Mark Reid: every end is also a beginning.

So there we go, eh, Mark?

When I wrote this for you back in December, I said I assumed you would have no funeral, no loved ones to care and no closure to mark your passing.

How wrong I was.
On Tuesday I went to the funeral I never thought you would have.
Your mum was there, and your twin sisters as well as some old family friends and some new friends from recent years.
It’s clear that you were indeed loved.

So the inevitable question - why did you take the path that you did?
No one can answer that.
It’s perhaps hardest of all for the people who loved you as a child to come to terms with – that you made a choice to live the way you did.
You were a free spirit, Mark, and you defied the stereotypes.

You’ve taught me a lot since you left this life behind, Mark.
You taught me never to make assumptions ...
And that there are no easy answers.
We see someone who seems to be on a self-destructive trajectory and we want to know why, we need reasons, justification, meaning ...

If we believe it’s because they suffered unbearable pain and abuse, it somehow comforts us.
Ah, we say, so that’s why it happened.
And then we secretly reassure ourselves it could never happen in our own families.

The truth is far more subtle.
Like I say – no easy answers.
Maybe we’re just not asking the right questions.

Thank you for enabling me to meet your family, Mark.
I think I know why you never told me about your lovely sisters – you were protecting them.
We plan to meet again soon, when we’ll visit your bash on London Bridge.
Our lives will continue, but forever affected by what happened in yours.

I couldn’t hear what was said at the funeral, but your family were kind enough to give me a copy of the moving speeches made, referring to the ‘happy, lively boy, full of energy and enthusiasm’ they had known as a child.

I imagined a soundtrack – Led Zeppelin, Stairway to Heaven, and perhaps some Pink Floyd.
And afterwards they told me these were indeed the tracks played during the service.

So next time any of us sees someone who is homeless, we should take some time to wonder.
They may well have a tragic background filled with abuse and pain.
(And there is no doubt that life on the streets is brutal and fraught with danger.)
But they also might have a kind and loving family who are left wondering where they could possibly have gone wrong.
Everyone has their own unique story to tell.

You may not have been born a child of the streets, Mark, but it was ultimately your choice as an adult to live in the way that you did.

Oh and I’ve remembered something else too.
The flowers.
You knew all the people who ran the florist stalls in the station.
They would give you the flowers that were considered just past their best.
You would put them in jars and pots around your bash, to brighten up the days of those who passed by.
One day, I came along and you were waiting for me.
You gave me a huge bouquet.
I was blown away.
When I arrived at work everyone wanted to know who had given me these beautiful flowers.
I watched the confusion on their faces as I told them they had been given to me by a friend who was homeless.
See, Mark? That’s what I mean about you defying the stereotypes.

And so fare thee well, Mark Reid, Stargazer.
We’ll see you on the dark side of the moon.

Safe and good sounds

The weekend certainly lived up to expectations.

You wanted visuals, so that's what you'll get.
(Unfortunately it was all I had too, since I was/am deaf as a whole row of posts.)

We started off with lunch here - which, you'll be delighted to know, included gin and chocolate cake.
Drumroll: l-r John Ahearn/Wordcarver/(US), Kate B/Minx/(Cornwall), Barbara Smith/Cailleach/(Ireland), Bill Liversidge/Pundy (Scotland), Karen S/Riverwillow (Kent), Emma M/Meloney Lemon (down the road).
Oh and that's me perched at the back there - I'm the one who lacks the imagination to come up with an interesting bloggy name.

And here we are at the venue. That's Babs with Emma Darwin, fellow Bookarazzi buddy who blogs at This Itch of Writing.


And that's L Lee Lowe/Lowebrow with Babs.

I do know, in spite of barely functioning ears, that both John and Babs were predictably wonderful, as were all the other performers in a pure class eclectic lineup.

Pipe & Slippers is going from strength to strength.
And people I know and love are part of it.
Who needs ears?

Weekends are made of this

I'm building up to a top notch, platinum standard, highest quality, pure class weekend.

First and foremost, First Born is due back from his 8 day trip to France tomorrow.

Please, please, please Mr France Coach Driver, take care.
Watch out for slippery roads, precipitous edges, rockfalls, fog, blizzards, exhaustion, other drivers ...
Please, please, please Mr Ferryman, take care.
Watch out for unexpected currents, mechanical failures, stray ships, ice bergs ...
(Ice bergs? In the Channel? Come, come now. That's taking the anxious parenting too far.)
Please, please, please Mr UK Coach Driver, take care.
Just because you're nearly home, this is no time for a lapse in attention.
It's been a long journey.
Take a break if you need to.
You carry a cargo more precious than gold, rubies, diamonds and every coin in every currency across the globe.

The rest of the day will be spent on a family love-in of monumental proportions.

Meanwhile, back in the Real World, bloggers will be flocking from all points of the compass for Pipe & Slippers (and some of them will be crashing on various bits of our furniture).
On Sunday, they'll be descending on our tiny loved-up abode for lunch.
I haven't told them yet that they're going to need to sit on each other's shoulders.
Or that the reason I'll be serving finger food is that we don't have enough forks.

Oh and I must warn them about the toilet seat.
It's ... um ... not actually attached to the toilet, which can make for a less-than-relaxing lavatorial experience (unless they find rollercoasters soothing ...)

Then on Monday, it will be back-to-normal day.
And I'll probably be wondering if I dreamed it all ...

Oh - and did I mention that I'm deaf? Again?

If I've told you once ...

... I've told you a thousand times. (Or at least five ...)
(See here and here and here and here)

Don't write because you hope it will make you rich.

An article in The Times (thanks to Absolute Vanilla for the link) makes the case crystal clear.
The words 'brutal' and 'reality' leap to mind.

Here's an extract for those who can't be arsed to check the link:

Last month The Times published statistics from Nielsen Bookscan, which tracks book sales nationwide, showing that, of 200,000 books on sale last year, 190,000 titles sold fewer than 3,500 copies. More devastating still, of 85,933 new books, as many as 58,325 sold an average of just 18 copies. And things aren't much better over the pond: I read recently that, of the 1.2million titles sold in the United States in 2004, only 2 per cent sold more than 5,000 copies.

Tatiana has a new friend

Sarah Salway, who has been described by Authortrek as 'one of Britain's best writers', has posted a wonderful new review of Trading Tatiana, which you can see here.

It's always great to receive a good review, but when it's written by someone you admire and respect, it's especially sweet.

It's that time of year again.

Another year ... another London marathon ...

This year my partner, Greg will be running his 8th marathon.
He's just turned 50 and, for those who don't know, is a maniacal runner who just happens to have insulin dependent diabetes.
Following a recent ghastly chest infection, he's also been diagnosed with exercise-related asthma.
Yeah. Like he needed that.

