Tuesday, July 29, 2008

I may have found the answer to the damp in the Stone Caravan

If you live on the fell, damp just *is*. But I may have just found a
solution which is both cheap and green - and could even provide hot
water - a solar powered dehumidifier!

The Stone Caravan was built, 300 years ago, directly onto the hillside,
from which water rises at almost 20 feet intervals.
Most of the time this is manageable - the fire keeps the air warm and
moving, the windows and open door encourage circulation, the upper
story, where I sleep, is almost dry. I've just got used to it, and felt
no serious side effects through the winter

But when empty the building stews happily in its own juices, sprouting
fungus in the pockets of almost tropical humidity along the west wall.

My neighbours (35 minutes walk further along the fell) rely on a
dehumidifier that runs continually while they are absent. But they have
electricity, and I do not.
So a dehumidifer that runs without mains power would be a gift from the
universe!

Renewable energy is not a the panacea that some imagine.

Wind is difficult - the cottage is tucked so neatly into a small dip the
fiercest storms do not even rattle the windows, so a turbine would have
to be sighted so way above, on the fell, and the loss in any cabling
would be substantial.

Solar is feasible, even in the winter, but would produce least
electricity when needed most - in the damp dark days when the sun sets
at 3.15 in the afternoon and doesn't peep back over the horizon until 10
the following morning.

Water would be ideal - I have enough of it running through by outhouse
and loo! But it is also pricy, probably £10K minimum to install.

One should also remember that there are no future saving to be made on
that - I have no power bills to reduce, and no connection to the grid to
sell the excess to.

Nor do I need vast amounts of electricity: A solar radio and battery
charger provide entertainment, phone and light. The stone built pantry
keeps milk and meat cool and fresh even in the dog days. The fire
converts fallen and trimmed wood from the fell into heat and toast and
tea.

Day One

I'm stuck in London this weekend - and Saturday is make or break day for
chain free buying, because I need to get enough food for the week.

First challenge - a pint of skimmed milk.

Um - fail.
There are two convenience stores right under the flat where I am
staying, and neither has skimmed milk.
The guy in one suggests that I buy full fat and water it down!
Later I discover that the local delivery service had no skimmed milk
today, and all the local independents are stuck with empty shelves.
On the plus side, the same shop has trays of fat perfectly ripe peaches
for 55p each - Tescos have boxes of 8 for £1.99 ("half price"), but they
are tiny, pallid and rock hard. So I buy two for breakfast.

At 3pm I head to the market, a 10 minute walk away. I'm an old hand at
this, I even have a little bag on wheels, which folds to handbag size. Neat.
But I haven't been for months...

Veg is easy - the heat seems to be keeping the crowds away, so no
queuing. Runner beans, peppers, onions, carrots, cauliflowers,
tomatoes, garlic, free range eggs.
All look good and ripe and fresh, all cheaper than supermarket...

Other stuff looks like more of a challenge. There is a wonderful cheese
stall - but it's a sticky day, and the cheese is perspiring as much as I
am. I pass.
There is a butchers shop - but the queue is winding around the block in
the sunshine. Again, I pass...

Then I see a cool oasis - a halal store. I've never shopped here before....
Fresh coriander, fresh mint, sheep's milk yoghurt, home-made humus... I
brace myself to pay over the odds - but the whole basket comes to £3.00.

There's a baker - but I skip that.

Then I spot the butcher's stand. It's white, and cool, and every tray
is covered in spotless white paper, with just the corner folded down,
like a sheet in an upmarket hotel, to display a coy hint of the flesh on
offer.

Well, apart from the sheep's heads. Nothing coy about them. They have
a terribly direct stare, as they preside over a heap of their own
scalded feet.
This is a moment of truth - if I can't approach the poor naked creatures
face-to-face, then I have no right to be nibbling their sweet little
ribs. Ever.

Vegans, despair - I pass the test, an omnivore to the bitter end.
Three lamb chops and some merguez sausages are bagged up by the charming
guy behind the counter.
Again, I brace myself to hear the cost... and it's only £1.87.

Result:
Cost: £15 for the lot
Time: The whole trip has taken just 80 minutes, including a browse in a
second-hand bookshop. About the same time as a trip to the nearest
supermarket, and cheaper.
Unexpected bonus: much less packaging to dispose of - 3 plastic bags,
one paper bag, a cardboard egg carton, two tubs for the humus and
yoghurt... No vacuum packed meat trays with little nappies for the
chops to sit on, no plastic boxes for the beans, no shrink wrap for the
cauli, no polythene for the onions and carrots.

Supper: hot lentils, cold tomato and runner bean salad, grilled
merguez. Yum.

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Living in Chains

7.55 Sunday Morning: I am sitting outside an eccentric cafe on

Gloucester Road called "Cafe Forum" - it has the hippy-dippy décor of
1970, and none of it "retro".

