured my story in a similar way. The vibe of the layout is what guided me through. Introduce a few characters that seem unrelated at first. Set the scenes in different places. Bring them all together at the end. That book was the muse for my first book. I just hadn't realised it at the time.

Leeza McAuliffe Has Something to Say
I remember watching my Year Fours during the daily ERIC sessions. (Everyone Reads In Class.) And for those ten minutes every morning, I'd feel gutted that none of the stories they were choosing would have been anything I'd have read when I was their age. And that's either because children in the 2010s were massively different to children in the 1980s (LOLZ) or because publishing was experiencing a different trend. It was all Harry Potter-lite. Wizards, spells, time travel, magic, and fantasy. When I was a kid, I'd have walked straight past that section in the library, and found the real-life stuff. The stories about divorce, death, sibling rivalry, and growing up. I loved Judy Blume and I wanted to write something modern that homaged her stuff. So I did. (I mean to say, I wrote it .Whether it homaged her stuff is forever up for debate.)

Assembling the Wingpeople
I had the idea for this - the sequel to Carry the Beautiful - planned out, and I knew where the story was going to take me, but it still felt a little flat. And then I watched the second series of Fleabag. The whole idea of Fleabag falling for the priest was what gave me the inspo to beef up my own plot. Along came Gethin. He provided the push Tilda needed to break out of the self-imposed isolation, regardless of whether he became a significant other or not. The vibe of Fleabag was exactly what I needed to push along my actually-very-different story. (No priests, no secret feelings causing angst. Just inspired by the vibes.)

Leeza McAuliffe Book 2
This is what I'm writing now. And whilst I'm still homaging Judy Blume, I've found another story that's given me the mental vibes I need to get this one off the ground. I'd worried for a while that I needed to bring relationships into this story. Leeza's now at high school, and in a split class with Year Eights (it's a tiny school in the middle of the countryside.) Of course hormones would be rampant and there'd be romances all over the show. Some lasting even longer than a weekend. I had no idea how I was going to write it without being too adult and sexy. But then Heartstopper came along. It's the most lovely, relationship-based show/book, but no one mentions sex once. It's all best mates, and holding hands, and kissing, and spending time together. It's exactly the vibe I want for the next instalment of Leeza's life. If Heartstoppper hadn't arrived, I'd have been flailing around, not sure how to crack on

There's a thing people say: if you don't read, you can't write. And yep, I think that's true. But it's not just books. It's wider than that. If you don't immerse yourself in stories, then you can't create your own. It doesn't matter if they're on TV, at the cinema, or written on paper. Exposing yourself to other people's lives - fictional or not - develops empathy, and understanding. The ability to see things from another person's POV is a gift. Whether you choose to make up your own stories after that, well that's entirely up to you. But it adds to the richness and joy of life. That's why the recent news that some Universities are thinking of scrapping English Literature degrees, should be of concern. If nothing else, it means that after you've come home from your target orientated, graduate job with value, there's nothing to read, watch, or enjoy in your down time. We need to see ourselves represented and we also need to see the lives of others explored, in order to develop our empathy and kindness beyond the people we know. We all love stories. There should always be stories. And some of us are lucky enough to write them.

Have a lovely week, folks.

Worth the Itch...

Dogs are salivating
 all over the show.

You remember Pavlov's dogs, right? That classic study where Pavlov rang a bell every time he fed his dogs, thus creating a conditioned response that'd make them salivate every time they heard the bell? See, I knew you'd heard of it. Fun fact: I once knew a woman whose boobs tingled whenever she heard a crying baby. No mess. I've never experienced that particular phenomenon, but I do have my own conditioned response. Ready? Good. Even if it's on the telly, whenever I see a vase of flowers, a field of hay, or someone mowing the lawn, my nose gets itchy. I might be dosed up, pollen-free, and hermetically sealed within my house, but years of allergies have conditioned my sinuses to respond. Normally I simply avoid the stimuli that causes the itchiness. I don't watch gardening programmes, for example. I prefer to view a patio or decking through my window instead of rolling fields, and flowers can do one even when they're in someone else's house, away from my nose. But there's one thing I refuse to avoid. One nose-itching stimuli that I cannot get enough of. Ready? Good. It's Glastonbury. I bloody love it. Not the camping, obvs. What am I, 24? No, I'm happy to sleep the sleep of the dead peri-menopausal woman that gets five hours a night if she's lucky, in my own bed and view it solely through the TV, but Lordy, isn't it brilliant? After two years of COVID cancellations, Worthy Farm was back. I bopped along, all weekend (ish), despite the televised fields and flagrant outdoors-iness kicking off my sneezes and making my head itch. And Reader, it was completely worth it, even if I'm suffering today. 