In spite of all this, he's still desperate to break the 3 hour mark.
(You can read about last year's dramatic attempt here.
And Greg's running story is here.)

Now for the important part:
He's running this year for SOS Africa and the charity guarantees that every penny raised will go directly towards paying for the care and education of the children who need it most.

I will of course be keeping you up-to-date with Greg's training and progress.
Meanwhile, you can donate directly to the charity by clicking on the widget ...
(which in the interests of accuracy should say sponsor him, not me. I just do the admin and carry the bags.)

Let the blogger beware

Shameless has a lesson for us all on how easily blog posts and comments can be twisted, torn from context, stripped of intended humour and take on a life of their own.

It's enough to bring on a panic attack to your typing fingers.

One of the best things ...

... about blogging is when this medium is used to put a little bit of goodness back into the world.

This is a perfect example from Peach:

'We're putting together a book for WARCHILD written by bloggers and here's where you come in:

We would like you to submit (to us at bloggersforcharity@yahoo.co.uk) a written piece about something you've been through from any aspect of your life that you want to share. It can literally be about anything: your relationships, your past, a road not taken, being a parent, an illness or your regrets etc. We've called it "You're Not The Only One" to reflect the camaraderie of blogging.

Proceeds will go to WARCHILD . The book will be published through www.lulu.com. This is a no upfront fee internet publishing site who charge £4.70 per book. We're pricing the book at £9 so £4.30 will go to straight to the charity.'

Nearly there!

The lineup for Pipe & Slippers has been finalised.
And in case you need reminding, it's THIS SUNDAY - 24th Feb at the Ivy House, Stuart Road, SE15.

3.00 Doors open

3.30 John Ahearn – “Pomes” Book Launch

Barbara Smith – “Kairos” Book Launch

4.00 Music from Rebecca Jade

a short interval

4.30 Wes White – “Starlings”

Ben Holden – “Mynatour”

Music from Mat Huntley

5.00 Jack Blackburn - Poetry

Music from Ricardo Garcia

Music from Tim Hogbin

People will be crossing the Atlantic and the Irish Sea to be there.
Some are even rumoured to be coming from North London!

What's your excuse ...

There's a first time for everything

I've never before amended a post once it's published.
It's unlikely many (if any) people would notice the changes, so altering the content later feels dishonest to me.
The comments made would have reflected the original, which would stay in people's minds.

In this case, I'm sure the post really would have lingered in people's minds, as it was a very sad tribute in memory of a tragic life.

I published a later post, but have continued to feel uncomfortable with certain elements of the original that I was concerned may have caused further suffering to those who were already struggling.

So I've amended it with an explanation.
I dedicate this to all those who are homeless and struggling with addiction as well as to their families.

I'm not really here

My presence here is an illusion.
I don't really exist.

Allow me to explain.

First Born may be nearly 2" taller than me and weigh nearly 2 stone more, but he's still my baby.
And later today he's going away with his school.
For 8 days.

It's like someone's sucked out my soul.
I'm mooning around with a constant feeling that I've forgotten something vital.
A savage cold has kicked in, which I can blame for the streaming eyes and nose, but we know better, don't we, my bloggy friends?

This is ridiculous.
He hasn't even gone yet!

Do you have a good reason not to sign this?

Following the announcement that the Department for Culture, Media and Sport plans to reduce Public Lending Right (PLR) funding, a 10 Downing Street e-petition has been set up to protest at the cuts.

Public Lending Right is the right for authors, illustrators, photographers, translators and editors to receive payment under PLR legislation for the loans of their books by public libraries. More than 23,000 people are entitled to receive payment under this scheme, and for many the annual PLR payment is an important part of their income. PLR is particularly valuable to those people who receive little or no royalty on book sales — their books are more often borrowed from libraries than bought in shops.

Please spare a minute to sign the petition.

What do you REALLY want?

A friend just told me about someone he knows who was offered - not one, but TWO - music deals at £100,000 each.
That's a lot of £££ by anyone's standards.

The problem was that the company faffed and farted and the end result was that no record was ever produced.

So - translating this to the publishing world, my question is this:
Given the luxury of a choice between a large advance but no book actually produced in the end
... or a far smaller advance but a Real Book ...
Which would you choose?

Obviously the answer would depend on your finances at the starting point.
If you're struggling to put food on the table, you may well feel unable to turn down the money.
But even if that was the case, where would your ideal preference lie?

If you're honest, your answer will speaks volumes (!) about how you feel about your writing.

Excellence in indolence

I still haven't quite worked out what this is for ...

Either my blog has been awarded a gong for being excellent ...
... or I've been congratulated on being a little less lazy than others ...

The one thing that is certain is that somehow along the way a pointy heel was inserted in my nether regions, so I'm off to A&E now to have it extracted.

X rated

I'm usually fairly chaste in my blog (though not in my books) but I just couldn't resist sharing this.

It's supposed to be from a gen-u-ine chat forum, but I don't care if it is or not.
It made me laugh ...

