It's the summer holidays [almost]

Where are you going this year? Spain? Cyprus? Greece? Or are you holidaying at home? A staycation, as it's been coined. 

A few years ago a staycation would have been a poor choice. But this year? This year it seems like an excellent alternative to the charms of anywhere abroad. 

In fact, sitting looking out at my garden right now, and the dried up, shrivelled brown grass of what used to be my lawn, reminds me more of a holiday in Lanzarote than anywhere else. 

I'm not a great believer in the idea that the weather has to be blisteringly hot in order to have fun, but that said, sitting on the beach in a raincoat with its hood up against either driving rain, or gale-force winds, isn't going to appeal to many [if indeed anyone]. 

So I'm hoping for fair weather when I go to the beach to scatter my dad's ashes in the next few days. I want him to be lifted and carried by the wind, taken far out to sea and made at one with its great vastness, it's eternal swell and ebb. 

My dad had a particular fondness for the sea. As wild and untamed as he himself was, it brought out the very best in him. Again and again, like a lover, he would return to the same spot, the easy familiarity of known stretches of sand; the indomitable rocks which had been there since the beginning of time...

We sat on those rock and ate fish and chips; played beach tennis on the sand. 

Now, after the sprinkling of ashes, this place will hold other memories for me. And also for my children.  

It's true what they say about one life touching many. 

And in this time of bereavement, I can't help but wonder at the beauty of life in the midst of all its cruelty. 

So whatever you're doing today, remember one thing: Take nothing for granted. It will stand you in good stead. 

Happy reading. x

Hola!

I have always intended to learn Spanish but somehow failed to get round to it in the past. So, because I am totally rushed off my feet with work and therefore won't have time to fret about whether I'm doing well at the language or not, I decided to begin. 

I spent literally five minutes on an internet lesson, and armed with that scant knowledge, proceeded directly to a Spanish conversation practice. Glass of wine in hand, I regaled the class with my entire knowledge of the Spanish language which mostly comprised of ordering glasses of cava and thanking the person for the said glass of cava. ;)

The evening turned out to be rather a surprise for all concerned. Not least for the lady who runs it, as we discovered we had met previously, when she bought signed copies of my books at an event. 

The rest of the group were equally friendly and I enjoyed my first session and even came away with several new phrases and words. For example I can now say in Spanish, "I'm sorry, I'm Scottish and my Spanish is really bad, can you speak very slowly as if to an idiot, please?"

I'm not sure if I was apologising for being Scottish or for being bad at Spanish, or for being an idiot - either way I imagine I'll get a lot of use out of that handy phrase. 

So for now - Hasta Manana!

Proud Mary

Due to the recent terrorist atrocities that have been committed in Spain, I have held this post back until now, out of respect for the dead and injured.

May the families and loved ones of all those affected find peace.

***

As you may know, I have recently returned from a holiday in Spain. I had a wonderful time and a surprise catch-up with a great performer, none other than Tina Turner tribute performer, Wendy Manfield, who had just returned to Benidorm from a few days in England.

As usual, Wendy's act was high octane, encapsulating the very essence of a Tina Turner performance, with a little bit of tongue-in-cheek humour thrown into the mix.  

When we met last time, I ran an interview with her, so here it is again, for your enjoyment. 

Music, Maestro, Please!

I have a wide and varied musical taste, ranging from the delightfully soporific Annie's Song by John Denver, through the unashamedly raucous ACDC's Back in Black, to the almost ethereal Jar Of Hearts by Christina Perri. But more often than not it is the lyrics of a song which draws me to it, or perhaps a haunting melody, or in some instances a wonderful combination of the two. Seldom is it the actual voice of the performer which I find captivating.

There are of course instances where this is untrue, but these tend to be reserved for the likes of Celine Dion and Neil Diamond - in other words, unique voices which are so sublime, ringing out so true with every note delivered, that they cannot help but make me stop and listen, not just to the words and the tune, but to the particular tone and timbre of the voice itself.

You may recall that I was  holiday in Spain recently. Whilst there I saw a number of tribute acts but it was one in particular which caught my attention. Wendy Manfield WAS Tina Turner, from the pronounced trademark bottom strut, right down to the mannerisms and the gaudy outfits, and I loved every minute of it, although I must confess to not being a huge Tina Turner fan.

So what captivated me so much about Wendy's performance? It was the realisation that Wendy didn't need to be Tina, that in fact she had a much superior voice of her own. Having performed her show as Tina and returned to the stage after thunderous applause, she gave an encore - but not as the superstar.

Instead she sang two Queen anthems in a way that I have never heard them performed. Passion infused her powerful voice and informed it in such a way that I almost believed her to be the originator of the song. She was nothing short of amazing. And I got to wondering why. Why she was performing as someone else when she was so, so much better than that. So here are the answers...

Wendy where are you originally from?
I'm from Darwen, in Lancashire.

How long have you been singing and where did you start?

I started singing professionally 25 years ago.(That's scary.) In the working men's clubs, mainly around the North West of England - Blackpool, Manchester, Liverpool and Yorkshire. Under the wings of my aunt Kay; we were a duo called Diamonds. There was a lot to learn back then. Buying equipment, spending countless days learning how to work it. Going to musicians' studios to get all the sheet music transposed. (There were hardly any backing tracks when i started.)