Opposite me I can see, in order, left to right: KFC, Starbucks,
BurgerKing, Tesco Express, HSBC, a pub called the Stanhope Arms, Pret a
Manger, a Hardware shop with a19th majolica frontage, Alan D
Hairdressers, Black & Blue, a new sports shop called Bliss (so new the
signage hasn't arrived, and the name is spelt out in computer printed
initials), Prime Time Video, Nandos (in a site which only 12 months ago
was a restaurant called "Dino's", Coffee Republic...
In other word, 10 chains and 4 independents...

So - no lack of places to buy my coffee - but no surprises. Unless the
servers screw up I know exactly how my coffee, or sandwich, or burger or
bun will taste. Which I suppose is the appeal. Which I understand -
ordering in an unknown place, and getting a sad grey cup of dishwater,
and a curling sarnie, with marge and a limp sweaty square of "ham" like
a curate's handshake, or a squirt of aerosol creme on a scone microwaved
into sad submission, is a depressing experience.

No - chains offer us the chance to avoid bad surprises.

The trouble is - they also deprive us of all the good surprises.

When I get off a train after 4 hours, and walk out into street utterly
identical to the one I left behind: Pret, Accessorize, Nero, Carphone
Warehouse, Next, Starbucks, Sainsburys - I feel, just for a few seconds,
dizzy. Have I travelled at all? Why did I bother to pay 50 odd quid to
sway in a self contained tin box to stand here...

I miss the exotic surprises that once made travelling in the UK exciting
- because not so long ago, there were exotic treats in the UK: butchers
with barnsley chops, eye steaks, middle back bacon, pease pudding, white
pudding, scotch pies, beef and tomato sausages, ducks eggs, home made
butter in tubs; bakers with dense sweet custard tarts, bath buns,
bakewell tarts, bread cakes, bismarks, even tubs of fresh yeast;
greengrocers with queues forming as news spreads that cob nuts have
arrived, or the shallots, or the first pomegranates of the season.

These are not distant childhood memories; 5 years ago, in a little area
of London 10 minutes from Victoria I bought fresh e.g. veg at a
greengrocers, meat at a butchers, bread at a bakers, coffee and cheese
at a pre-war Italian deli, all cheap, all excellent, all independently
owned, all gone.

It's the same story in the West End. In 2004 I worked for a while in an office in Covent Garden. There was a greengrocer's in Drury Lane, and a wonderful butcher's shop in Endell Street. Gone. (Luckily the Neal's Yard Cheese shop is still going strong)

I miss them. I miss the fun of not knowing what I am going to eat
before I shop... I am tired of walking around a vast store on
autopilot, putting exactly the same things in my trolley every Sunday
afternoon.

I want some variety in my life again.

Which is why I am trying to live with out chain shops for two weeks, to
see a.) if it really is more expensive b.) if it really takes more time
c.) if I get any surprises - good or bad.

Monday, July 07, 2008

Problem solved I think

Looks like I'll be getting major notes on the Ethiopian project in a few
weeks - which is the obvious point to start the next draft.

So it's teen rebels and doodlebugs til then.

A writer's dilemma

What should I do?

Every writer craves that moment when there is a story burning to get out
and arrange itself on the paper, forming itself as it flies - like the
patterns made by the great flocks of starlings that wheel over Brighton
pier - fluid and unstoppable.

Well, as of last Wednesday, I have two such stories - one probably a TV
series, the other, well, that could go either one way of the other.
They came from (almost) nowhere* and bubbled to the surface while I was
listening to Julian Fellowes** speak at the Cheltenham Screenwriters'
Festival last week - which was a pity as I think he had interesting
things to say about working with producers, but I could hear I word as a
blocked out two whole storylines on the back of my programme with a
borrowed pen.

Now they are itching under my skin, forcing me out of my chair to pace,
and plan and walk the length of the Thames.

So here I am, a 7am, at the screen, fired up to write, convinced that I
have something to say and a voice to say it with.

But do I chase one of these two stories that are flying overhead - or do
I use the energy to finish the next draft of the Ethiopian project.
You know. The one I have actually been *commissioned* to finish....

Well?

What would you do - ride the roller coaster of inspiration, or do the
professional thing and finish the work in hand?

_____________

* Not really from nowhere:
Story one, inspired by Frankie Fraser's reminiscences of the London
Blitz has sat as a three line prompt on my hard drive for 5 years.
Story two, a police proceedural with a twist, popped up as a bit of
fluffy fandom-inspired fun back in May.

** This was also the rain-soaked session in which I started shaking, and
probably got the chill which is making me wheeze and sneeze this
morning. Arghhh -I survived 3 months in a damp unheated cottage with
icicles hanging from the kitchen ceiling without so much as a sniff.
One day of summer rain and misplaced aircon, and I'm shivering and ever
so slightly feverish.