ChatZ-STUD: Hello, ChatZ-BABE. What do you look like?
ChatZ-BABE: I am wearing an expensive red silk blouse, a black leather mini-skirt and high heeled boots. I am tanned and very buffed. I workout every day. My measurements are 36-24-36. What do you look like?
ChatZ-STUD: I'm 6'3'' and about 250lbs. I wear glasses and have on a pair of blue sweatpants I just bought from Primark. I am also wearing an old t-shirt, it's got some tomato sauce stains on it and smells kind of funny.
ChatZ-BABE: I want you. Would you like to screw me?
ChatZ-STUD: OK.
ChatZ-BABE: We're in my bedroom. There's soft music playing on the stereo and candles on my
nightstand. I look up into your eyes and am smiling. My hand works it way down to your crotch and I begin to feel your huge swelling bulge.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm gulping. I'm beginning to sweat.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm pulling up your shirt and kissing your chest.
ChatZ-STUD: Now I'm unbuttoning your blouse. My hands are trembling.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm moaning softly.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm taking hold of your blouse and I'm sliding it softly off.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm throwing my head back in pleasure. The cool silk slides off my warm body. I'm rubbing your bulge faster now. Rubbing and pulling.
ChatZ-STUD: My hand suddenly jerks spastically and tears a hole in your blouse. I'm sorry.
ChatZ-BABE: That's OK, it wasn't really too expensive.
ChatZ-STUD: I'll pay for it.
ChatZ-BABE: Don't worry about it! I'm wearing a lacy black bra, my soft breasts are rising and falling as I breathe harder and harder.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm fumbling with the clasp of your bra, I think it's stuck. Do you have scissors?
ChatZ-BABE: I take your hand and kiss it softly, I reach behind my back and undo the clasp. My bra slides off. The cool air carresses my breasts. My nipples are erect for you.
ChatZ-STUD: How did you do that? I'm picking up the bra and inspecting the clasp.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm arching my back. Oh baby, I just want to feel your tongue all over me.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm dropping the bra. Now I'm licking your, you know, breasts. They're neat!
ChatZ-BABE: I'm running my fingers through your hair. Now I'm nibbling your ear.
ChatZ-STUD: now I suddenly sneeze. Your breasts are covered in snot and phlegm.
ChatZ-BABE: WHAT?
ChatZ-STUD: I'm so sorry, really.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm wiping your phlegm of my breasts with the remains of my blouse.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm taking your sopping wet blouse and throwing it in to the corner of the room.
ChatZ-BABE: OK. I'm pulling your sweatpants down and rubbing your hard tool.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm screaming like a woman! Your hands are cold! Yeee!
ChatZ-BABE: I'm pulling up my mini skirt. Take off my panties.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm pulling off your panties. My tongue is going all over you, in and out and nibbling on you. ummm, wait a second.
ChatZ-BABE: What's the matter?
ChatZ-STUD: I've got a pubic hair caught in my throat. I'm choking.
ChatZ-BABE: Are you OK?
ChatZ-STUD: I'm having a coughing fit. I'm turning all red.
ChatZ-BABE: Is there anything I can do to help?
ChatZ-STUD: I'm running into the kitchen. Choking wildly. Looking for a cup. Where do you keep your cups?
ChatZ-BABE: In the cabinet to the right of the sink!
ChatZ-STUD: I'm drinking a cup of water. There, that's better.
ChatZ-BABE: Come back to me, lover.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm washing the cup now.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm aching for you lover.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm drying the cup. I'm putting it back in the cabinet. Now I'm walking back to the bedroom. Wait it's dark. I'm lost. Where's the bedroom?
ChatZ-BABE: Last door on the left at the end of the hall.
ChatZ-STUD: I found it.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm tugging off your pants. I want you so badly.
ChatZ-STUD: Me too.
ChatZ-BABE: I kiss you passionately. Our naked bodies pressed against each other.
ChatZ-STUD: Your face is pushing my glasses into my face. It hurts.
ChatZ-BABE: Why don't you take your glasses off?
ChatZ-STUD: OK. But I can't see very well. I'm placing my glasses on the nightstand.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm bending over the bed. Give it too me baby!
ChatZ-STUD: I have to pee. I'm fumbling my way to the bathroom.
ChatZ-BABE: Hurry back lover.
ChatZ-STUD: I find the bathroom and it's dark. I'm feeling around for the toilet and lift the lid.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm waiting eagerly for your return.
ChatZ-STUD: I've finished. I'm feeling around for the flush handle. Uh-ho!
ChatZ-BABE: What's the matter now?
ChatZ-STUD: I just realised I peed in your laundry hamper. Sorry again. I'm walking back to the bed now. Blindly feeling my way.
ChatZ-BABE: Mmmm, yes. Come on.
ChatZ-STUD: Now I'm going to put my, you know, thing in your umm, woman's thing.
ChatZ-BABE: Yes! Do it, baby! Do it!
ChatZ-STUD: I'm touching your smooth butt. It feels so nice. Umm, I'm having a little problem here.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm moving my ass back and forth. I can't wait another second. Slide it in! Screw me!
ChatZ-STUD: I'm flaccid.
ChatZ-BABE: WHAT?
ChatZ-STUD: I'm limp. I can't sustain an erection.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm standing up and turning around; an incredulous look on my face.
ChatZ-STUD: I'm shrugging with a sad look on my face, my willy all floppy. I'm looking for my glasses to see what the problem is.
ChatZ-BABE: NO! Never mind. I'm getting dressed, I'm putting on my underwear and my wet nasty blouse.
ChatZ-STUD: No, wait. I can't find the bedside table. I'm reaching across the dresser, knocking off cans of hairspray, your picture frames and your candles.
ChatZ-BABE: I'm buttoning my blouse. I'm putting on my shoes.
ChatZ-STUD: Now I've found my glasses. My God! One of your candles fell on to the curtain! The curtain is on fire! I'm pointing at it with a shocked look on my face.
ChatZ-BABE: Go to hell! I'm logging off. LOSER!
ChatZ-STUD: Now the carpet is on fire! Noooooo!
© 2000-2008 Gausie UK
www.chatz.co.uk

A challenge

The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog.

Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to come up with an alternative sentence using every letter in the alphabet.

Here's a sample to be going on with:

I must wear quilted boxers to pluck very jagged firze thorns.

Boatman dips across the Styx; quake not, vapid jock, gaze farewell.

Thick hazy vibe from queasy axe wielding Jap.

(Credit: Janey, the Sutton Sista.)

Extremely bad hair day!

This is what happens when you give your 12 year old son a pair of scissors and ask him to trim 'just an inch' off your hair.

It's an ... er ... extremely interesting asymmetrical bob.

The fact that it would have looked better if I'd chewed through it using my own teeth is neither here nor there.

The fact that it's gone from almost waist length to just above my jaw (on one side anyway) shouldn't be taken into account.

It's only hair, isn't it?
It'll grow again - given 3 or 4 years.

I mean it's not like he chopped off my leg or something, is it ...

Remind me never to ask him to trim my toenails ...

Get ready ...

The lineup for Pipe & Slippers has been finalised and can be seen here.

So draw up a chair to the fireside, kick off your shoes and fill your pipe...

And prepare to have your newly-revealed socks blown off.

Booky Bits in the Sky

I've been contacted by the lovely people at Artswom.
(You may remember them from when I made Hay last year.)

They started off by earning their place in my affections for ever by being very complimentary about FB & Co's film.
(Praise from an arts organisation of their standing is praise indeed.)

They've also asked me to pass on some booky bits that I'm sure will be of interest.
Click here for a post about Sky Arts' Book Show, where guests are asked to choose one book they wish they had written themselves.
Each book is being put in a prize pot for one lucky viewer to win at the end of the series in April.

Artswom have also come up with their own initiative.
They're inviting bloggers to share their recommendations for the last book to read before the end of the world.

Admittedly, this is something of a morbid topic, but when the end comes and this fragile orb finally cracks, it may be too late to panic buy, too inappropriate to copulate, and just too ironic to pray – so what else is there to do other than settle down and read a quality novel.

Click here for details.

(Note to self: This is fun. Try to find time for thinking about this ...)

But juggling

No, that's not something you might expect to find in an erotic circus.
Nor is it an activity you might find behind the bike sheds in the playground.

It's a day in the life of a sandwich carer.

