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.

Welcome to my Mood Board...

A couple of weeks ago, in my post about Eurovision 2019, I mentioned having a clothes mood board. Actually that's not strictly true. I said that if I had a clothes mood board, I'd put a picture of the Danish singer's outfit on it. The fact remains that I do not have one. I've never had one. Who would?

Comfort over style.
Apart from the mofo hat.

The question of clothing has been fairly pertinent recently. The casual comfort of my daily wardrobe means I rarely think about it normally. Jeans, t-shirts, leggings, tunic tops, and pyjamas. That's all I wear. I prioritise comfort over style every day. I like that about me. But recent months have been building up to the sibling wedding of the year, and I knew (without even asking) that PJ bottoms wouldn't be allowed.*

In the end, come the wedding I played it safe. Because I prioritise comfort over style, that also includes mental comfort. I don't want to be trying something new. I don't want to be rocking a potentially awesome look, when it risks looking like an episode one eliminated drag queen. I like feeling in control of my appearance. So, I went with a black top and black trousers. Standard. It's not all boring though. I rocked a red hat. I rocked it HARD. That was me pushing the boundaries of my comfort zone. It was me trying to up my game without having to actually up my game for realsies. I think I got away with it.

However - in the grand tradition of Carrie Bradshaw - it got me to thinking. If I did have a clothes mood board, what items of clothing would be included? Would it reflect the inner me or be simply a projection of a personality I don't possess? I liked the idea of imagining a world where I wasn't short, wide, and top heavy. Where I could attempt elegance with the best of them. So, let me share what I found. Here are the clothes that make me positively gleeful when I see them. Come with? Yes?

Now THIS is what I'm talking about! Jodie Comer's suit in Killing Eve. Series one, episode three. It is EVERYTHING. Stylish, elegant, practical without being boring. Killing Eve: Come for the intriguing plot and witty script, stay for the outfits.

Nope, I'm not talking about Mary Berry even though she's a style icon in her own right. It's Sue Perkins all the way for me. I love her look. When the day comes that I'm interviewed on Graham Norton, I will model myself on her style choices.

Remember The Fall? Remember Stella Gibson? I LOVED her wardrobe. A mix of a police uniform, uber-feminine silk blouses with pencil skirts, or tailored trouser and jacket combos. I dressed very similarly to the above when I was in my last formal job. My clothes just contained more Wonder Web and lunch stains than Gillian Anderson did. (That is the only difference between us. The ONLY one.)

After watching this episode of Fleabag, I bought a black pinafore from eBay, and wore it with a long-sleeved black t-shirt, repeatedly. As I have the inverse width/height proportions to Phoebe Walller Bridge, I'm not sure it's a look I can pull off. But I love it so much I don't care.

Ah Jessica Jones. I care nothing for the Marvel universe, but I do appreciate how similar my 'dress up for the pub' look is to Jessica's attire. Again, we have different shapes, but so too does my Jessica Jones bobblehead, who reminds me that there are worse proportions to have.

My head hasn't got this big yet.

After throwing all my clothes-thoughts out there, I sense a theme. Not for me, skirts, dresses, and traditional lady-like attire! Not for me, high fashion and cutting edge trends! I like a tailored waist. I like trousers that mean my legs can move any which way they like. (It's one leg over the sofa arm, or sitting on my foot as the other dangles, every time for me.) And I like a jacket with pockets. It explains why I enjoyed my school blazer so much. A flattering cut AND room for a scientific calculator. Win.