Working with backing tracks gives a singer more freedom, as it's impossible for keyboards and drums to reproduce sounds exactly on the night. But when a singer plays with musicians, it's uplifting, it makes you sing better and you begin to learn your craft again. You don't realize that you have become a little lazy with backing tracks. 

My mother was originally an opera singer and she was insistent that I went for singing lessons. I was amazed how much there was, and still is, to learn. There is always something to inspire you with music.

How did you become a Tina Turner tribute?

I was asked by the owner of a venue here in Benidorm. "Tributes put bums on seats," as he put it, "It's what people want."

Are you a fan?

YES I am a fan. Sorry to say I never saw her live... I love her energy and soulful rock voice.

How difficult is it to mimic that voice?

Tina's higher register is hard to reach. Some people have said she screams...Ha! You trying screaming and sounding as good as her! Hmmm.

When you start to study a singer you begin to realise just how great they are. I have nothing but respect for Tina Turner. You have to give 100% when doing Tina...because that's what she did every time she recorded or set foot on a stage...you can hear it in her voice.

How long have you been in Spain?

12 years. It's gone very fast and I have seen a lot of changes.....its quiet a transient place.

Do you ever perform as yourself?

Funny you should ask me that question... I only do Tina once a week. My own act is a mix of taking the mickey out of myself in a cheesy kind of way. I do some songs straight. Some people are ready for the funny stuff, while others are just waiting to hear me sing. You can't be everyone's cup of tea. That much I have learned. I just try my best at the venues and I work to entertain everyone. If I was to perform as my self singing the covers that I love to sing, I would probably lose some of the audience.

What do you hope the future holds?

If I get off my lazy behind I hope to learn an instrument, perhaps the piano or guitar, so that I can play and sing music -no sequins, no gimmicks, just music.

Can you ever see yourself coming back to Britain?

Honestly? I don't know. I guess, never say never.

With grateful thanks to Wendy Manfield - a real class performer.

Viva la espana!

I've just come back from a week in Spain and I've loads to attend to. Work, washing, shopping, etc. -they've all been prioritised in ascending order of most likely to cause death to us all if left any longer.



Unfortunately this means that my blog posting is hovering around the middle of the list, somewhere before mowing down the jungle that has grown almost overnight outside the house, and after getting the weekly shopping done. So things being what they are, you are going to have to wait a little longer before you read of my adventures.

In the meantime, here are a few photos...




Happy reading!

Easy Life Or Crazy Life, What's Your Preference?

I originally wrote this post a couple of years ago, but came across it just the other day.

Reading it back, I'm amazed at how frantic my life was back then and how chilled it is by comparison now. See what you think...

First day of the school hols and I'm up with the larks...got a courier, a broken oven, a broken washing machine, a filthy house, a load of paperwork to fill in and file, 3 children, 2 dogs and a pigeon to sort out...did I mention it was the start of the summer hols???

Now let me explain...yesterday was an absolute nightmare of a day.

I had woken early, jumped out of bed and woken the kids for their last day of school for this academic year. Knowing that it was due to be a busy day, I got the breakfasts sorted, the lunch bags sorted and then myself showered. 

Racing against the clock, I pulled clothes over me as I dashed downstairs only to find the kids still enjoying a leisurely breakfast.

Shocked, the conversation went a little like this:-

"What are you doing? It's quarter to nine!" I whispered, still unable to talk properly due to my tonsillectomy.

 "No, mum, it's quarter to eight! You got us all up an hour early!" I was told emphatically and rather irately!!

And do you know what? They were absolutely right. So instead of just accepting this and cooling down, I then proceeded to clean all four bathrooms and arrange a courier for some books I had sold. I also phoned the washing repair man who seems to have either died before completing the job of repairing my machine, or alternatively has been eaten by sharks...because it's been a week since his last visit and still no sign of him returning.

Then [at the correct time], I took my youngest child to her leavers' assembly and sat and watched their teary performance. After this I walked my dogs and met with a group of mothers in town who were going to celebrate their children leaving first school.

Hungrily I watched them devour huge platefuls of appetising food, unable to participate due to my very recent tonsillectomy. I consoled myself with the thought that I had to leave early to collect child no. 1 from his school to attend an orthodontics appointment.

So a mere hour after sitting with the mums, I was back in the car, on route to the school once more. And what greeted me when I arrived? A truculent teenage who informed me that he was not happy to be missing the last hour and a half of school!

Annoyed now, I escorted him to the dentist where they took moulds of his teeth and raced him back to school for the final 40 minutes.

Then, passing the group of mums who were just heading back, relaxed and jolly, I set off to the next school to pick up the daughter who was finishing school that day.

At least she was pleased to see me.

We came home. Buoyed by her youthful exuberance and high spirits, I thought we would have a celebratory tea of spare ribs [I was hoping I could suck the meat off and bypass it into my throat with a lot of liquid libation] chips and chicken wings.

An hour and a half later, when the food was mildly warm but still raw, I knew there was something wrong. The oven had died. either in empathy with the washing machine or completely independently, it had lost the will to live.

It was then I went completely insane. Flinging  cooking utensils to the left, right and centre of myself, I hunted for alternative methods of cooking the foods I had promised to the kids.