Thursday, July 03, 2008

Is there a Doctor in the House

Disgraced for plagiarism one week - booked to speak at a writer's
festival the next. That's crappy timing

So I was not surprised that Dr Raj Persaud failed to show up at the
Screenwriter's Festival this week, to face a marque filled to
overflowing with 600 writers, journalists, editors...

I was told he didn't cancel, he wasn't pulled from the schedule - he
just stopped answering the organisers' calls, and a substitute was
quickly booked for that slot.

I do wonder what the reception would have been like. Low key, curious
and embarrassed, I suspect. I find it hard to believe that he would
have been barracked - the mood at the festival was mellow and generous
(helped by the sun, the setting and the excellent wines.)

I've no idea when this entry will make it onto the blog - my email
server is refusing to send mail, and after two hours of fiddling I am
still no closer to discovering why!

Sunday, June 29, 2008

My house has been taken over by swallows

Curses that I must spend the summer months in London, but I have to fill
the holes in my purse, and I have found a satisfying way to to do so,
working for a very small but sane group of people within sight of the
river Thames.

But I scramble back to the stone caravan as often as I can, to enjoy the
long, long midsummer evenings, and to sleep. Last night I lay down at
9, meaning to rest for a short while before making tea, and dozed off
watching the sheep graze, and the swallows harvesting midges under my
eaves. The tea was finally brewed when I woke - 12 hours later.
Bliss. I think it is the silence. No hum of electricity, no passing
traffic, just the sound of trees and water.

But it's not actually my home at the moment. A pair of swallows have
taken up residence in the stairwell, and are sitting on a brood. They
were still there this morning - I hope I haven't frightened them off.

In some ways it's just as well that I'm not living here full time. The
original core of the croft is a single cube of stone, the walls about
18inches wide, divided into two stories by a beam supported floor. The
size of the windows (tiny and facing out of the wind) suggests that it
dates from 1700, when glass was still rare and expensive. That would
have been towards the end of century in which the Border regions first
started to experience some kind of peace and prosperity, and the
inhabitants starts to move out of the defensive Pele towers and
bastles. People finally felt safe enough to live on the fell with their
flocks all year round, rather that solely through the summer in
temporary turf huts, called "Shiels".

So it must have stayed, a tiny croft with a single loft, reached by a
ladder, and an open fireplace, until 1859, when it was "improved". I
can be sure of the date, because the closed staircase built as part of
that work was papered with issues of local newspapers of that date, and
the cast iron range which was fitted into the vast old cottage fireplace
dates from roughly the same era.

As well as stairs and heat, the tenant or landlord at that time extended
the ground floor, with a tiny scullery to the north end, facing the
fell, and a large room to South, with a pitched ceiling and wider glass
windows.

And so the cottage has stood since, almost unchanged, while it's
neighbours in the tiny hamlet fell into disuse, then ruin, and now can
only be seen as ghostly outlines when the bracken dies back in the winter.

Alas, it was not as well built as the solid little cube onto which it
was latched, and now, another 150 years on, is starting to slide down
the hill and into rubble.

The estate has made the decision to save the house - and the work is
underway. The old plaster has been hacked off the most mobile wall -
revealing daylight peeping through the stones. Iron staples will soon
hold these together. Meanwhile the south most gable end will have to be
underpinned in at least 3 places...

When I walked into the cottage, after an absence of 3 weeks, the rooms
were coated in a fine thick layer of dust, that looked as almost old as
the house itself, and disturbed only by the tracks of small beasts.
Come autumn, everything will need to be washed and polished anew, until
then my belongings look as if they are caught in time, like snapshots
after a disaster.

Then, perhaps, the cottage will stand for another 150 years.

PS. A spider just crawled across the keyboard, and started to spin a
web in the angle of the screen.

Wednesday, June 11, 2008

Temporary brain death

The last few weeks must have been more draining than I'd thought - I can
still barely think straight, and organising the simplest things (say,
booking a train ticket, or checking my bank balance) seem to be beyond me.

I had to email the manager of the building where I am staying - and I
had to draft it 3 time over 3 days, because everytime I read her letter
I realised I had completely misunderstood it...

Here's hoping a few more early nights, sunshine and bags of peaches will
refire the leedle grey cells soon.

Tuesday, June 10, 2008

Excuses not to write: 1 - "Someone will steal my story"

This is a conversation I had in the pub with an aspiring screenwriter,
who had just forked out £200 for a two day training.

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: I can't get a break, 'cos my work doesn't
fit the stereotype.

Me: (Intrigued) Really? What are you writing?

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: Action stuff. None of this
character-driven nonsense they bang on about.