Getting older is rather marvellous. I accept that I don't suit delicate fabrics or subtle shades. I understand that some features are best hidden whilst others are there to emphasise. I'm not bothered in the slightest by others' opinions about me. But still, it's rather nice to play about with 'a look'. The next time I need to scrub up a bit - family wedding, BAFTA ceremony, Nobel Prize winners' lunch? - I know what I want. It's a Stella Gibson/Villanelle hybrid, with practical pockets, and room for various leg movements. I'm sure somewhere out there, there's an outfit with my name on. Until then, however, it's a welcome return to my PJ bottoms and baggy t-shirts. I've missed you.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*The sibling wedding of the year (AKA Beth and Tim's big day) was perfect. And, unusually for me, I utterly LOVED Beth's dress. I often appreciate other people's wedding dresses, but feel fairly detached from their beauty. This was different. Beth's dress ticked ALL my boxes. I am sure it makes not a jot of difference to my brother or sister-in-law's memories of their special day, that I wholeheartedly approve of the wedding dress, but it still needed saying. On a clothes level alone, this wedding rocked. And on every other level imaginable, it was off the charts brilliant. Anyway, I've said my piece. Let's leave it there. 

Library Love...

I had some lovely news recently. But first, a ramble.

The day I joined the library.
I look DETERMINED.

When I was growing up, my local library was brilliant. I'd suggest it still is, but the urgency to use it has calmed since adulthood struck. I took full advantage when I was younger, however. Because as every book-loving, poverty-stricken, busy-home-dwelling child knows, the library is an oasis in a world of chaos.

I joined my local library when I turned five. I don't think this was the rule of the library, but more an arbitrary date my parents set, to get themselves organised to take me. (Likewise, swimming lessons started at seven, and permission to have my own TV kicked in at eighteen.*) So at five years and two days old, I joined the library. There are photos in the family album to show this event.

I own these! But I read dozens more for free.

And it was an event. The library was amazing - beyond comprehension. Shelves and shelves of books that I could take home with me? Yes please, sign me up. Until this point, books were bought for birthday presents, or came with other people's names in the front after the church's Summer gala. I wasn't completely devoid of reading material, but I was devoid of choice and replenishment. Now I had a library card, I could read everything and everything. As often as I could find an adult to take me.

The aforementioned murder mystery
genre. There was a whole
load of these stories. More
comical than the Famous Five,
but kids sorting out wrong'uns,
nonetheless. Enjoy this historical
artefact, with added tea stain.

I soon found I had preferred authors. Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl and Judy Blume. I found I didn't care much for fantasy worlds such as Narnia or the Faraway Tree, but I buzzed off worlds I could believe in. Worlds like boarding school, or murder mysteries where a gang of kids sorted it out whilst the local constabulary floundered. (The Five Find Outers and Dog! Oh yes.) I can still picture the children's area from the mid-eighties. Turn left at the front door. Turn another left, and the picture books for babies were avoided, and the chapter books were displayed. It was one of my favourite places to be.

As I got older, and the teenage years kicked in, I no longer needed an adult to take me. In a bid to ease the congestion in the Bond household, I spent many evenings of my teenage summer holidays making the twenty minute walk to the library. I'd peruse the adult books at that point. I read anything I could find, but discovered I liked thrillers. Dick Francis books were fun reads despite my disinterest in horse racing, and the back catalogue of Agatha Christie was soon devoured. On top of that, I could experiment. Would I enjoy The Life and Loves of a She-Devil? I had no idea but I got it out for free, found it creepily compelling, and went back a few days later, willing to keep my options open with other books I wasn't initially sure about. I think by the time I left home at eighteen, I'd read the entire fiction section. Probably not, but it felt like I had. It was a safe, free, interesting place to spend my evenings, in the days before bingeing Netflix and going to the pub took precedence. I am very grateful to my local library. It made me a well-read, well-rounded, literate child. It made me a young adult that could access books I couldn't afford. When cuts and threats to libraries crop up in the press, I wince at the lost potential to the community, but especially to children and teenagers. That's the time when reading leaves an indelible mark. That's the time that books shape the adult you'll become.

Bit chuffed about this, can't lie.

So, I said I'd had some lovely news. Well I really have. After an initial enquiry from me, and a couple of emails trying to get in touch with the right people, I can now share that both my books will be stocked in my local library. That also happens to be the library of my youth. MY BOOKS ARE IN MY HAPPY PLACE. There are several wow moments when you write a book. The first time you see your name on the cover, the first time you hold it in your hands... that kind of thing. Well, getting the email to say my books will be in the library of my childhood is WAY up there. I can promise you that. It's the best feeling. 