Cheers, Pal. Will do.

Writing News

It's a slow but steady plod. At the start of the year (and the start of the rough draft) I'd planned to have finished it by now. Ha - and once more for the back - HA. Instead I'm halfway through. Whevs. It's fine. Slow and steady wins the race, as I used to tell my Year Ones. Except when they were getting changed for PE. Then I'd tell them to run like the wind so we didn't waste our precious hall slot. Ah, the memories. Whose sock is this? 

Hello Birgitte Nyborg.
How I've missed you!

Culture

Glastonbury's definitely ticked the culture box this week. I missed Paul McCartney (That's Sir Paul McCartney to you) on Saturday which according to the rest of the world seems like the worst fate that could ever befall me. With the iPlayer's help, I'll be experiencing the whole shebang next Saturday night instead. But what of it? I caught Crowded House, Diana Ross, Billy Eilish, TLC, Elbow,  and only the frigging Pet Shop Boys. They gave me the all feels I needed on a Sunday night after a busy weekend. I love how the communal love of a set, pumps through the telly. If I'm getting all that through the BBC coverage, actually being there must be epic. But like I said earlier, I need my bed and I'm happy with my life choices. Festivals aside, I watched Beverley Hills Cop at the cinema - no idea why it was being shown but I was happy to get involved - and I've finally got round to watching the latest series of Borgen. It may be eleven years since it was last on, but it was like catching up with old friends.

Innit pretty! What I ate last 
Thursday. (The app's called
My Tummy. Basic but
effective.)

Food and Drink

I've got a new app that tracks what I eat. It's not as diet-y as it sounds - in fact it's not diet-y at all. It just allows me to record pictures of food that I've eaten. As a result, I've been trying to eat colourful, pretty things instead of the usual stream of beige carbs.  This means, indirectly, I've eaten loads of veg in order to aesthetically please myself. Maybe it's subversively diet-y and I've been duped? Hey ho. It's all good.

Out and About 

Well hello Maidenhead! Aren't you lovely! All riverside-y and pretty and whatnot. A road trip to the bottom half of the country occurred, in order to have a night out with my brother and sister-in-law, and inadvertently adding another Premier Inn experience to my list. Some people's aim is to visit every football stadium in the country. I'm on course for the full Premier Inn rundown. 

It's the end of June, the kids'll be off soon and then we're heading into the promised land. September. Sighhhhhh. Not that I'm wishing away the sky-high pollen and inescapable heat. Oh no, not me. If you're loving it, good for you. If you aren't, I hope your days are as non-sweaty as can be, and a cooling breeze occasionally comes your way. We've got this.

Have a lovely week, folks

Warning: Contains a Gratuitous Perm...

The stats don't lie.
I CBA.

You know things are bad when I film a TikTok. Is that what the kids say? Film a TikTok? This week I filmed a TikTok for all of six seconds, bemoaning my hay feverish eyes. So far it's been seen 82 times, which is batshit when you consider I've almost no followers and I didn't share it anywhere. (Until now!) TikTok's a cultural phenomenon that continues to elude me. Like much of social media does to my parents, or how the Internet did to my Grandma. It's my generation's thing that's gone too far. I say 'my generation', I'm sure there's plenty of forty-somethings all over it. I just can't see why. It doesn't help with marketing, no adult I know is actively on there, and I excel using words rather than pranks or dance moves. Pranks and dance moves seem to be what TikTok's about. Oh, and lip syncs. Don't I sound like a grumpy old bugger? Hey ho. Enough of my technical inadequacies. I was only pointing out how shit the pollen count's been. As you were.

Me, age 11, same as Leeza. 
I may be writing 'my life'
but I've at least spared
Leeza a perm.

Writing News

Writing through the brain fog is my current challenge. Whether the fog's caused by my last remaining hormones limping like world-weary soldiers to their evacuation point, or because it's been a bit hot recently, it's a daily effort to stay on task. One amusing thing happened. At my writing group, I'd shared a piece of the new Leeza McAuliffe draft with the gang. It'd involved her ongoing quest for self-discovery whilst everyone in her family either took the piss or ignored her. At the end, when people had said lovely things, someone asked, 'Where do you get all your ideas from?' I saw my response written in the minutes that came through a few days ago. I remember it at the time too, but seeing it in black and white was stark. 'Where do you get all your ideas from?'  I barely paused for breath before saying, 'IT'S MY LIFE. IT'S ALL MY LIFE.' 