(At this point I have a clue that this wannabe may have some problems
dealing with reality. After all, The Incredible Hulk opens this week,
chasing Iron Man. I also notice that in 5 minutes of chatting she
hasn't actually told me a thing about her script, just why she can't
sell it. Not a thing. Not where or when or who - it's just "action
stuff" - SF, Gangsters, Porn - I have no idea! But I persist.).

Me: Well, my experience was that loads of people said no to my
ideas("too dark/ too expensive/ boring/ old fashioned/ not my thing/ not
filmable/crap") before one person said "ok, I like that".. But you only
need one. You just have to keep going until that one says "yes. Let's
see if we can make this film."

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: So, how do you meet people who'll say yes?

Me: You go to places where film-makers meet. Film festivals, markets.
I went to Cannes four years ago, chatted to people, had a drink or two -
and one night, someone said yes, let's talk more. Now I am being paid
to develop that script.

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: How did you get to Cannes?

Me: On a train.... sorry, I know what you mean. It's not that hard to
get to any festival. I applied for a delegate pass, bought a train
ticket and asked around on message boards for a room to share. That's
all you need to do to get there.

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: Can you organise for me to go?

Me: A pass, a train ticket, a room for the night - what's to organise?

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: Hey, everybody, she's gonna organise for
us to go to Cannes!

(Bystander: I thought Cannes was over?)

(Me: It is.)

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: She's 's gonna organise for us to go to Cannes!

Me: No, I'm not. But I'll tell you how to get there. A pass, a train
ticket, a room for the night.

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: Ah, but what do we do then?

Me: You talk to people, about the film(s) you are writing. And you
listen to them talk about the films you want to make. Until you find a
match.

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: Oh, I couldn't 't do that!

Me: Why?

Drunk Wannabe Screenwriter: I can't tell *anyone* what my story is -
they'll steal it!

Me: Okay! Good luck with the career.

Tuesday, June 03, 2008

I'm done...

... in every sense of the word.

I must look as wan as I feel, 'cos the nice man in Pret gave me a free
coffee.

All I have to do now is get through to 6pm, survive a train journey then
collapse in bed with that bottle of wine I put in the fridge on Saturday.

I have two unwatched episodes of Doctor Who waiting for me (that's how
long this has been going on - almost 3 weeks without a break - but they
may have to sit patiently for another 24 hours before I can guarantee
full attention.

PS - Hi Mum!

Monday, June 02, 2008

Just plugging the Tuna and Chive on Rosemary Sourdough and Raisin bread at the Royal Festival Hall Cafe

That is all.

Didn't make it

Rats

It's 2.50 - I have to stop and go back to work, with the last 3 - and
most difficult - passages left undone, and all the proof reading to go.

It's not fatal.
Seriously - we always had 16 hours grace built into the schedule, which
I will now have to use.

I'll just have to forgo the pleasure of going to bed at 6pm, pay the
premium rate for the courier, and hope that their are no delays between
here and Ireland tomorrow.

I am going to have a drink. And chocolate. And not look at this for at
least another 3 hours.

Going to the wire....

Right against the wire - the official cut off for the courier booking is
3.00pm

All the other 15 docs (150 pages in all) have been approved and printed,
and await final collation.

The budget was revised 2 hours ago, and sucked up a lot of time.

All that is missing is the 10 page treatment.

It's 1.50 - and I still have a page to revise - and 10 to proofread...
I also have to pick up cash to pay the courier...

Fingers crossed.

20 minutes to go

I'm not going to make this
- I have to turn up at work, looking button-bright and eager to solve
other people's problems -

Doh!

Heard my flatmate through the door take a shower - waited for her to
finish so I could ring the bell and retrieve the files - and discovered
I had the keys all along, in my *other* bag.

1 hour 10 minutes of free time left to finish this baby....

on the upside...

I just realised that my WIFI works on the steps....

Ha ha ha - I am so *scr*wed today

It's 6am, and I am sitting on the steps outside my flat, waiting for my
flatmate to wake up - because I walked out at 6am this morning without
my keys, my travel pass - or the file of signed documents for the
application pack.

I have one page left to write today (as soon as I am awake enough to
drive a keyboard), and a mammoth proofreading/edit job to complete,
before I deliver the final package to the courier at 2pm this afternoon.

And I can't even get a coffee right now.

Oh - I could sleep for a month. I really could. And I can't, because
this is, in the sane world, the start of a normal working week.
I am too old for the 90+ hour week.

Excuse me while I gibber in a corner for the next few minutes.

Saturday, May 31, 2008

(no subject)

Last night I keeled over at 11pm, and realised that I had worked 30 of
the previous 40 hours, without meal breaks, (crumbs in the keyboard
again – not good for the laptop or the digestion.

