not quite ready for my close-up

Well it’s one thing knowing that you look a bit rough in the morning – advanced age of thirty-one-eleven, intermittent sleep, thousands of children (okay, three, but it’s still a load), a half-mauled sparrow at large in basement courtesy of killer cat, plus other family stresses, the type we all face sooner or later but that are nonetheless sapping of spirit – but whatever the reasons I don’t look photo-fabulous, it’s quite a shock to have six million people witness your non-beauteous visage – and for a bunch of them to comment on it in a mean, cold way.

I say this because today I have a piece in the Daily Mail, with my husband Phil Robinson, entitled ‘Could you photoFit your other half?’

The photographer came round two hours before our deadline, objected to what I was wearing (they don’t like black, or trousers, or anything approaching black, or trousers, so my deep blue harem pants were, politely, vetoed – ‘don’t get me wrong,’ purred the snapper, ‘I think they’re incredibly stylish etc’), so having dug a hideous flowery dress out of the recesses of my cupboard and glared at him while worrying if I’d be able to finish the feature and collect my son from cricket and feed a gaggle of fussy eaters (food must be distinct and identifiable on the plate) an acceptable dinner – I didn’t look like a Gisele or a Helena.

Oh yes and I am too lazy to wear make-up – it makes my eyes swell and turns me into the human version of a puff-adder, consequently, on page 21 today of one of our bestselling national newspapers, I look as plain as the nose on my face.

And yet, comments like ‘she’s got bags under her eyes’ and ‘these drawings take twenty years off her’ just got to me. It’s true that the internet has turned half the world into sociopaths – you can say all the cowardly mean-spirited piggish things to people that you presumably wouldn’t dare say to their face – with no consequence at all to yourself (although, possibly, your arteries clog with the mucus-like goo naturally produced by an evil aura.)

Having ranted, I feel better – but I also wanted to say that writing this feature was enormous fun and actually, an honour – mainly because I got to (virtually) meet forensic artist Carrie Stuart Parks – www.stuartparks.com – and her husband FBI Visual Information Specialist Rick Parks. Not only were they obliging, fun, and delightful – isn’t it funny how the most successful people can be the most generous and kind-hearted? – Carrie managed to translate my bumbling description of Phil into a near identical sketch of him.

Check it out on the Daily Mail website – it’s amazing. All I did was describe him, in six lines, and send her a couple of images of people I think he looks like (with the reasons why.) Then from 6,000 miles away, having never set eyes on Phil, she produced a drawing of him that was so close – and after a few extra pointers from me – managed to pluck his image from my consciousness onto the page. She’s been a forensic artist for over 25 years, creating likenesses of suspects, from witness statements – what a gift.

My six-year old is a pretty committed artist, so I’m going to order one of her books – Secrets to Drawing Realistic Faces. Rick - who runs forensic art courses with her attended by the FBI and The Secret Service, among other law enforcement agencies - sent me an example of what they do; after two days of instruction, one female officer drew a sketch of a man that wouldn't disgrace a professional – two days earlier, her artwork resembled that of my 4-year old! Just brilliant!

Having had the opportunity to work with them was such a pleasure - and I suppose one just has to remember that this world is full of smart, wonderful talented people – not just those who comment meanly underneath Daily Mail articles. 

Anything from augmentation to open-heart surgery

My Book Clinic is open for business - it's very exciting - please do check out the page!

I'd like, if I may, to put this new venture in context. The other day, I  thanked a friend  who'd done me a favour. She replied, 'I like to help people.' It struck me as a confident thing to say of oneself - I admired her for saying it, because like many women, I feel if I say anything nice about myself it sounds like boasting. That's quite a silly, reductive way to live, I realise. Of course we must proclaim our virtues - now and then (constantly would be a bit much). So all I want to say, with regard to the Book Clinic is, I like helping people - there, I said it!  

I'm so lazy I don't even blog

Hello, all!  This is a terrible habit of mine – disappearing for the length of the school year. Can’t think why that might be.

Incidentally, today one of the papers noted with surprise the number of parent bloggers; how do these mothers have the time? My day begins at 5.45, when the 4-year old wanders into our bedroom. I try to ignore him and continue sleeping, but he is always in possession of a token item that commands parental attention – a needle, for example.

The older boys get up at an entirely more civilised quarter to seven, but in the short window between 6.45 and 8.50, manage to turn the house into a war zone and me into a nervous wreck. The four-year old has recently discovered the power of ‘the gesture.’

‘He made a gesture at me!’ shouts the six-year old, as I grip my coffee cup.

‘No I didn’t’ bellows the four-year old – he speaks as if addressing a stadium, always - ‘I did it this way – it means “peace”!’

I have blanked the child, berated him, threatened and bribed him. No effect. Finally, the older ones can bear it no longer and leap on him. I wouldn't say they’re the innocent parties: they’re both highly-trained experts in psychological torture. They coyly, slyly, slowly, maliciously drive the four-year old crazy with frustration – they goad that kid into making ‘the gesture.’ 

The fight, when it happens – imagine three cats, clawing and biting in a cloud of dust. No matter how good-natured a feline, if his survival is at stake, instinct takes over and he becomes feral. My boys (don’t want to malign anyone else’s) are similar; I can bark orders till I’m hoarse but they don’t hear me.

By the time we're walking to school, they’re all refreshed and bouncy from the adrenalin rush of battle; meanwhile my blood flows fast like a river about to burst its banks, and the tendons in my neck are rigid like steel.