This is how it goes.

FB is off school sick
But I haven't managed to see my dad yet this week.
But FB is poorly and I don't want to leave him alone.
But dad's pills need replenishing.
But FB will feel abandoned.
But dad has bills that need paying.
But I'm FB's mum. He only has one mum.
But I'm dad's daughter. He only has one daughter.

And she's going to feel bad whatever she does!

Smiles for Smailes

Caroline Smailes, that is.

Caroline is the author of In Search of Adam.
She has written a companion novella featuring some of the characters in the original book.
She has also persuaded her publisher, typesetter and cover designer to give their services free.

And you can buy the book free too - as a download.


Why? I hear you ask.
Because what she then wants you to do, is make a voluntary donation to One in Four - a charity run for and by people with experience of sexual abuse.

You can see further details here.

A good deed in a naughty world ...

Lest we forget

Today is Holocaust Memorial Day.

First Born and Little Guy are taking part in a play this afternoon.
FB is the narrator and LG is playing Otto Frank (and Hitler, but we won't talk about that ...)
We've been warned to bring a large supply of tissues.

I think back to when I was their age.
I was part of the first post war generation, born at a time when the world was still reeling from the revelation that evil could exist on such a vast scale.
I played Anne Frank in a presentation at my school.
My geography teacher was leaving the next day.
I knew nothing about this teacher's private life or history.

When I came back to school, my geography book was returned to me.
Inside was a note from the teacher, thanking me for my moving performance and telling me how closely her own life had been related to 'all that' as she called it.

Many years later, I copied and enlarged some old family photos.
As a result, my parents were able to identify some of the sepia images of people standing stiffly against backdrops (sheets hung between wooden houses).
We were able to point to the individuals and say - they didn't make it. Neither did they ... Or them ...

You'd think we'd learn, wouldn't you?
That never again wouldn't just be a slogan ...
You don't have to look far to see what a long way off we still are.

So I'll end with some quotes:

'Nobody made a greater mistake than he who did nothing because he could only do a little.'

Edmund Burke

'Each time a man stands up for an idea he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centres of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.'

Bobby Kennedy

'First they came for the Jews and I did not speak out because I was not a Jew.Then they came for the Communists and I did not speak out because I was not a Communist. Then they came for the trade unionists and I did not speak out because I was not a trade unionist. Then they came for me and there was no one left to speak out for me.'

Pastor Martin Niemoller

'I am now almost ninety and my strength is slowly failing. Still, the task I received from Anne continues to restore my energy: to struggle for reconciliation and human rights throughout the world.'

Otto Frank

The last words must go to Anne herself.

'And finally I twist my heart round again, so that the bad is on the outside and the good is on the inside, and keep on trying to find a way of becoming what I would so like to be, and could be, if there weren't any other people living in the world.'

'How wonderful it is that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world.'

'I don't think of all the misery but of the beauty that still remains.'

'I keep my ideals, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.'

'Everyone has inside of him a piece of good news. The good news is that you don't know how great you can be! How much you can love! What you can accomplish! And what your potential is!'

'No one has ever become poor by giving.'

'The final forming of a person's character lies in their own hands.'

'Whoever is happy will make others happy too.'

Put this in your pipe and smoke it ...

Me: I have some really exciting news to share with you about a forthcoming event.
You: Go on then. Spill.
Me: Well, it's in South London ...
You: Where???
Me: Oh right. If you're going to be like that then ...
You: Sorry. Please continue.
Me: Hmmm. It's going to be on Sunday 24th February ...
You: Oh goody. I like Sundays.
Me: You're gonna love this Sunday, believe me.
You: You haven't told me anything to believe yet.
Me: OK. OK. Keep your hair on. Cailleach's going to be there ...
You: Ooooh. Now you're talking.
Me: Told you so. And she's going to be reading from Kairos.
You: Oh wow! Why didn't you say so?
Me: I just did. But there's more ...
You: More? My literary cup runneth over.
Me: Quite right too. But wait. Carver's also coming and he's going to be launching his Pomes.
You: The Wordcarver? But he's a Merkan!
Me: Exactly. He'll be crossing the Atlantic to be there.
You: Puts crossing the Thames into perspective, I suppose ...
Me: Glad you see it that way. But that's not all.
You: Can there possibly be anything to add? Please stop torturing me ...
Me: Spoilsport. OK then. There will be other poets, authors, musicians ... It's in a cool venue with a stage whose boards were allegedly trodden in the 60s by The Stones ...
You: *Gasp* Details. I thirst for details.
Me: Pay attention. Haven't you guessed yet? Think back to here ...
You: Oh! The Pipe ...
Me: And the Slippers. You can check them out here. And here's their MySpace page.
You: What could possibly be cooler than this?
Me: Not a thing. See you there.

My son's a vid kid

First Born has been involved with a film project at his school, run by Cineclub.

He stayed late every evening for several weeks, working on the edit with his friend (FB chose not to act in the film himself).

The end result was a short film created by a small group of children with minimal adult input, called Retribution at School on the theme of Tell Someone.

It's a cautionary tale of what can happen to a child who is being bullied and who, instead of seeking help by telling an adult, takes matters into his own hands, with tragic consequences.

It's being screened in Greenwich shortly, along with contributions from other schools in Southwark and Greenwich. The winning film will be shown at the National Film Theatre.

But you can see it right here!

Next stop Hollywood?

Mark Reid - the final chapter?

When I wrote this post in memory of Mark Reid, I thought it would be the only memorial to him.

He has continued to be in my mind ever since.

I never expected his story to continue.
At best, I though I might hear some clues about what had happened to him in his last few days and weeks.

The one thing I never anticipated was that I would hear from his family, who had done an internet search on his name in an attempt to fill in some of the missing details of Mark's life, and arrived at my post.

The story they tell about Mark's childhood is very different from the one he told me and it's not my place to decide whose version is accurate.
Either way, it's very sad ...

I'm really grateful to Mark's sisters for contacting me and giving their perspective, which I've reproduced here:

I am the sister of Mark. He was always. and is still loved, and is now deeply mourned. He will be given a decent burial once the Police can release the body and will be surrounded by his Mother and sisters.

I am Mark's other sister. Whilst we are very touched by everyone's kind words, please remember that Mark was a heroin user for most of his adult life. He did not leave home in his early teens. He had a very promising job for five years with British Telecom. He left home at 19 on his own accord, returning home several times. Mark had a very normal childhood and was loved dearly by his family and we all mourn him and miss him terribly. Mark severed ties with his family, despite our best efforts, we did not know of his whereabouts since 1998, until we were informed of his death in December. Please remember there are always two sides to a story.

Age is no barrier

Check this out.