Three more days of this, and the application is handed to the courier at
midday on Monday, with a huge sigh of relieve.

It's sort of gratifying to know that I can still pull the equivalent of
a student all-nighter to get a job done.

Although, in truth, the only genuine all-nighters I have ever pulled
have all involved books – 'Consider Phlebas' by Iain Banks had me
turning pages until the birds were up, likewise CS Forester's
'Lieutenant Hornblower' (in the bath of an Italian hotel), and, once, LA
Confidential.

Otherwise, I was always the one sleeping in the corner – at theatre
get-ins, in night clubs on theatre tours (that's what comes of relying
on the tour bus to get you to bed), at all night Oscar parties.

Actually – the secret to staying awake at Oscar parties? Deserts –
hundreds of them. I made it through Oscars 2004 with the help of 7 puds,
distributed at intervals, including "Green Gollum Jelly" (with jelly
worms embedded in it) and a "Cold Mountain" of vanilla ice-cream (with
little angelica pine trees on it). I saw the show out on a monumental
sugar buzz …

Anyway, here's the work list, with some 10 hours of writing time left:

55 Long Treatment
10 page short Treatment
1/2 Synopsis with log-line
Writers CV
Evidence of ownership of rights
Writers Notes
Producers CV
Producers Notes
Application Form
Declaration of Compliance
Evidence of Ownership of rights
Development Budget

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Bored with this - seriously bored

Latest To do list:
By Monday, Midday

Finish 10 page treatment (5 pages down, plus proof read)
Write new 350 word synopsis, switching main character viewpoint
Write 600 word "Writer's Notes" on the origins of the story, and my plans to
develop it.
Revise own CV
Format Producer's CV
Format Producer's Notes (as previous noted, her default spelling and formating
style is "speshul")
Complete declaration of ownership of rights

Proofread above
Proofread again

Print and collate 3 copies of above, (plus application form & declaration of
compliance)

Arrange signatures

Book courier

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Somebody should tell Sharon Stone that is *not* how Karma works

Seriously.

Perhaps she should listen a little more closely to her "good friend" the
Dalai Lama, who could certainly put her right.

Plugging Oxfam's New Green Cleaning Products

I bought a bottle of Oxfam's Eco Washing-up liquid about 2 months ago.
It was huge, but pricey - almost £2.00, and I wondered if I would regret
it later.

Not a bit of it - it washes beautifully, doesn't irritate my skin, and
is still half full - so has already worked out cheaper than the usual
own-brand.

Green, cost-effective, efficient - and helps to fund Oxfam as well.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Writing like a mad thing...

I'll have to stop soon. It's nine pm, and I'm think I'm about to run
into the law of diminishing returns.
(Also called falling asleep and drooling into the keyboard, which is
embarrassing enough at home, but social death in a city centre coffee shop)

Monday, May 26, 2008

Ok, stage one done, stage two and three to go

I got the first set of forms done and in the post ahead of the deadline.

Here's how the worklist is going:

Meet with Screen WM - call scheduled for the afternoon of May 27

Revise own CV - done despite managing to delete it at least once.

Revise producer's CV - done

Complete application form(s) - delegated

Logline (25 words) - done

1/2 page Synopsis - done (but looking a bit thin...)

10 page Outline (the current version is 40 pages!) - about 1/3 done
(this is a bugger to finish!)

Revised 55 page Outline - I think this is done, hard to tell...
(I sent it to 5 people for feedback over six weeks ago, and not one of
them has yet got back to me. I just hope it's not utterly embarrassing)

Writer's Notes on future development - barely started

Buy mother's birthday present - no idea what to get ma this year!

More Train Tales

... of course, train travel is not always pleasant.

I may well be standing for the next 3 hours, just one of many, many
travelers trapped on a hot under ventilated peak-hour holiday train with
no available reservations or seats. And no wifi.

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Arghhhhh!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I just did it again - wiped out 55 minutes work with a keystroke! I'm
all over the place here.

I was startled by human voice outside, where no human voice should be*,
and hit the wrong key while saving.

I don't think I can do this - I've been working for days, and I have
managed to destroy as much as I have created.
Crap, crap, craptascular crap.

*It was walkers, peering in through the windows. I think they got a
bigger shock than I did - until I spotted the blank screen.

(no subject)

Oh my. A swift just swooped in at my open window, perched for a moment
on the door of my dresser to take a closer look around the room, and
flew out again.

The radio reports severe weather in the South East - but here it is
warm, still and golden, with an irresistibly spicy smell of new grass
and leaves.

This is the first time in over a year that I have enjoyed fine dry
weather at the cottage, and it is a revelation.

Saturday, May 24, 2008

All the pretty, pretty cows and their caramel coloured calves are lying down.