Now at this juncture, most sane people would have said, 'ok, lets get a take away'. But you see, dear readers, that is where I differ from pretty much everyone else in the universe.

Like it was a personal affront to my dignity to throw away this food, I took it as a challenge that I would not be beaten over. 

Throwing the chips into a wok, I proceeded to burn them into charred remnants of what they once were, whilst I undercooked [yet also managed to burn] the ribs and wings in an electric frying pan.

Thinking that it would be a good idea to make an adventure of the situation, I then [unwisely as it turned out] put all the food on a sharing platter and a whole two tins of beans in a large bowl for the kids to help themselves.

What a mistake to make! In between arguing over who got which charred rib and how many chips they each loaded onto their plates, the kids complained that this was how cowboys ate and why had I made so much washing up for myself [oops forgot to say that the dishwasher broke a few months ago too].

After the squabbling had ended and I had cleared up, I was so wound up that I decided to take my frustration out on the oven itself.

Watching me trying to heave it from its cabinet, the coolly delivered "you might want to take the screws out first" from my eldest, did not really help. Head aching and the place where my tonsils used to hang out, burning in my throat, I wrestled with the oven, trying to get it out so that I could measure its dimensions for a new one. It was at this point that I accidently yanked the oven door right off, causing me to stagger backward with the weight of it in my hands.

The pigeon watched me from the safety of it's cage as if it were I who was some rare and endangered species of bird, beady eyes alert and if I'm not mistaken, filled with humour at my situation.

It was at this precise moment in time that the middle child came and told me that the upstairs toilet was now broken.  As I strode upstairs, summer dress flowing behind me, covered in grease, grime and sweat to repair/ make worse that situation, one thing occurred to me...I left home at eighteen and since then I have lived only ten years with a man in the house...and I still don't know how to fix one damned thing!

So that's why this morning my Facebook status read as it did. 

You are probably not as relieved as I am that as I write this blog at one pm, there is a man booked to come fix [I hope] the oven, the washing machine man has been located alive and well and will be back next week and I have vacuumed and tidied the house [oh and the courier has been]...did I tell you it was the first day of the summer hols...?

Happy holidays folks!

Benidorm revisited...

In light of the fact that I have just booked a holiday to Spain, I thought I'd remind you of what happened the last time I was there.

So make a drink then settle yourself down for a read...

I have just returned from a holiday in Spain. Am I calmer after the break, more relaxed, less wound like a coiled spring? Probably not. For the truth is that the moment you are home, yes, literally that moment, it becomes clear how much you have to do just to get back on track with everyday life. All the lounging about and dipping into sun-dappled pools is nothing more than a memory and even that seems distant.

Add to this the fact that there were elements of pure fiasco during the holiday and I have to wonder if all the frantic organising was even worth it.

It certainly started with an adventure. I had pre-booked [and pre-paid] airport parking as that seemed like a sensible thing to do. But as I approached Birmingham Airport it became clear that Car Park 7 had no road signs leading to it, unlike numbers 1-6.

Not owning a sat. nav. anymore, [if you want the ludicrous story of how that was lost, you will have to go back to a blog post from about a year ago] I resorted to reading the directions I had printed out. Let’s just say I drove around the same island five times, each time taking a different exit, only to return defeated.

By this time my blood pressure was up, the kids in the back were starting to ask when the plane took off and would we be on it, and I was still none the wiser.

The time was fast approaching 5am when we were due to check in for our flight, and everywhere seemed deserted. There was no one around to even ask where I should have been heading.

In desperation, I pulled in to Car Park 1 and pressed the button on the intercom for assistance. I explained that I was lost and needed help to find Car Park 7. Unfortunately the disembodied voice didn’t seem to know where that was either! There followed an interminably long wait whilst he consulted a map and finally delivered the sage advice that I should, “Go back to the roundabout and pick up the signs for number 7.”

Defeated, I had to reverse the car out of the one-way system, invoking incredulous stares from the other motorists and head back to the same island I had already been around five times!

Since most of them led to other car parks, I chose the one route which didn’t and followed it for some time in the hope that it would be right. Guess what? I still didn’t find the car park I needed. I returned to the original roundabout. The time was 5:30am and I was in a cold sweat.

This time I pulled into car Park 5 and up to the intercom barrier. I pressed the button and waited. “Look I’m lost. I have paid for Car Park 7 but I can’t find it. I have been around and around… and if you don’t help me I am going to miss my flight and …”

I was cut off by a bored voice. “Oh, it’s you again. Didn’t you find it then?” Now don’t ask me why it never occurred to me that it would be the same man from Car Park 1, but it didn’t. Then to have him state the blatantly obvious was almost too much for me. I felt steam coming out of my ears. Very slowly, one vertebrae at a time, I felt myself turn towards the little camera that regarded me so intrusively. Behind my eyes I saw an image of how I must appear to him and I sharpened my gaze.

Before I could say anything I heard him clear his throat and say anxiously, “Wait there. I will get a supervisor to direct you.”

Wait there? Where did he think I was going to go? Round and round the roundabout on a pleasure jaunt, whirling suitcases and children from the car window in wild abandonment, in the hope that some of them would land close to the terminal and might actually make it to the plane?