Hover your mouse and keep clicking on the couple and background.

Reckon we should ask this pair over to join the cast at Castle Minx?

To see what Bashment looks like when it's done really well, take a peek at my gorgeous goddaughter.
(Click on the videos.)

Oh and while I'm busy linking the generations, this is her equally gorgeous brother.
And if you scroll down, you can see a pic of the cat we were looking after over the hols too.

Ah yes. All life is here.

Trash to Cash

If you're in the Kent area on Saturday 19th January and you ...

a) would like to buy something different and special
b) would like to contribute to a worthy cause
and c) would like to possibly appear on tv ...

I have just the event for you.

The Friends of Phoenix School are holding a Trash to Cash Sale and the tv cameras will be rolling for a forthcoming BBC programme about charities.
(No link as the programme is being pre-recorded.)

If you would like to attend, email karen.waine@phoenixsch.org.uk, the Chair of Friends of Phoenix, who is hosting the sale at her home.

BTW - don't be misled by that word 'trash'.
This is no ordinary rummage sale.
I'm reliably informed that included in the diverse array of goodies on offer are signed copies of Harry Potter books as well as a 6'tall Garfield ...

Update: You could also call the researcher, Molly Gilbert 0207 836 8595, for further details.

Literary thought for the day

'Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read. '

Groucho Marx

My, how the years fly by ...

It seems only yesterday that a patter of tiny keys heralded the birth of my bouncing baby blog.

Just look at her now ...

She has 117 links with other li'l lit bloggers, many of whom she's now met in Real Life.

This will be her 938th post.

According to Stat Counter, she's received 36,465 visits.
Site Meter has counted 50,315.

(Since neither were set up at the birth, I suppose these numbers are pretty meaningless.
But hey, it's coming up to my blogday. Give me a break, will you?)

To commemorate 2 years of beautiful blogginess, I'm going to do the same as I did this time last year.

So here goes. These are the first sentences of the first posts for each month of the last year.

January

Behold - a blog is born

I'd like you all to join me in welcoming Meloney Lemon to the blogosphere.

February

Mystery Women in Oxford

Mystery Women are holding an event at Blackwell's bookshop in Oxford at 6.30pm on 7th February.

March

Linkfest

I've recently joined a Bloggers with Book Deals forum set up by the indefatigable Clare at Boob Pencil.

April

Blogging from the dark side

All life is here in the blogosphere.

May

Seeking Retribution

I need your help to devise a suitable punishment for G.

June

Heads up - we're in the Guardian ...

The review section of Saturday's Guardian has a 'From the blogs' section chosen by the editor of Guardian Unlimited books.

July

Justice

Rachel's cyberstalker (see here and here) has been jailed for 6 months (see here and here) after she was caught in an internet cafe.

August

Sitting on the edge of the world, ma

So there I was, sitting on the edge of the world, surrounded by people I love ...

... and thinking about ...

September

Hi, honey. I'm home ...

It may not have escaped your attention that I've been a bit scarce of late.

October

Don't know what it signifies but ...

Wow! Look at what just cropped up in my stat meter ...

November

Debi and her Dad. Part 7

I seem to have spread quite a bit of doom and gloom about the NHS with this series of posts.

December

Debi and her Dad. Part 10

So there was I, planning a post about my fabarooni weekend, but you never know what's around the corner.

My hero!

It's a very strange feeling when you hear one of your books is going to be translated into a language you don't speak.

When I heard Trading Tatiana was going to be published in Spain, I was of course delighted on one level.
On another, I was filled with dread.

Who would do the translation?
How could I expect anyone to agonise for hours over the correct word to use ... the right image ... the most powerful phrase ... in the way that I had?
What if they didn't get the voice and the intentions behind it?
What if they hated the book, as I'm sure must happen sometimes to translators?
Or - perhaps even worse from my point of view - what if they had very different politics and subtly changed the slant in ways undetectable to the editor who presumably had never read the original English version?

Eventually, via Steve Redwood whose wonderful book, Fisher of Devils, has been translated by the same person, I had a name - Frank Schleper - and the reassurance that he was one of the good guys.
And people I know who have seen both versions have told me it's a faithful translation.

Then, in the dying embers of the old year, I received an email from the man himself.
And I knew at last that my baby had been in a safe and caring pair of hands.

With Frank's permission, I'm reproducing part of our conversation that lead me to say the man is a hero of the first order.

Hi Debi,
this is Frank, "your translator" into Spanish (of Trading Tatiana). I meant to write earlier but somehow never got around to it. But now that I finally finished reading"Nirvana Bites" there's no way to put off writing any longer. I very much enjoyed the book, maybe even a bit more than Tatiana because in many ways I "feel" a little closer to Jen than to Jo, but basically I enjoyed the story, the suspense and the wit just the same in both books. One of the things Jen and me have in common is that it is not easy for us to cry, but I finally did last nite when her drugged schizophrenic brother finally recognizes her.

Oh hi, Frank! How wonderful to hear from you. I feel a bit like I’m making contact with someone I donated one of my kidneys to … or maybe a child I gave up for adoption …

Hi Debi, I like your comparisons with kidneys and adopted kids, especially the second one, and your "safe hands" expression. And I am glad to hear (from what you wrote further down) that there's somebody out there who thinks I am a good adoptive parent.
I have been in love with books for most of my life. I would not mind to be able to write (I mean, as good as you or Steve, for example), but since I am not, translating as well as possible is the least I can do to pay you guys back at least a small part of what I have received spiritually, emotionally, humourously and a bunch of other -lys, too. It was a real privilege for me to translate Tatiana, after having read it first and written the reader's report.

Frank - Ah now you see this is the point you got me and I fell hopelessly in love with you. Starting with such a passionate love of books would have had me weak at the knees on its own but then spicing it up with the concept of paying something back – something I believe in passionately in every area of my life …. My heart is yours forever, Frank!

A night at the awards (what to wear?)

And now I've just seen that Absolute Vanilla has given me not one, but two awards while my back was turned.

Click here to see who else she has nominated for an array of bloggy gloriosityness.

Ten Questions

Sarah Salway has devised a list of 10 lit-related questions for Bookarazzi members.
You can see my contribution here.

If anyone would like to adapt the questions for their own blog, feel free.

Just as long as you don't call it a meme ...

Nirvana Bites its long tail

While I was away, other people were clearly a lot more active than I was.

Nirvana Bites was first published nearly 5 years ago, but it continues to demonstrate the length of its tail with two new recent reviews.

The first is by Riverwillow, whom I've met in Real Life a couple of times but only just realised she has a blog.
You can see her review here.

And the second is by Suzan Abrahams, who used to blog here but has moved here now.
Click here to see her review.