So, I wanted to share the good news, as well as explaining why it means so much. And obviously I've gone to the library to see the books in their new environment. Leeza looks so happy to be there, don't you think?

Have a lovely week, folks.


*That last point merited an automatic call to Esther Rantzen, surely?

It's Bigger Than Us...

I'm doing this on the inside.

OK folks, let's do this. It's Eurovision week!!!! Sound the fanfares, unfurl the streamers, and let the balloons drop... NOW.

At the time of writing, there are many unknowns. Tomorrow's semi-final will knock out seven countries. Thursday's will see off another eight. Right now, Saturday's final line-up is anybody's guess. Other than host country Israel and the big five - UK, France, Spain, Germany, and Italy - we have no clue who'll be in and who'll be out. The excitement is PALPABLE.

Last year's winner, Netta!

We can only enjoy what we know so far. But there's so much info already out there. The rest of the ESC fandom has been commenting for weeks and months, as countries announce their entries. I've repeatedly heard names of entrants that I've now got time to Google. I can see whether their online hype is deserved, and make my predictions. So, as we collectively chill the champagne, and arrange the seafood platter, let me give you my considered thoughts and opinions on this year's contest. Are we giddy yet? ARE WE?

MY CONSIDERED THOUGHTS AND OPINIONS
In the time between writing the title above, and this sentence, I've listened to every single 2019 entry. I KNOW. That's forty-one songs to you. A whopping two hours and three minutes of ESC joy. So, what are my faves? What are the notable mentions? Do I have any tips to share? DO I EVER. 

Moldova have form.
Remember the Sax Guy?

My Faves

Moldova
Remember the Sax Guy from 2010 and 2017? Or cast your mind back to last year's door-ography. Moldova have got form. This year they're giving me Gaga and Celine vibes with Stay - a twisty-turny power ballad that builds to a singing-with-a-hairbrush-in-the-mirror anthemic climax like nothing else. Come on Moldova!

Israel
No one wants the hassle of winning for a second year. Europe learnt big time from Ireland in the nineties. But, Home from Israel is a valiant effort. It doesn't fade into insignificance like most host countries' songs do. With a big old choral vibe going on, it prompts involuntary swaying with a candle or illuminated phone. I like it.

This is Miki, singing for Spain.
He will give you a beautiful ear worm.

Spain
Ah, I LOVE this. Like a Summer holiday hit from a time when dancing to a summer holiday hit was all you wanted to do with your time. You WILL tap your feet and sing along whether you want to or not. La Venda treads a fine line but manages to avoid crossing into cheese territory. Just. It makes me smile. Sometimes that's enough.

San Marino
Did someone mention cheese? Well how do you like these apples? It's Say Na Na Na from Serhat! Serhat has a cult status within the ESC fandom, despite not making it to the final of the 2016 contest. There's something about Serhat, there just is. In the wrong hands this song could veer into novelty. But in Serhat's hands, it's as smooth as a waxed back, sack 'n' crack. Something of which I'd bet money Serhat has knowledge. Say na na na. Say it indeed.

Notable Mentions 

Iceland
I'd heard about Hatari long before I listened to their song. They are definitely memorable. (According to this blog, 'their look is described as bondage-synth-punk, industrial goth, and experimental art pop'. So that's new.) Their sound, with Hatrið Mun Sigra, put me in mind of Lordi from 2006 fame. Not sure if that's doing them a disservice or not. I'm looking forward to seeing them perform on the stage though. They'll definitely make their mark.

Jessica Mauboy sang for Australia
in 2018 and was robbed. She came 20th.

Australia
Australia have been a performing member of the ESC since 2015 when Guy Sebastian secured a respectable 5th place. Since then, they've attempted to replicate that success with a succession of power belters. But this year, there's a bit of a change. Kate Miller-Heidke* brings us operatic yodelling with Zero Gravity. The risk might pay off. Or it might bomb. Hard to know, but you'll have an opinion.