Finally a supervisor arrived. It took only a short conversation for him to see that by now directions were going to be lost on me. He opened up the barrier and let me park, for which I will be eternally grateful.

By the time we got to the duty free shops, all my previous cares had been forgotten. Almost. Gleefully, my ten year old daughter and I sampled the perfumes and the make-up, drawing on our hands thick lines of every colour available.

Now lots of cosmetics claim to be waterproof… but few actually are. In the toilets, I lathered up my hands and worked at the smears of green and blue and red, rubbing and scraping at my skin. The make-up refused to dissolve and wash away but it did move, smearing itself over both hands, so that it looked like I had been bare-knuckle boxing with Mike Tyson. Again and again I washed my hands, each time more frantically than before, cursing under my breath so that I must have looked more than a little like a modern-day Lady Macbeth. All that was needed was for me to shriek, “Out, damned spot!” and I might even have got an Oscar.

So as usual we ended up making a frenzied dash for the plane, with me trying in vain to hide my monstrous looking hands from everyone. I took solace in the family pack of chocolate raisins I had bought for the journey, doling them out for myself and the children.

It was a turbulent flight, particularly noticeable when on one jolt, I dropped several of the sweets and they clattered softly to the floor. Embarrassed, I tried to pick them up and dispose of them – no mean feat when the seating space seems to have been modelled on the dimensions of mankind from the 1950s, when men were trim and women had waists, but I got most of them up.

It was only when I uncontorted myself that I discovered the people across the aisle were watching me in fascination. It seemed they thought I was so panicked about the turbulence that I had adopted the safety ‘brace’ position.

Safely ensconced in my seat once more, I hoped that I had finished providing them with free entertainment. But I’m afraid the show was not yet over. It was only when I stood up to go to the toilet that I realised not all of the chocolate treats had fallen to the floor. Some had slipped onto my seat, becoming effectively squashed and melted under me.

Do you have any idea what a few squashed chocolate buttons and raisins look like when congealed to the seat of your jeans? Mortified, I blazed a trail to the toilets, cheeks crimson and with the sound of my children’s guffaws still ringing in my ears. I may never live that memory down.

I had booked a hotel in Benidorm because of the dates we needed to have and the price I was happy to pay, added to the fact that I wanted a hotel which was close to the beach and which offered nightly entertainment. Now at this point are you all shaking your heads? I thought so.

And to be honest Benidorm was everything people say it is. But it is also beautiful, with long sandy beaches where the sea is both warm and crystal clear and fish swim unafraid around your toes.

Cloistered within the walls of our hotel by night, there was none of the anti-social behaviour that might have been acted out on the streets and many clubs and bars of the town, but there was still that flavoursome sense of excitement, that in the warm air, scented with exotic flowers and coconut suntan lotion, anything might happen…

I even managed to convince myself that I could look as enticing as Halle Berry famously coming out of the sea in one of the James Bond movies, so I tried it. Hair slicked back by the tide, bikini rucked up to cover my most wobbliest of bits, I emerged, white and short limbed from the foamy waves.

The film score which was playing in my head, stuttered and died as I caught my big toe on a rock concealed under the water. Pain shot up my foot and I stumbled, feet flailing under the water, trying to find purchase and finding only the rock. Again. I went down like a lead balloon, hair straggling over my face and inhaling a great lungful of salt water.

But this holiday also provided a number of firsts for me. I had never taken the children abroad on my own before and it was a bitter-sweet experience. I sat alone watching the nightly entertainment, my teenage son off messaging his friends on Facebook and my daughter playing with new friends, and although the shows were on the whole very good, I felt I cut a rather pathetic figure, there on my own. This was highlighted during one of the acts, when a comedian picked on me as being clearly alone in a swarm of huge family groups and asked what my name was, where I was from and whether I was married or not.

Reluctantly giving the answers, I was dismayed to be asked more; how old was I and did I have children? Giving the answers as I did, starkly and without embellishment, I almost felt like I was on a game show dating site:- ‘And now here’s Carmen, all the way from the Midlands, give her a cheer! Carmen is single, 48 and has three children!’

So when the Adele tribute singer came on, perhaps you will forgive me for shedding a quiet, surreptitious tear at my aloneness.

In general though, the entertainment was really good and my thanks go out to JJ Jones who was the Neil Diamond Tribute and to Andy, the Rod Stewart tribute, who were both photographed with my newest novel, Split Decision. [See earlier posts]

In particular I must mention the fact that JJ Jones donates all proceeds from the sale of his CDs to a charity in remembrance of his daughter.

But my most enduring memories of this holiday? Well apart from the looks of purest joy on the faces of my children, it would have to be sitting on the balcony with the strains of Spanish music played on an acoustic guitar, filtering up from below. The music seemed to play with the noise of the passing traffic like a cat with a mouse, sometimes feigning passivity, at other times being assertive, taking control and bending the other noise to its will.

Spain is the land of my grandfather, the origin of my name and so perhaps it is a part of me in a way that I almost can’t define. Looking at my children, I now think it may well be a part of them too.

Editing today

Today I am editing my latest book. Here's where I am currently at.

“Eat your dinner, Charlie,” Mum says tightly and I look up to find my little brother looking at me strangely.

“You’re different Scarley.” He hasn’t called me that in years. It’s a cast off from his younger days and I wonder if he actually chose to use it now for some reason, or if it came out unbidden.