New year, new reviews and new links.
Goody - starting the way I'd like to carry on.

I'm back ... sort of ...

My body's back in position, but it seems to be taking a while for my head to catch up.

We had a good time in Brighton - lots of long walks and even longer lie ins.
I don't think any of us had realised quite how much we needed the break.

Have you ever noticed that the sea looks different every single day?
It blows me away to think that it's the one place on earth that humanity can make no real impression on.
Sure it's polluted, but from the shoreline it looks the same today as it did when the dinosaurs stared out at it.

One day, we'll live by the sea ...

But for now, welcome to 2008 wherever you are and whatever you look out at.

The Last Post

We're off to Brighton shortly to house and cat-sit out the holidays.

The next time I come in here it will be 2008.

Whether we know each other in Real Life ...
or through the blog ...
or whether you're one of the many people who regularly come in here but never make yourself known ...
... I wish you happiness and good health for the new year.

Stay safe, all of you, and take care of yourselves and each other.
Spread some light if you can.

Debi xxx

MARK REID 1964-2007.

It must be about ten years since I first met you, Mark.
You had the bash on the ramp leading up to London Bridge Station.
I used to see you twice a day, three times a week on my way into work.

At first we'd just exchange greetings as I gave you my change.
But gradually we got talking.

You told me some of your story.
UPDATE: THE PARAGRAPH RE MARK'S CHILDHOOD HAS BEEN DELETED.
PLEASE SEE BELOW.

For a while you lived in a community squatting in a Cornish rhododendron forest.
But when you were thrown off the land, the commune broke up and you ended up on the streets of London again.

By the time I met you, you had been homeless for nearly twenty years and addicted to heroin and super strength lager for most of them.

Though not tall, you were bulky and not just because of the layers of clothes you wore.
A shambling beggar with filthy skin and ageless eyes and the creaking joints of a geriatric.
But you were so much more than that.

You talked to me about heroin.
About how good it made you feel.
It kept you warm, you told me, and protected you from viruses and reality.

You talked about your attempts to get clean.
About your efforts to come off the streets.

You shared your letters with me and together we tried to work out the best way to deal with the constant obstacles placed before you.

I gave you a blanket once.
A thick woolen blanket I'd had as a child.
The next time I saw you, it was gone.
Either stolen from you or more likely traded up towards filling the next syringe.
I didn't mind.
I hoped that wherever it had moved onto, someone was glad for its warmth.

And once you gave me some candles you'd made yourself from layers of tightly packed paper on a cardboard base.
They worked too.
I kept them on the balcony.

You knew that survival was a series of bargains and that you had to give in order to receive.
So you decorated your bash and the surrounding area with flowers, wind chimes and ornaments.
You engaged people in conversation.
Sometimes you'd sing or dance.
But sometimes you'd be completely out of it, barely conscious.

A few times you fell asleep with the money you'd collected in full view.
I'd move it under your blanket or into a pocket.

I introduced G and the boys to you a couple of times when they came to meet me at work.
They'd heard me speak of you often and I'd told you all about them.

Then the day came when you showed me a letter saying you were going to be housed at last.
I thought I might not see you after that but of course it was far from the answer to all your problems.
There are no easy solutions, are there, Mark?
With no furniture, fridge, cooker etc and contending with addiction and minimal support, you still had a habit to feed.
So each day you'd return to your old patch.

But I have a confession to make, Mark.
Although I'd still stop to talk, I rarely gave you money after that, did I?
You see, by that time I'd met Richard, the Irish guy who had the patch further up on the bridge.
I know you saw him as a competitor, but the way I saw it, you were the walking wounded whereas Richard could barely crawl.
We never spoke about me directing my limited resources away from you and to him.
But I know you knew about it.
Sorry, Mark.

After I stopped working, I only saw you once or twice more.
The last time was a couple of years ago when I bumped into you in Peckham Rye Station.
You were with a couple of other guys, clearly on the hustle.
You had a bike.
You looked pretty good.

Then yesterday, I opened the local paper.
Addict's Death: 3 Hunted was the headline.
They might just as well have said Just Another Dead Junkie.

And so it was that I found out the sketchy details of what happened to you in the last few weeks.
Apparently, some time between 11th and 28th November, you were beaten up in Peckham by a man and two women.
You were picked up by the cops in Horsham on 1st December and taken to East Surrey Hospital with head and face injuries.
But you discharged yourself the following day.
On 2nd December you called an ambulance to South Kensington.
Your nose had been continually bleeding.
They took you to Chelsea and Westminster Hospital where they diagnosed a fractured skull.
You died there four days later.
A post-mortem carried out on 10th December proved inconclusive.
They're doing further tests.

What happened to you, Mark?
Presumably the fuzzy details of the attack came from you yourself.
Were you involved in something that made you a particular target?
That took you from Peckham to Horsham to Kensington?
Or was the attack simply random and unconnected to that unlikely-seeming itinerary?
The story will never now be told, will it?

And what happens next?
If they're still doing tests, your body must now be lying in some hospital mortuary somewhere.
What will happen afterwards when they've finished with you?
No funeral I suppose.
Just some anonymous burial in an unmarked plot.
Who would come anyway?
Who would care?

There's a photo of you with the article.
A tightly-cropped portrait.
Semi-profile, you're looking towards the camera and laughing.
You look really happy in that photo.
I wish I could put it in here but I don't have a scanner and there's nothing I could find online.

No life should pass unnoticed or uncared about.

This may be the only memorial to you.

Rest in peace, Mark Reid.

UPDATE 18TH FEBRUARY, 2008
I've never amended a post before as it seems somehow deceitful, but I've made an exception here.
Since this post was published, I've been contacted by Mark's sisters. (See here.)
I've searched my memory and my conscience and have had to admit my recollection of Mark's exact words re his childhood may have been inaccurate.
Since this post was always intended as a memorial to Mark, it feels wrong that it may have contained inaccuracies, causing further hurt to those who knew and loved him.
I'm delighted to know that Mark was indeed very much cared for, though in some ways it makes it even sadder that he was unable - for whatever reason - to access that love in the last years of his life.
Mark had his own journey and his own tragic trajectory.
I send my heartfelt wishes for strength and healing to his sisters and mother.

I think I might be on a mini roll ...

You know how it sometimes feels like things have been sort of STUCK and then they somehow shift?

I think (she says not wanting to tempt fate) that this might be what's happening for me:

• I finished the 1st draft of my 5th book earlier this week
• Emailed my agent to let him know
• And then today rec'd an email from my Spanish translator of Trading Tatiana (I love him bad) introducing himself and saying he's just read Nirvana Bites and liked it even more than TT and will try to persuade the Spanish pubs to take it on. (It was his report on TT that persuaded them to take it. )

Let's not forget what brought about this shift:

• First there was this lovely email from Zinnia
• Then there was this wonderful review from Clare
• Then there was this amazing weekend of lit bloggfest

But maybe ... before all of that ... there was this and then this.