That means imminent rain, no?

Mad dash to catch the train at 6.15am

Yes, that's right, my Saturday started at 4.55am. At that time in the
morning it takes me 5 minutes to remember how to switch the kettle on,
let alone cross London in the right direction with a backpack.

But the 6.15 from Kings Cross was the only train Northward with tickets
I could afford. And it has free WIFI, so here I am, (not resurrecting
my CV).

The upside is - I had forgotten that the last cheap ticket was a First
Advance. It was a lovely surprise to find the wide seat and table laid
with real china ready for morning coffee service. Almost like the
mythical days of real train travel. What I lovely retro-train-month I
am having.

Ooooooh. Real egg in the Egg n'Cress Sarnie!

Friday, May 23, 2008

This is NOT going well

I just managed to delete the CV I wrote this morning. *My* CV.
The only part of the application I managed to complete today.

I need a drink and an early night.

Thursday, May 22, 2008

But on the hand - the application involves some fascinating research...

... into the Irish 'Fascist' parties of the 30s, in the aftermath of the
Civil War.

One of my leads is an Irish Social Conservative who idealises Mussolini,
and travels to Ethiopia to become a teacher during the Italian
occupation. He comes to a nasty dead end towards the middle of the
Second Act.

Another 4 forms to fill in by May 27

... and I just want to go to bed for a week.

So - what does a Weekend at the Cannes Festival Cost?

I'm just totting up the receipts...

Accreditation: £0.00
Back in the day this used to be a hard copy application, with
photographs, colour copies, business cards, courier - I think it cost me
£60 in all. Now it's all PDFs and online forms, and costs zip!

Accommodation: £153 for two nights in a shared flat
This is twice what I paid before, dammit - but then, it was a clean,
cute one-bed studio only 5 minutes walk from the croisette, with an iron
and a decent shower, sharing with 3 other women.

Transport: £250 for the Eurostar and the two sleeper trains.
This looks steep in the era of cheap flights, but as I didn't have to
buy a train ticket to Gatwick/Luton, or bus transfer from Nice to
Cannes, it worked out cheaper than the Easyjet equivalent, and gave me
and extra 12 hours to enjoy the festival.(If I'd been able to book
earlier, I could have got this for under £100!)

Subsistence: I spent 100 Euros (approx £75) over the course of 88 hours -
mostly on sandwiches, water, fruit, and coffee. Oh, and a book by John
Berger which I didn't have time to read.

Other: I bought some clothes, but all of them things I desperately
needed to temp over the summer - the Stone Caravan look (3 sweaters,
skirt *and* trousers, crocs or wellies, mud) is neither corporate nor
seasonal. Ditto the hair cut (£29) and the waxing (£15)

Damage: £15 excess for the replacement phone

Freebies: Tacky Delegate bag, four coffees, ear plugs on train, tickets
to movies, many glasses of rather acid rose wine, WIFI internet access,
a tartan lanyard from the Scottish Screen stand.

Saturday - the return to the Caravan. yay!!!!!

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Schedule revised! Yay or not Yay?

On the one hand...

Yay! We've been given an extra two days grace to complete the
application because of the impact of Cannes on the timeline.

On the other...

Yikes! The application just doubled in size!

On the other hand...

Yay! I don't have to write a 10 page version - they'll accept the 55 page

On the other hand...

Yikes - I have to revised the 55 pages and write a 4 page outline!

Bed now. Shattered.

London is freezing!

I had to pile on three shirts and a shawl to get home last night.

At least the sky is blue.

I have seven days to create a brand new package for the Irish Film Board
(on my own, as my Producer is still in Cannes running from place to
place working on 2 other projects. It's really not a place you can sit
down and think straight.

Tasks in the next 7 days:

Meet with Screen WM
Revise own CV
Revise producer's CV (not as easy as it sounds - my producer writes in
her own version of TXT. I will scratching my head over her notes for hours.)
Complete application form(s)
Logline (25 words)
1/2 page Synopsis
10 page Outline (the current version is 40 pages!)
Writer's Notes on future development.
Buy mother's birthday present.
Shout at building manager and insurance company over damaged bathroom
ceiling.
...
Oh - and turn up at work, 9-6.

All manageable. (I think!?)