“No, I’m not,” I say. But he’s right, I am. How can I not be? Aren’t all of us changed in some way by what we’ve been through? And isn’t it just and right that I should be changed the most? After what I did?

“Yes, you are,” he insists.

“Charlie that’s enough,” Mum warns and he goes back to eating his dinner but keeping his eyes on me.

I feel bad that he got told off. “You wanna match on the Playstation later?” I ask.

“We don’t have one anymore…” he says.

“Oh… I forgot.” And I genuinely had for a moment.  “Well we could watch TV together, what do you think?”

“I guess.” He’s unenthusiastic.

 I try to make it up to him, everything that he’s lost. “I’ll let you chose what to watch.”

“Okay.” But his face hasn’t changed. There’s no excitement there. I berate myself for thinking that the situation could be so easily fixed. Just because Charlie’s only nine doesn’t make his pain any less than mine, his grief any less infinite.

Happy holiday reading!

Holiday Heaven or Holiday Hell?

 

I have just returned from a holiday in Spain. Am I calmer after the break, more relaxed, less wound like a coiled spring? Probably not. For the truth is that the moment you are home, yes, literally that moment, it becomes clear how much you have to do just to get back on track with everyday life. All the lounging about and dipping into sun-dappled pools is nothing more than a memory and even that seems distant.

Add to this the fact that there were elements of pure fiasco during the holiday and I have to wonder if all the frantic organising was even worth it.

It certainly started with an adventure. I had pre-booked [and pre-paid] airport parking as that seemed like a sensible thing to do. But as I approached Birmingham Airport it became clear that Car Park 7 had no road signs leading to it, unlike numbers 1-6.

Not owning a sat. nav. anymore, [if you want the ludicrous story of how that was lost, you will have to go back to a blog post from about a year ago] I resorted to reading the directions I had printed out. Let’s just say I drove around the same island five times, each time taking a different exit, only to return defeated.

By this time my blood pressure was up, the kids in the back were starting to ask when the plane took off and would we be on it, and I was still none the wiser.

The time was fast approaching 5am when we were due to check in for our flight, and everywhere seemed deserted. There was no one around to even ask where I should have been heading.

In desperation, I pulled in to Car Park 1 and pressed the button on the intercom for assistance. I explained that I was lost and needed help to find Car Park 7. Unfortunately the disembodied voice didn’t seem to know where that was either! There followed an interminably long wait whilst he consulted a map and finally delivered the sage advice that I should, “Go back to the roundabout and pick up the signs for number 7.”

Defeated, I had to reverse the car out of the one-way system, invoking incredulous stares from the other motorists and head back to the same island I had already been around five times!

Since most of them led to other car parks, I chose the one route which didn’t and followed it for some time in the hope that it would be right. Guess what? I still didn’t find the car park I needed. I returned to the original roundabout. The time was 5:30am and I was in a cold sweat.

This time I pulled into car Park 5 and up to the intercom barrier. I pressed the button and waited. “Look I’m lost. I have paid for Car Park 7 but I can’t find it. I have been around and around… and if you don’t help me I am going to miss my flight and …”

I was cut off by a bored voice. “Oh, it’s you again. Didn’t you find it then?” Now don’t ask me why it never occurred to me that it would be the same man from Car Park 1, but it didn’t. Then to have him state the blatantly obvious was almost too much for me. I felt steam coming out of my ears. Very slowly, one vertebrae at a time, I felt myself turn towards the little camera that regarded me so intrusively. Behind my eyes I saw an image of how I must appear to him and I sharpened my gaze.

Before I could say anything I heard him clear his throat and say anxiously, “Wait there. I will get a supervisor to direct you.”

Wait there? Where did he think I was going to go? Round and round the roundabout on a pleasure jaunt, whirling suitcases and children from the car window in wild abandonment, in the hope that some of them would land close to the terminal and might actually make it to the plane?

Finally a supervisor arrived. It took only a short conversation for him to see that by now directions were going to be lost on me. He opened up the barrier and let me park, for which I will be eternally grateful.

By the time we got to the duty free shops, all my previous cares had been forgotten. Almost. Gleefully, my ten year old daughter and I sampled the perfumes and the make-up, drawing on our hands thick lines of every colour available.

Now lots of cosmetics claim to be waterproof… but few actually are. In the toilets, I lathered up my hands and worked at the smears of green and blue and red, rubbing and scraping at my skin. The make-up refused to dissolve and wash away but it did move, smearing itself over both hands, so that it looked like I had been bare-knuckle boxing with Mike Tyson. Again and again I washed my hands, each time more frantically than before, cursing under my breath so that I must have looked more than a little like a modern-day Lady Macbeth. All that was needed was for me to shriek, “Out, damned spot!” and I might even have got an Oscar.

So as usual we ended up making a frenzied dash for the plane, with me trying in vain to hide my monstrous looking hands from everyone. I took solace in the family pack of chocolate raisins I had bought for the journey, doling them out for myself and the children.

It was a turbulent flight, particularly noticeable when on one jolt, I dropped several of the sweets and they clattered softly to the floor. Embarrassed, I tried to pick them up and dispose of them – no mean feat when the seating space seems to have been modelled on the dimensions of mankind from the 1950s, when men were trim and women had waists, but I got most of them up.