Sometimes you just need to let a little time to pass in order to see the significance of something.

So it seems I could be ending this year on a mini roll ...

Are they mad?

According to a recent YouGov poll, more people want to be an author than any other profession.

What???
Don't they know how hard it is?
Don't they know they'd be letting themselves in for a lifetime of anxious waiting for someone to pass judgment on them?

(If they're unpublished, this will be an agent.
If they've got that far, this will be a commissioning editor at a publishing house.
If the editor likes their work, this will be the marketing and sales depts.
If they achieve the elusive deal and their book is published, this will be reviewers.
And so it goes on ...)

And don't they know that if they do get the deal, they themselves will be expected to be part of the package? (See here for Danuta Keane's take on branding.)

And don't they know that authors who make a living from their writing are nearly as rare as honest politicians?

Don't get me wrong.
I love being a writer.
I love the euphoric high when the words spill out in an unstoppable torrent.
And even more do I love the mixture of triumph, relief and delight you get when you finish a book.

But I don't think I could say I ever chose this way of life.
I didn't wake up one day and say, 'I know. I'll be an author ...'

Writing is as much a part of me as the blood, sweat and tears it so frequently produces.
It's not a choice.
It's a compulsion.

Would anyone really choose that?

If you can judge a society by the way it treats children ...

I know you're probably busy.

Running round buying presents, planning menus, hanging decorations and all that stuff ...

But please please please take the time to read this article in The New Statesman.

NB: Approx 2,000 children pass through UK holding centres each year.
Their imprisonment breaches a key UN Convention.

Puts not being able to buy the latest fad into some perspective, eh?

Thanks to Fiction Bitch for bringing the article to our attention.

There's a leg in my stocking ...

The wonderful Crimeficreader, uncrowned but undisputed queen of the crime blogs, has published a series of posts where authors choose their favourite book of the year as their must-have read for those seasonal stockings.

You can see my choice here.

Done it!

I've just written the last words of the first draft of The Gene Pool!

I can't quite believe it.
This book has taken double the length of time of any of its 4 predecessors and has caused me more angst than all the others put together.

Is it any good?
To be honest, I don't know yet.
But at least I now have something to print out and work on in order to trim any excess fat and add garnish and flavour as necessary and come up with a finished manuscript.

I'm excited.
And triumphant.
Excuse me while I go off and dance around my laptop ...

More munches than trenches

FB's account of his trip to Ypres:

I couldn't eat for at least a couple of hours. Then I had my first roll - the egg mayo one - on the Shuttle. We had lunch in the trenches. It was vegetable stew and sausages. Obviously I didn't eat the sausages. But the stew was delicious. Luckily for me, everyone else hated it so they gave me theirs. Later on we had hot chocolate. Then we went chocolate shopping - look, I've brought back a bag. Oh - before the chocolate I had a mango ice cream and bought some chewing gum. I ate the cheese salad roll on the way home. I'm starving. What's for supper?

Just to prove the trip consisted of more than the above foodfest account might suggest, here are some of his photos.

My baby's in the trenches

First Born has gone on a school trip today to Ypres with this lot.

He had to be at school by 5am (gasp!) and won't be home 'til late tonight.
I suspect the organisers might be attempting to recreate the exhaustion of battle ...

In between arriving in Belgium and the inevitable chocolate shopping, he's going to be going through the emotional wringer according to the packed itinerary which includes re-enactments, visits to a cemetery, a journey through the trenches and talks from ex-servicemen.

'I'm going to embarrass myself,' he told me last night.
'Why?' I asked.
'Because I'm sure to cry,' he replied.

I told him that was fine and that tears are the absolute appropriate response under the circumstances.

Quick! Before it's too late ....

A message from Avaaz via Merc.

Climate negotiations in Bali are in crisis. Things were looking good till now: near-consensus on a delicate deal, including 2020 targets for rich countries, in return for which China and the developing world would do their part over time. IPCC scientists say such targets are needed to prevent catastrophe. But Japan, the US and Canada are banding together to wreck the deal, and the rest of the world is starting to waver...

We can’t let three stubborn governments throw away the planet's future. We have until the end of Friday to do everything we can. Please sign our emergency global petition below -- we'll deliver it through stunts at the summit, a full-page ad in the Jakarta Post read by all the delegates (see below, right), and directly to negotiators to stiffen their nerve against any bad compromise. Add your name to the campaign below now!

Please go here to sign the petition.

Gutted by my WIP

Phew!
Just had to come in here and say I'm on a rollercoaster with the The Gene Pool.

Nearly finished the first draft and I've just written a couple of chapters that make me feel like I've lived through several traumatic lifetimes simultaneously.

Some people think that writing means you sit on your arse all day, so what can possibly be difficult about it?

I'm too drained to even begin to explain ...

Shock horror - people are interested in sex!

Who'd've thought it?

As a result of my teeny linky post here, I've had over 100 visits to my blog today from people searching for 'Sex in the Noughties', 'Girl with a One Track Mind' or 'sex blogs'.

Not for one moment did I expect that since ... er ... my post didn't actually say anything at all!
Boy, are they going to be disappointed when they get here!

There are sexy bits of my blog, I suppose, just because I blog about life and sex is a part of life. (Well, derrr ...)
But it's certainly not a sex blog as such.

The programme last night provided an opportunity for Zoe to state her case - which is mainly, what's all the fuss about?
People have always had sex.
People have always enjoyed sex.
People have always talked about enjoying sex.

Zoe happens to talk about it in an intelligent and entertaining way that has obviously had resonances for many other people.
She also did it anonymously and went to great lengths to protect that anonymity.
But when she was 'outed' by the tabloids, all hell broke loose.

So I was glad that the programme gave her the chance to give her version in her own words.

The programme had its faults - see here for Zoe's own list.
And personally I couldn't see the point of the constant images of women blogging in the nude ...

I mean, if I was sitting here starkers, I'd have goose pimples larger than my breasts!
How sexy an image is that???

Hey - who turned the lights out?

Our festival of light is over for another year.


And it's still cold and dark ...

Sex in the Noughties

Tonight at 10pm on Channel 4, this series ends with a look at Sex Blogs, focusing in particular on our very own Girl with a One Track Mind.

Art Imitating Life?

Or is it the other way round?

And can you always be sure which is which?

Take me, for example.
I'm real.
And this blog is real.
I don't write fiction on my blog, so everything you read here is real.

Or is it?