Then it’s work, washing, work, supermarket, work, tidying; work; and I’m the last at pick-up again.

Upon the boys' return, I am like a frog leaping from lily pad to lily pad – let’s go to the park – and now see a friend – aha it’s TV time – and a break for dinner – bath! We’ve made it to bath time! Stories! Goodnight, my delicious piglets, yes!

And the triumphant creep downstairs, to husband making dinner, and the possibility of a good murder (Spiral, I mean, or Wallander) because let’s not claim to be doing anything too fabulous on a weeknight – then, just as I’m sitting down to eat, a plaintive squeak of ‘‘Mummy, I heard a noise....’ .

‘Darling, it was just the cat, talking to his cat friends. Now go to sleep. I beg you!’  

‘Can I sleep on the floor in a sleeping bag?’

‘You can sleep upside down, hanging from the ceiling like a bat, if you wish, just – please – sleep!’

The holidays should be fun – but don’t expect to hear from me any time soon....

hiatus

I must apologise for the long silence. I have been indulging myself researching my next novel. If you think I have neglected this blog, you might want a word with my children.... I jest... That said, the three year old was discovered, asleep, naked on the bathroom floor at 4pm today. We had wondered why it was so delightfully quiet in the house...

This next book is partly set during World War II, and there is quite a bit to read on that era... I have also had the honour of interviewing a few of those who lived through it - I feel very fortunate and I have all but lost myself in that world. And of course once I visited the Imperial War Museum and started to imagine what it must have been like, it was a struggle to surface.... So far I have written about one third of the new book... 

Rather sweetly, some of the parents and teachers at my son's school bid (in a silent raffle to raise money) to be a character in the novel! I suggested the idea, because I couldn't think of much else that I could offer (no holiday homes in Italy, damnit!) - and it was a happy surprise that anyone bid at all... One of the mothers, Charlotte Parfitt-Reid, was the winner - and I'm so pleased, because apart from anything else, her lovely smart name exactly suits one of my characters. And rather touchingly, she confessed that she didn't mind if she was good... or bad... She'll regret that, heheheh....

Anyway, I shall keep this short, because I should probably try to get to bed before midnight (never do). Oh for goodness sake, have just noticed that the other cat, Disco, is sprawled on the cream sofa, instead of on the Sponge Bob blanket. He's so handsome I could forgive him anything except, maybe, Whiskas Chicken vomit on the one item in the house that is to the casual eye, unsullied...

Future wife of many footballers

My seven-year old son is learning about punctuation.  I saw that he’d written in his textbook: ‘a bunch of banana’s.’  In a high, squeaky, panic-ridden voice, I told him: ‘There is no apostrophe in two bananas!’

He’s a smart kid, and I know he’ll get it right soon enough. He lives in a house where every time someone says ‘should’ve’, I bark: ‘Should have, not should of. Should of doesn’t make sense!’ I mean to say this so many times to my kids that they are bored out of their skulls into getting it right. 

I know I’m hateful but I also bore them (and my husband) into respecting the difference between ‘less’ and ‘fewer’. If you say ‘less sweets’, then you will receive fewer sweets than your brother.

Apart from being as mean as a snake as far as speaking and writing correctly are concerned (take that sharp knife ‘from the baby’ not off the baby- oh just TAKE IT!) I am a reasonable mother. But there is something about people who misuse the English language that makes me furious. The other week, I saw a piece of work pinned to a wall in my son’s school. The teacher had written something to the effect of ‘I should of known!’

Yes, you should have known, and perhaps you shouldn’t have become a teacher, because you are, astonishingly, ignorant of the correct construction of the past tense and it depresses me to think that the likes of you are paid to teach my children basic English. Are people lazy or stupid or both?  How did that person get through – and worryingly, pass, her teacher training course?

I worry that this disregard for language is indicative of an underlying carelessness and arrogance in society.  There is a belief among some that you can succeed with minimum effort by cheating others: misleading people about the extent of your abilities. And maybe you can.

If you look to the right of this blog, you’ll see an ad (unless they subsequently withdraw it and I hope they do, for it is lowering the tone of the site) entitled ‘PR For Authors’ – it boasts ‘a 72 Point’s book PR package.’ Plainly, these advertisers don’t understand a concept that my seven-year old is about to master: that there is NO APOSTROPHE in a plural.  It’s unlikely therefore, that any author would want to trust them with a sentence, let alone a book.

Meanwhile, if there is cause for an apostrophe, it’s invariably omitted. There was an item on the news recently, about the early sexualisation of girls. Some stores sell padded bras for 11-year olds, and one of the pieces of clothing featured was a t-shirt bearing the slogan ‘Future Footballers Wife.’

While spluttering in horror at the idea that someone would try to sell a padded bra to an 11-year old, I was as horrified by the slogan on the t-shirt. ‘They haven’t put an apostrophe in ‘Footballer’s!’ I blurted to my husband. Even if the 11 year old planned to be the future wife of more than one footballer, this would still merit an apostrophe after the ‘s’ of footballers.

I was forty last year, and have been in a bad mood ever since, so you must excuse me. Also, having three boys (the eldest is seven) has eroded my parental principles. Because I am too tired to argue from 6.30am to 9.30pm, my children often eat their dinner in front of the TV, fight each other frequently and violently, and rarely tidy up. But by heaven, they will know the correct use of the apostrophe if it kills me! It probably will.