It was only when I uncontorted myself that I discovered the people across the aisle were watching me in fascination. It seemed they thought I was so panicked about the turbulence that I had adopted the safety ‘brace’ position.

Safely ensconced in my seat once more, I hoped that I had finished providing them with free entertainment. But I’m afraid the show was not yet over. It was only when I stood up to go to the toilet that I realised not all of the chocolate treats had fallen to the floor. Some had slipped onto my seat, becoming effectively squashed and melted under me.

Do you have any idea what a few squashed chocolate buttons and raisins look like when congealed to the seat of your jeans? Mortified, I blazed a trail to the toilets, cheeks crimson and with the sound of my children’s guffaws still ringing in my ears. I may never live that memory down.

I had booked a hotel in Benidorm because of the dates we needed to have and the price I was happy to pay, added to the fact that I wanted a hotel which was close to the beach and which offered nightly entertainment. Now at this point are you all shaking your heads? I thought so.

And to be honest Benidorm was everything people say it is. But it is also beautiful, with long sandy beaches where the sea is both warm and crystal clear and fish swim unafraid around your toes.

Cloistered within the walls of our hotel by night, there was none of the anti-social behaviour that might have been acted out on the streets and many clubs and bars of the town, but there was still that flavoursome sense of excitement, that in the warm air, scented with exotic flowers and coconut suntan lotion, anything might happen…

I even managed to convince myself that I could look as enticing as Halle Berry famously coming out of the sea in one of the James Bond movies, so I tried it. Hair slicked back by the tide, bikini rucked up to cover my most wobbliest of bits, I emerged, white and short limbed from the foamy waves.

The film score which was playing in my head, stuttered and died as I caught my big toe on a rock concealed under the water. Pain shot up my foot and I stumbled, feet flailing under the water, trying to find purchase and finding only the rock. Again. I went down like a lead balloon, hair straggling over my face and inhaling a great lungful of salt water.

But this holiday also provided a number of firsts for me. I had never taken the children abroad on my own before and it was a bitter-sweet experience. I sat alone watching the nightly entertainment, my teenage son off messaging his friends on Facebook and my daughter playing with new friends, and although the shows were on the whole very good, I felt I cut a rather pathetic figure, there on my own. This was highlighted during one of the acts, when a comedian picked on me as being clearly alone in a swarm of huge family groups and asked what my name was, where I was from and whether I was married or not.

Reluctantly giving the answers, I was dismayed to be asked more; how old was I and did I have children? Giving the answers as I did, starkly and without embellishment, I almost felt like I was on a game show dating site:- ‘And now here’s Carmen, all the way from the Midlands, give her a cheer! Carmen is single, 48 and has three children!’

So when the Adele tribute singer came on, perhaps you will forgive me for shedding a quiet, surreptitious tear at my aloneness.

In general though, the entertainment was really good and my thanks go out to JJ Jones who was the Neil Diamond Tribute and to Andy, the Rod Stewart tribute, who were both photographed with my newest novel, Split Decision. [See earlier posts]

In particular I must mention the fact that JJ Jones donates all proceeds from the sale of his CDs to a charity in remembrance of his daughter.

But my most enduring memories of this holiday? Well apart from the looks of purest joy on the faces of my children, it would have to be sitting on the balcony with the strains of Spanish music played on an acoustic guitar, filtering up from below. The music seemed to play with the noise of the passing traffic like a cat with a mouse, sometimes feigning passivity, at other times being assertive, taking control and bending the other noise to its will.

Spain is the land of my grandfather, the origin of my name and so perhaps it is a part of me in a way that I almost can’t define. Looking at my children, I now think it may well be a part of them too.

 

Coming up...

Look out for my blog about the Neil Diamond Tribute Act, as well as my interview with 'Tina Turner', coming soon.

I will also be posting a blog about my holiday adventures - hold onto your hats!

Me and Dean Koontz on the beach.

Would you like to see a picture of me and Dean Koontz on the beach together? You would? Yes, I thought so.

Here it is...

 

 

 

Joking aside, when I am going on holiday, it is always one of his books I choose and since my very first paperback of Split Decision had just arrived, I took that too, so you see Dean and I really were on the beach together ;)

Back home now, I am working on a post to tell you all about my adventures, so keep your eyes peeled.

Happy Reading!

This Sunday you will find me at the Bromsgrove Holiday Inn where I shall be talking to readers and selling signed copies of my books.

If you have already purchased one of my books from somewhere else you can still come along and have it personalised. And we can have a good old natter!

I will inform you of other events and author talks nearer the dates.

To change the topic slightly - no, I still can't tell you my big news. I have been receiving messages from all sorts of places, enquiring what the secret is but I'm afraid you will have to wait just a little longer...

What I will tell you though is that a wonderful idea came to me for a sequel to Split Decision. However since I am still finishing The Plan and have yet to edit The Boy Who rescues Pigeons, I can't see me getting to it until next year.

That said, next year since I was planning on writing The Owners Volume VII, editing The Trouble with Mellillia [children's tale], finishing Ascension and writing another book for which I have yet to find a name, its going to be a squeeze to fit it in. Then again, I always did love  a challenge... ;)

Happy Reading!

Newest blog statistics/ sales figures.