Culture

Whilst drunk at my friends' wedding recently, myself and another friend planned a trip to Alaska. That's why I found myself watching The Proposal on Disney + and enjoying all the Alaskan scenery that I'm sure I'll never see for real. Then I've allowed myself a daily watch of this vid - Ariana DeBose's showstopper from the Tonys. If I time it right, it gives me just enough energy to make a cup of tea. Still no cinema trip this week. It's the rubbish limbo period of big blockbusters and kids films. Bring on some new listings, pronto. Finally, my The West Wing status? Finished! From last August until now, it's been emotional. It also made me reread this long read about the show.

Food and Drink

Last week I hinted that my new BBQ was about to cause a surge in outdoor eating. Well, yes and no. I've not sat outside once. (See opening paragraph for why.) But I've cooked on it. Most nights. Veggie kebabs, burgers, halloumi, courgette strips, flatbreads, more halloumi... it's been fab. If you're not turning over a bulging skewer of an evening, you're not living.

Out and About

It's been a different sort of weekend from usual, albeit marvellous fun. Friday night saw me cheering on my Goddaughter and siblings at their musical theatre show. Then Saturday afternoon was my nephews 2nd birthday bash - Happy Birthday S! Then on Sunday it was out to lunch with my parents for Father's day. I shall save all my boozy recklessness for next weekend.

Keep enjoying the sun, if you are. Keep enjoying the antihistamines if you're not. But wherever you fall on the Summer-appreciation scale...

Have a lovely week, folks. 

I Have Confidence in Baklava...

'I have confidence
 in meeeeeeeeee'

It's been a good week. For me, at least. Because at no point over the past seven days have 41% of my family, friends, or casual acquaintances voted that they have no confidence in me. So that's great news. In fact, in the absence of a VONC on my life, I'm going to assume anyone that's met me in any capacity whatsoever, has FULL confidence in me and my endeavours. Such a reassuring feeling! How lovely to go out into the world with that secure backing. Thanks, Gang.

Writing News

Let's talk stats. I've written five chapters of a twelve chapter novel. I've done 26360 words, (I'm aiming for 5000 words per chapter max) and I've been writing the story since February. It's slowly but surely coming together. Two lovely things happened this week: 

• My writing group continued to respond well to the latest excerpt I read. But their perspectives were useful too - I'm thinking of changing a plot point based on their comments.
• On Tuesday I wrote the first scene/bit of chapter that I properly love. Like, really love. It involves feelings and friendship and young romance and I've reread it several times, because it's great. 

I'm not getting carried away. It's a drop of good writing in the midst of not-as-good stuff. But as I keep reminding myself, it's the first draft. Anything goes as long as it goes. 

I cannot wait for this.

Culture

I get right grumpy when blockbuster films take up all the screens. Tom Cruise is still plastered all over the listings and now a Jurassic Park reboot (or is it a sequel?) has come along to fill the gaps. I'm giving the cinema a swerve right now, until a witty, character-led, gem of a script is filmed and shared with the world. (I'm desperate for Good Luck To You, Leo Grande to rock up. It looks AMAZING.) Meanwhile, I'm ploughing on with The West Wing rewatch. Starting last Autumn, it's been a marathon not a sprint. And whilst the twenty-three year old show doesn't hold up so well to more progressive thinking, the characters remain my favourite fictional friends. 

Sticky as all get out!

Food and Drink

My mate Gill went to Turkey and bought back baklava. It is the most beautiful, delicious, moist-as-frig baklava in all the world. I've been mostly eating that. Also, I made Nigella's Sweet Potato Macaroni Cheese which was lovely. Plus, I've got a new BBQ (the old one rotted after years of adverse weather and burger fat) so the world of outdoor cooking has opened up to me once more.

Out and About

I can't lie, it's been a busy one. Beers with a mate in Liverpool, hotpot with more mates the following day, a ton of personal (not that personal) grooming appointments in the week, all leading up to a weekend wedding for my Uni pal. Congratulations Paul and Jenny! It really was the best fun.

But now? It's Monday morning and we go again. Can I build on the writing momentum I've got going? What shenanigans will the government get up to this time? And will I be ever be able to watch a news broadcast without giving the finger to the telly? Who knows, who cares? All we can do is crack on and see what happens.  

 
Have a lovely week, folks.

A Brief Psychological Study...

How often in life do you feel pure euphoria?

Pure euphoria, right there.

That was a question posed by my little brother after I'd queried the sense of sitting in a bar to watch a football match during the family caravan holiday. To be fair, I don't think he was specifically talking about the match he'd just watched (it was a couple of months ago when Everton fans were viewing every fixture as the last big push) but to do with experiencing a goal within a crowd of like-minded people. How often do I feel pure euphoria? An adrenaline rush? A surge of positivity akin to a drug's high? How often does that happen in my everyday life? Well can you answer that one? Go on, how often?