Remember?

Russia
Another returning star. Sergei Lazarev is back. Remember when he climbed up the big screen in 2016? Of course you do, it was huge! Russia seem to get mixed reactions when they perform. Their 'problematic' politics, specifically surrounding LGBT+ rights, mean there's been boos from the audience in the past. Sergei's inclusion might counter that. He's a familiar face. In 2016 he came second, and this year's song, Scream, isn't bad at all. 

Denmark
Forgive me this non-musical comment, but I LOVE Leonora's outfit choice. At least the one she wore to win her national final, anyway. Every year I have hair and clothes envy for someone, and this time the honour goes to Denmark's Leonora. Braces, fitted shirts, a traditionally masculine style over a traditionally feminine body. If I had a clothes mood board, I'd stick her picture all over it. Here's the video for Love is Forever so you can adjust your own mood boards accordingly.

TIPS FOR WATCHING
If you skip the semis and dive straight into Saturday's final, the chances are that every song I've singled out will have missed the boat. I NEVER get it right. (I should have mentioned that earlier. DON'T bet your hard-earned money based on my thoughts.) But I feel I should impart some wisdom and learned experience. It's the least I can do. Here's some viewing guidance for the evening. I know of what I speak.

• It's a marathon, not a sprint. Go to the loo before it begins. You're in for the long haul.
• There's NO TIME for trips to the fridge once we've started. Choose your drinks carefully. Red wine, needing no refrigeration, is a good choice. Or keep a massive ice bucket by your side all night.
• Print off your score cards from the BBC. Even if you think you don't care, you absolutely will once it kicks off. 
• No heavy meals. No knives and forks. Finger food and sharing platters are key. If it can spread out over the evening, it'll sustain you better.
• Go to the toilet when they recap the songs. Missing the interval acts is a gamble. They could be rubbish, but they could also be Riverdance. Don't be the person that wees during Riverdance.
• This year's interval acts have been a hubbub of rumour and intrigue. Will Madonna be involved or was it just a load of big talk? Either way, keep the toilet breaks short, quickly replenish plates and glasses, and have a couple of stretches to refresh. Then sit down and don't move.
• Eurovision Twitter is a fun place to hang out. Keep an eye on the comments as you watch. There'll be a variety of hashtags but #Eurovision2019 isn't a bad place to start. A dull song can be enlivened by an international piss-take. 
• Don't be the joyless cynic in the corner.** No one likes that person. The more you embrace it, the more fun your evening will be. 
• Shots, drinking games, and obscure European spirits really really help. 

Spookily accurate. I probably 
won't bother with the blanket, there'll 
be a plate of prawns and blinis nearby, and 
I'll be glowing from the inside out. But other
than that, yep, that's me.

You can lead a horse to water but you can't make her drink. I've done my best. Now it's up to you. Enjoy every bloody minute of this week. I'll be live tweeting on Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday night. Follow @BondieLa and join in the giddy thrill of the best week of the year. 

Finally, it would be remiss of me to ignore the fact we have a horse in this race. Michael Rice will be doing his best for the UK with Bigger Than Us. It could be the dark horse that sweeps the jury and phone votes, and brings home the trophy in a blaze of glory. Or, more realistically, it might place on the left hand side of the score board if we all wish hard enough. Let's keep it real, everyone. No point getting carried away.

Have a lovely week, folks.

*A few weeks ago, Kate Miller-Heidke was hospitalised for a week after a blister became badly infected. This was definitely not a PR stunt, but might provide some additional votes for her generally being a trouper. We'll see.

**A recently sacked BBC 5Live presenter was swiftly unfollowed by me, when he tweeted bitter negativity during the ESC a few years ago. A joke, a piss take or a bit of debate is welcome. Spluttering about wasting licence fees and the like, is absolutely not. TOO FAR, SIR. TOO FAR.