Maybe you've constructed me.
Maybe I've constructed myself.
Maybe I'm a figment of my own imagination and I've drawn you in to join me in the fantasy.

In which case, who am I???
(The fish say if I don't get a grip, I'm going to end up disappearing up my own arse any minute now.)

Bear with me here.
I haven't lost it.
In fact, I think I might have found it.
Except I'm not too sure yet what 'it' is ...

The thing is, when you write fiction you create characters and place them in a world that is also of your creation.
Except mostly it's not.
If you write contemporary fiction, you place your characters in the real world.
You put them in a situation and then you let them loose and see where they go.
Once you've done that, you've made them real, haven't you?

One of the reasons I chose to write a series is that I felt my characters were 'out there' after my first book, leading their lives whether I chose to write about them or not.
So I chose.

The situations I place my characters in may be more extreme than most of us would hope to encounter, but they're not totally unrealistic.
There are plenty of people who spend their lives lurching from one crisis to the next.
My own life has rarely run on a smooth plane for long.
I've survived a lot and I've learned a lot.

Not everyone's life is like that.
There are those who seem to sail on calm waters.
They fulfill parental expectations.
After a happy childhood, they go on to have secure jobs.
Healthy children.
A decent standard of living.

They are the stalwarts ... the bastions ... the pillars ...

And - here's the thing I'm getting at if you're still here - what their lives have is ...
... a different narrative arc to mine.

Unless you're very young, you should be able to look back and see the narrative arc of your own life.

It might be shallow and steady.
You'll probably be contented.
This is what you want from life.
An easy ride.
Safe and controlled.
You feel secure.
You won't look back in 20 - 30 - 40 years time with regret because you've made a definite choice.

On the other hand, you might look back and see a series of alternating peaks and troughs.
You will have plumbed the depths of pain and bear the scars.
You will also have scaled the heights of euphoria felling that this is what life is for -
- to be lived to the fullest.

So what's the narrative arc of your life?
And would you really, if you're 100% honest with yourself, be able to live it any other way?

We're all the authors of our own lives.
And we're all real.
Aren't we???

Curioser and curioser

Remember when I got buzzed by the Enchantress?

Well, I just went into the boys' room ...
... and there, lying in the middle of the floor was ...

No - not the Enchantress again - she was still lying next to my laptop ...

This time it was the whole bloody Tarot pack!
(You may remember I didn't even know where the pack was, though I suspected it was on top of our wardrobe.)

I asked the boys if they knew how it had got there and they both said they'd never seen it before I came out of their room holding it.

Weird, eh?

UPDATE: It was the Empress, wasn't it, not the Enchantress ...
Doh! Is there such a thing as the Enchantress?

Looks at Books

Some fab new content on Bookarazzi.

Click here for a chilling article re the realities of being published.

And here for the virtual bookstore, where you can see (and buy!) books written by Bookarazzi members. (Coo - what a lot we got ...)

There's lots more too, so whether you're a writer or a reader, there should be plenty to chew over.

There have been a few changes to the appearance of the site too, thanks to techy genius, Lucy Pepper.

Enjoy!

Spend your money wisely ...

A friend of mine runs a charity called ALD Life.
Both her sons have Adrenoleukodystrophy, which if you've ever seen the film, Lorenzo's Oil, will be familiar to you.

You can read their story here - I challenge you not to:
1) cry
2) be amazed at her single minded determination to do the very best for her children.

Anyway, I just received an email from her.

She's always coming up with new and imaginative ways to fundraise and with the splurging season coming up, this is timely.

We have just joined a service called Simple Fundraising. This is a fundraising website that earns commission from retail outlets and utility services for ALD Life or your chosen charity every time you shop online from the site. The link for our fundraising page is here. Simply register and then start shopping – you can even do online grocery shopping at Tescos or ASDAs and earn money for us! This really is a fantastically easy way to help us raise money so please pass this on to all your friends and encourage them to do their Xmas etc. shopping online through the link above.

Thank you all for your support and happy retail therapying!!

So, if you're planning on spending some of your hard-earned, here's a way to do so and help others at the same time.

Happy Chanukah - or Eid, Divali, Yule, Xmas - or whichever festival of light you celebrate.

That was the weekend that was ...

Right. The details of the weekend as promised.

In case you haven't worked it out:

• The Cornish witch was of course our very own Kate of Inner Minx, who arrived on Friday from Cornwall
  

• The Irish poet was Cailleach of Barbara's Bleeuugh. She arrived Saturday morning from Ireland.
  

• The pipe and slippers belonged to Tom of this posse. Minxy and I met him on Friday to chat about 'things'.
  

• The eco fair took place on Goose Green on Saturday lunchtime.

• The gathering of blogging authors was where we went next to meet up with the following Bookarazzi buddies who had come from far and wide to chat and stroke each other's books:

Greg Stekelman from north London of The Man Who Fell Asleep
Granny P from Lanzarote of Rockpool in the Kitchen
Elizabeth Baines from Manchester of Fiction Bitch
Cailleach from Ireland of Barbara's Bleeuugh!
Shauna Reid from Scotland of The Amazing Adventures of Dietgirl
Gaz from Coventry of Bowen T Hunter
Clare Dudman from Chester of Keeper of the Snails
Emma Darwin from south London (turns out she lives 9 doors away from me!) of This Itch of Writing
Ash from Scotland of Random Burblings
Rachel from North London
Kate from Cornwall of Inner Minx
... and yours truly.

• The birthday (not mine) was Babs's. Her 40th, which we celebrated with a small party at home - including cake (chocolate, naturally).

• The home made jam was the brainchild of good mate, John Bently. Minx, Babs and I made our way there to watch his unique brand of creative insanity. And who should we bump into but Natalie of Blaugustine, and also of Bookarazzi.

The gin and chocolate need no further explanation, I presume.

PS: Spent ages faffing round trying to upload pix but have stopped before I lose the will to live.
Minx has some on her post.
Update: Risen to the challenge and in spite of triple brain bypass have managed to upload the pix.

Debi and her Dad. Part 10

So there was I, planning a post about my fabarooni weekend, but you never know what's around the corner.

I went to dad's yesterday and took him for a dental appointment.
While he was being seen, I ran off to get some shopping ...
... and came back to see him being loaded into an ambulance, the dentist standing on the pavement wringing his hands.

3.5 hours later I was able to take dad home in a cab.
Arrived back in south London just in time for a 6 o'clock meeting at FB's school, having eaten nothing since breakfast.

I have to go back to see dad again today as I didn't get the chance to sort his pills and do his shopping yesterday, so will report back on the weekend when I get the chance.

Meanwhile, I'll leave you with this:
Nurse: You're 93? Wow. So what's the secret of longevity?
Dad: Don't die!