Monday, May 19, 2008

On British soil, though still a long way from home and the peace of the caravan

Smelly guy now playing minesweeper on his PowerBook.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig

On the last leg of the journey in reverse: Cannes>Sleeper>Paris at
Dawn>Eurostar>Work.
The man in the seat next to me pongs. He seems to be a mathematician,
and not to have washed his arm pits for several days.
Cannes is a Dantean series of circles within circles. Those without the
magic accreditation mill past the barriers, locals, bemused tourists,
cinephiles and starfeckers. They see only one barrier between
themselves and the red carpet, when in fact there are several, physical
and practical. Yesterday evening the area around the Palais was rammed
with onlookers for the Indiana Jones premiere, many of them wearing
promotional fedoras in a rather odd shade of orangey-dun(g). The hard
core were in evening dress, holding up hand written signs "Invitation SVP"
In theory my pass (a pretty gold) was access all areas:
The Palais itself - this is the natural home of the press, where they
watch the movies (rarely in the main house, more often secondary
screening rooms). All through the day competition films premiere here;
the dress code is black tie for the evening, casual during the day.
The Marche: the Exhibition centre beneath where thousands of films are
being bought and sold in a dim humid bunker light.
The Grand Jetee: where the yachts are moored. These are not the haunt
of stars. They are mobile meeting rooms for financiers, and during the
day host business brunches and lunches and cocktails for small earnest
groups, making deals within spitting distance of the pedestrians.
The International Village: the national film commissions, camping on the
beach and offering advice, wifi and free coffee through the day.
The Hotels: more meeting spaces and some screenings.
What the pass won't guarantee: 1.) a ticket to any film (all subject to
queues, allocation and a final judgment on the suitability of your
dress.) 2.) Access to parties and clubs (invitation only), 3.) Access
to stars. (They live and move in a bubble within a bubble, at
out-of-town villas and hotels, or yachts moored almost out of site,
quite invisible, even to delegates, until they pop up on the red carpet,
large as life but three times skinnier.

Funniest thing overheard in Cannes

A penniless writer who missed the whole point of Cannes (ie - to
network, sell or buy within an international industry, while drinking
other people's wine):

"Next year I'm coming on my own, to take a room in the Majestic [ie the
only hotel which has security barriers and body searches to keep
non-players out] and write...."

Way to piss off the colleagues who organised a beautiful room in a
central apartment for her, blagged her tickets for two premieres and
invitations to 5 parties....

She was never heard of again.

Sunday, May 18, 2008

Storm blown out

This is more like it - sky blue from horizon to horizon, sea shimmering,
sun sucking up the puddles.
I have 5 hours left in Cannes,before I dash for the sleeper back to
Paris then London.
It's not just the sea that is shimmering - the mirage of major
development funding is hovering just a hands-breadth away. The film
board execs we met this morning couldn't have been happier with the
project - I have to get the long treatment in by the end of the month,
for consideration in the next round of investment.
So it's back to blighty and back to work.
Phone still fried, alas.

"Comme une vache" - Cannes wash out!

Saturday was cold and damp all day, and I huddles under cover drinking
coffee and preparing for the meeting on Sunday am.
It doesn't feel right - Cannes in steady gray English rain.
Northumberland is warmer!
I peeled my eyes open at about 10am, and peered at the heap of clothes
on the suit case. Nothing waterproof and all of it in need of
pressing. So the morning was spent over the ironing board (glamour,
what glamour), and planning world conquest ("We should be in bed by
11(!) to ensure that we make the meeting bright eyed and on the ball.)
Lunch was a picnic, perched between the puddles in the UK Pavilion. It
was impossible to find a table in a restaurant or snack bar - the rain
had driven everyone in ahead of me.
At 5.00 I was offered shelter and a glass of wine in the deserted
Tunisian stand. The wine was cloudy, the glass as smeared as the filthy
sky.
Things perked up an a Brazilian cocktail event - the strongest
Caipirinha I have ever downed set the tone for the next few hours.
Then we gathered together an all female party to trail from the Carlton
to Le Suquet to find a restaurant that would fulfill the requirements of
the obligatory vegetarian.
Then - the sky opened. A downpour of biblical proportions, just as the
crowds were gathering for the Walter Sallis premiere, and my producer
and I were cutting through the back streets towards home.
We dodges, we ran, we waded through flooded streets. Alarms rocked the
night as cars rocked under the weight of falling water. Lights fizzed
and spluttered and plunged bars into darkness.
Finally we stood in a midst a spreading puddle in our shared studio. My
shoes had tripled in weight, and my feet were died a vile shade of
indigo - and my phone was stewing nicely in a pool of water at the
bottom of my bag.
Years ago I spent an evening with a group of execs who were celebrating
their 20th Cannes. They were trying to remember how it had worked
before the mobile phone.
On Sunday I will be forced to find out, first hand!

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Cannes, Friday

7.30 am: Tumbled warm and crumpled from the train at 7.30. The last few
miles of track wind along the coast and allows some window leaning
(against - not out) to set the scene.
Unfortunately the scene is gray. The weather is cool, dull and
interrupted by frequent showers. It rains like a cow pissing - at one
point I was holding an umbrella over the laptop so that I could send and
urgent email and close up`.