A quick look at the statistics shows that I am currently big in Turkey whilst only a few weeks ago I was big in Lanzarote! Boom boom!


Jokes aside, I never did get a chance to tell you about my holiday in Lanzarote. Suffice it to say I came, I saw and I ate! Daily paella doesn't do any favour to the hips you know...


Anyway, I digress...this was just a little post to say thank you for buying the books and continuing to read the blog. It is very much appreciated! And if you are reading a translated version of this - good luck!


Happy Reading,


Carmen.  

Hello again! It seems like a long time since I posted anything here but I have been away to Lanzarote for a week and now I am home it is going to take a few days to catch up with things.


In the meantime my interview by The Common Writer is up and running here https://thecommonwriter.squarespace.com/author-interviews/2014/8/11/carmen-capuano-owners-series


Come back here in a day or so and I might just tell you a little bit about my travels.


Until then, happy reading!

What do I think? Well, listen then...

You may remember that I was recently asked to contribute to the question raised by The Society For Curious Though of what makes a fair society.


It is something that I would like to expound upon later when I have a little more time but for now I will leave you with this :-


http://thesocietyforcuriousthought.com/a-fair-society/carmen-capuano/


I am going to be completely honest with you - I was intending to leave this brief post above and come back to it at a later date. I even went so far as to publish it in that form. But I could not leave it at that and had to log back in. You see this is something I know a little about.


What I wrote in the link above was this:-


"A fair society is one where each and every voice carries equal weight; each opinion is considered as carefully as the next; every consideration is extended impartially to every citizen and where neither creed, colour, affluence, influence or intelligence dictate a divide."


Sounds great, doesn't it? Sounds like Utopia I think. But it is certainly not a reflection of the world we live in!


Believe me when I say that I am no politician - their endless streams of words which say a lot but mean nothing, tie me up in knots and bamboozle me. Nor am I a true anthropologist - my study of humans is for one reason  only, to feed the nature of humanity and the human condition into my characters and books. But I know people. And I know that what I have stated above is as likely to happen as mankind landing upon the sun.


Human beings have a built in competitive streak, it is that which makes us mean and nasty but also makes us brilliant and unique. In the animal kingdom wild animals [and even domesticated ones] prowl and mark their territory, defining the boundaries so that no other cat/dog/ lion/ tiger impinges upon their stomping ground.  


But us humans, what do we do? We plant shaped privet hedges, install fancy curved walls or high trellis fencing which we then bedeck with hanging baskets and the like. That's not a demarcation of a boundary, it's the shrill clarion call of a challenge, an invitation to 'look at me. Isn't my wall/fence/ house/ garden/ life better than yours?'


And me? Well I am exactly the same as everyone else!


But imagine for one moment life without that competitiveness? Who would strive to implement new procedures, invent new technologies, develop new medicine, win races and medals? Who would strive to be the best, the very best at their game? No-one.


So we need a competitive streak. But does this necessitate the suppression of others? I think not. And that was the point I was trying to make above.


You see if we had a fairer society where opportunities were accessible for all, the cream would still surely rise to the top and by that I mean the most able for every occupation and profession, not those with the most money or social standing or pushy parents behind them. Indeed, I have seen children who were in my opinion intelligent enough to have gone to University unable to do so, due to the crippling tuition fees.


Likewise I have seen people be deemed to be too educated/intelligent to do a job they were interested in doing. In both of these cases someone else decided the individual's fate and removed from them the opportunity which should have been theirs for the taking.


Ah but there is the paradox. Examine my words again if you please, especially this bit - where neither creed, colour, affluence, influence or intelligence dictate a divide. 


Wouldn't the implementation of such a society of equal opportunity create a society where intelligence created a divide? Is a divide inevitable?


Again, I don't think so. It comes down to the way we look at things. A brain surgeon is infinitely more respected that a toilet cleaner. Why is this?


Granted a brain surgeon saves lives by his skill. But 99.9% of us will require the services of a good public toilet cleaner far, far more than we ever will a brain surgeon. Indeed a clean public toilet is not just a nicety, it is the frontline in disease control!


Is the cleaner therefore, assuming that he or she completes their tasks to the very best of their abilities, not as worthy of our admiration as the surgeon? Of course she/he is ...or at least she/he should be.


And that is exactly what is wrong with our society. We place too much value on some things and occupations and not enough on others which should be of equal or greater value.


So to recap, what I am saying is this:- we cannot and should not strive to change human nature for it is what makes us, us. What we should do is seek to hold each other in high esteem, for the individual value we hold in society. For without the humble toilet cleaner, the brain surgeon would be laid up in bed with dysentery or cholera...







THIS POST HAS BEEN WRITTEN LIVE TO LET YOU SEE IT DEVELP AS YOU READ IT. 10.25 22/07/14


Watch out for my interview page where I shall be listing some very interesting interviews over the coming weeks.






Until then, happy summer holiday reading!

Hello again!

It has been so long since I typed anything of any length, I have almost slowed down to a crawl but I'm sure that by the end of Chapter 1 in Volume VI, my fingers will be flying across the keyboard as usual.

I have so much to tell you, I almost don't know where to start. But as I have already shown you the picture of me at one of the recent creative writing sessions I did for Sandwell Council, it seems logical to start there.