Freddie was defo not a 
run of the mill normo.

Without wanting to make assumptions, I think his point was that it's rare. And for normos like me and him - not gigging to packed stadiums, or winning Olympic medals - a football crowd is the one place you'll find it. 

At the time, I made a sex joke. Natch. When have I felt pure euphoria? That's not something I'm going to share with my brother! Lolz lolz. But it's not even a joke. An orgasm provides as beautiful a high as a last minute goal that stops relegation. Sorry, but that's just fact and there's no point pretending otherwise. Despite that, the question still niggled. Surely there was a deeper answer to be found. Euphoric highs can't only be the preserve of the sexually adept and football fans, although that's a Venn diagram I'd like to see. So, I gave it a bit of thought, and did a bit of research. Disclaimer: the phrase 'a bit' is key here.

First of all, I opened it up to the family Whatsapp group. When had they experienced pure euphoria? 

Apologies to those indifferent
to Everton's charms, but 
there's been a lot of this
sort of thing on the
family WhatsApp recently.

I got an immediate message back from my brother - a different one. He listed a selection of dates without context, that all took place at Goodison Park. (For any blue noses out there, they were 10.5.98, 20.4.05, 4.2.09, and 17.3.22.*) My brother-in-law went down a different sporting route with a link to the moment the England men's cricket team won the World Cup in 2019. And then my Mum jumped in with her own euphoric moments - the births of her children. (There aren't any You Tube links for those. Apologies.) This led to a convo between my Mum and my sisters about whether it can be classed as pure euphoria when blood and pain are part of the mix. Either way, if she felt euphoric, she felt euphoric. No one else can decide. But that begs the question, whether euphoria's only felt after a huge physical effort? Does a mammoth bodily event have to take place to feel such depths? That prompted my brother to note that after all his Everton moments, he felt physically spent, regardless of the fact he was an observer rather than a participant. 

Next, my Dad jumped in. He added his own moments -  Everton v Spurs 20.4.63, the whole cup run of 1966, the whole 70-71 season, and Gosling's and Carsley's derby. (Apologies, it really is an Everton-centric blog this week.)

And Reader, I DID.

Eventually I thought about my own life. Passing my driving test was the first time I'd felt the thrill of personal achievement. Not that I hadn't achieved anything before - I was 24 when I reached legal driver status - but it was the first time I'd achieved something that was immediately useful and life-enhancing. I drove away from the test centre a changed woman, a feeling that lasted all day. Was that euphoria or just a satisfying feeling of a job well done? Not sure now. It's ages ago.

TINGLES, ADRENALINE,
ALL THE FEELS

But then there was Eurovision 2014. It was the first time I'd walked into an arena hosting the thing. The tingles were immediate. When Charpentier's Te Deum played just before we went live, I almost cried. It felt like electricity was crackling through me and surging at key moments. Then, after four hours of being in the midst of it all, Conchita Wurst finally did what I'd been willing her to do all week. She won, and it was out of this world. Euphoria? I'd say so. Certainly, the best feeling I've ever known. There's not many moments where I've wanted to scream with happiness until I was hoarse, but that was one. And like a footy match, it was with several thousand other people who felt similarly.

The family chat petered out after a bit. What with childbirth, election night results, getting the keys to a first home, and whether placentas and stitches stop euphoria in its tracks, we ran out of steam. But I suppose my little brother's question had been answered.

How often in your life do you feel pure euphoria? Well if you follow a football team and are invested in its success, several times, I suppose. Especially if they give you as many lows as highs. (That's another Everton reference folks.) And if you don't, and football is something that other people do, you find your euphoric moments in other places. Live music, communal experiences, pushing out a kid from your actual body... my research tells me it's a multi-faceted phenomenon.

Football or not, we
feel the feels in our
own way.

What was interesting about my little investigation, was that we all had something to say. Everyone felt like they'd experienced euphoria at some point or other. No one mentioned drugs or auto asphyxiation, or anything manufactured. It was the real deal - real life throwing up intense excitement and happiness every now and then. We've all got the capacity to feel as deeply as it's possible to feel. So for my very small sample of subjects, in my very non-clinical study, with my very statistically dubious results, isn't that lovely!

Have a lovely week, folks.

*I initially posed this question well before the end of the season. On 19th May this year - the night that Everton came back from 2-0 to win 3-2 and avoided relegation, I got a message from my brother (the one who provided all the dates) that said, 'Nicky, if you're doing a blog on euphoria, the definition is right here in L4.' So there you are.