I cannot speak highly enough of both the library staff and the families who attended the sessions. The children were alert, bright and eager to participate and it was clear they were thoroughly enjoying story making.

The comment slips they handed back to library staff afterwards spoke for themselves, with one comment reading:-

"A fantastic invaluable experience for my children to experience today. An opportunity that will remain a fond memory for life."

I have to say that on reading that comment my eyes welled up a little. To have touched someone's life in a positive way, no matter how minor, is both an honour and a joy.

And it made me think about the people who touched my own life in minor ways but who collectively shaped me into the person I am today...the history teachers who showed me that without knowledge and understanding of our past, we can never fully comprehend our future. The substitute English teacher who taught me the symbolism of poetry and the foreign language teachers who taught me that words can both divide and unite.

It was with these thoughts in mind that I journeyed up to Scotland a few days later to meet up with family and friends. Dreading the journey as ever [it's a long way, you know!] I was buoyed by the thought of meeting up with these long established friends, some of whom I hadn't seen in over ten years.

We were all decades older then we had been at school and we had all had children. And during those years since school we had all created our life stories and in some cases fate had done a pretty good stepping in job, to wreak misery wherever it's little hand touched...but after all that, we were still the excitable, hopeful band of girls that we had been at school.

Linda - irrepressible and funny and probably the only person who can talk faster and louder than me!

Karen - loyal and steadfast and possessed of a quiet dignity which allows her to make her point in an almost regal manner.

Lesley - still cute as a button and almost bursting with life, her vitality and humour was truly wondrous.

[Shona - strong, supportive and caring was unfortunately unable to attend due to family illness ...and yet I felt her presence in every memory we mulled over.]

And me - just grateful that these fine women wanted me in their lives! We had not seen each other for so long and yet our bond was as fresh and strong as it had been all those years ago.

At the end of the night, fond farewells were said all around and promises were made that we would all keep in better touch. But in a very strange way, it doesn't really matter whether we do phone or email each other in the intervening time before my next visit. That friendship is there and will always be there, hibernating gently in the corner, awaiting it's wakening. And it will never be lost or forgotten, nor will it ever die.

So with a happy heart I continued with my stay in the country of my birth. We visited Loch Lomond, a place so beautiful I fear my words will not do it justice. So vast and so unspoiled it arrests the eye and heart in equal measures. Mountains meet lake and are reflected back upon the still waters and if you stand very quietly you can feel yourself transported back in time to a world which was less commercialised and much more real. Not keen on walks, the kids nonetheless love it there and the dogs are in their element.

Sadly we made the return journey to our caravan park but there were more treats in store. The Ayr site we were on was hosting a talent competition for children and I was astounded by the talent of the winners and so pleased to be able to award them signed copies of The Owners, Volume I, Alone.

Well done Morgan, Robyn and Jessica!

And Scotland, as Arnie would have put it, don't worry 'cos "I'll be back."

My holiday in Brean.

Now I did tell you a few weeks ago, that I had just come back from holiday and that I would tell you all about it, so here it is.

Before I start, let me just explain one thing...I am a bit of a nervous home leaver. Not a nervous flyer, or even traveller but an actual person who is nervous of leaving home.

Not that I am agoraphobic - I have no fear of open spaces - it's more that I am terminally nervous of being away from all my belongings. So much so, that once, as a child, I packed my entire Enid Blyton book collection, plus a few other authors' works into the bottom of my poor unsuspecting dad's suitcase. You can imagine his horror upon opening it, to find that he had not in fact packed too many clothes but that the case was instead filled with my books.

Since we had walked the ten minutes journey from the train station to our rental holiday home [with of course him carrying the suitcase as this was prior to wheeled suitcases becoming the norm,] he wasn't best pleased. However, I digress slightly...

Let's suffice it to say, that I am utterly convinced, that if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I was a snail in a former life, carrying my home around with me.

I have a tendancy therefore to take everything I could possibly need [and lots of things I couldn't possibly use] with me on my travels. The checklist alone is enough to require the felling of several trees worth of paper! But on reflection, it makes for interesting reading!

So there we were, me, the kids and our two dogs, sandwiched into the car with enough clothing, food, towels and a whole host of other irrelevant stuff, to last the length of at least one world war. [Because of course there would not be a nearby supermarket which would sell any food that I found remotely recognisable, what with this being a different county to the one in which we live - except that there was].

And there would not be anywhere I could purchase a bottle of wine,[other than the on-site shop and any number of other places locally which sold alcohol.]

Nor could there possibly be anywhere that sold chocolate, thus requiring me to take not one, or even two, but three bars of chocolate...

I could go on but I think you get the picture!

Armed as I was with my mountain of food, the kids could have been forgiven for thinking that we were going on a trek to the end of the world! And what did I find when I arrived? A caravan that exactly fitted our requirements, heaters put on ready for our arrival and everything neat and tidy.

Well laid out, the caravan was fitted with everything we could have needed and was a real home from home, so much so,that I would have no hesitation in recommending it to anyone visiting the area.


In fact, I fully intend to return in the near future. But this time I will be packing less for the journey. Even a snail like me can learn something...

P.S. should you want to contact the owners of the caravan I stayed in, you can call them on  07944445556 and ask for Brian or Tina from Finishing Touches.