10.00 am: Accreditation was swift and efficient - getting into films
less so. Queueing for tickets in the morning was use d to be highlight
of Cannes. All the producers etc camped in a line in the sun, keeping
places for those who went for coffee or rolls. The queue was next to
the official photographers tent, so you could kill some time looking for
faces on the red carpet of each premiere. It was time consuming, but at
least you started the day knowing if you were going to the Palais that
night and would have to change into evening dress.
Now my badge only entitles me to wait in line - in full evening dress
and high heels - until 10 minutes before the premiere for any unused
tickets. If there are no seats - then it's evening dress in the pub and
pizzerias.
This is no great shakes - there was only one evening film a wanted to
see, and I'll catch that during the next day. I just makes me sad to
look at my 10 year old gold silk frock hanging on the bathroom door and
know that it won't get an outing for yet another 12 months.

11.00am: I have nothing planned for the day.
Print up the one-page outline and a wonderfully timed and utterly
nonsensical article in the Time about the Ethiopian Ark of the
Covenant. That's my movie on the page (only with less sex and fewer
explosions)

Lunch: My, prices have rocketed! Bought a box of strawberries to share
on the terrace of the UK Pavilion.

3.30 pm: First attempt at a meeting - walk in of the street to the Irish
Pavilion and get in invitation to pitch over breakfast on Sunday.
Sounds enthusiastic (although actually he just wants to talk about the
movie my producer *didn't* make with her partner. If we can convince
him the project has legs it could unlock the path to serious development
money, and a recce trip to Ethiopia.

5.00pm: Dash to Palais for market screening of Heart of Fire
<http://www.imdb.com/title/tt1169272/> - set in Eritrea in 1981.
Scramble around the building looking for the correct sales agent to blag
a ticket from, and get chatting to a French security guard about
Ethiopian food. Turns out she ate at an Ethiopian Restaurant in
Washington DC 10 days ago, and thought it wonderful. Helps me find the
right booth, just in time.

5.30pm: Heart of Fire has a slightly pedestrian script fired up by the
performances of the children, particularly Letekidan Micael as the 10
year old heroine. The sound cut in and out all the way through the
screening. Wonderful landscapes, with Kenya standing in for Eritrea
throughout.

8.00pm: Head to apartment to change, then out to the Romanian party on
the beach. Great food, great music, lovely people. I cut out about
11.00, to find the Petit Majestic (a backstreet bar which acts as the
unofficial festival drinking spot, all plastic pint glasses and people
talking 15 to the dozen in the street.

Instead I bump into a friend from Berlin, and end up with an invitation
in the Century Club (which being members is full of old people), dancing
to the Clash, drinking cocktails sponsored by a Sheik and talking to an
American Producer about the about the 12th C Civil War between Maud and
Stephen. Only in Cannes.

I think I walked home....

Speaking of rust...

... there was quite a lot of that to scrape off yours truly to prepare
for Cannes.

I emerged from the woods with lovely soft skin (soft water) but
otherwise pretty mossy and smoke-stained, a bit like the Stone Caravan
itself.

So off come the three layers of woollies, the thermal undies, the layer
of smoke (I *do* wash daily up there, but cooking over wood does add a
delicious aroma of kipper. The hair is shorn (unlike the sheep, who are
still bundled up in ragged gray sweaters) and coloured, and then new
layers put on from the suitcase in storage (shoes, undies, skirt,
tshirt, sunglasses - and polish).

The urban disguise seems to have worked. No one has rumbled me yet.
But I had forgotten that 6 hours on the Croissette is harder on the feet
than hauling groceries up the side of a mountain. I'm knackered!

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Paris had a surprise for me...

I first spent time in Paris 25 years ago, as a student, paying, I think
£5 a night for a room near Chatelet.

The hotel was a survivor from the 19th Century. Our room on the 4th
floor, had a bare wood floor, brass bedstead with a bolster, a rug, a
wash basin, and long windows that looked out not to the street but to
the light well. The lavatory was 3 doors further down the corridor, a
bath cost extra and involved a slightly longer walk. Breakfast was
bread and bowls of chocolat. I loved it.

Are there any hotels like this left? I doubt it; I looked at that same
hotel on-line a few weeks ago. It is now furnished throughout with twin
beds, in red and gray, all rooms are en suite, and the room where we ate
breakfast is now orange Formica and vending machines.

I'm used to traveling through Paris now, en route to Cannes, or to visit
colleagues. I started to believe that the city I remembered (Imagined)
had slipped away.

First surprise - on the metro, as I opened the door, there he was, the
little white cartoon bunny in blue overalls. After 25 years he still
has his poor paw trapped in the closing doors, which pinch "tres fort".
I thought he had been rescued and consigned to history long ago. Where
has he been hiding?

Then I discover Gare Austerlitz - from which my train is just pulling
away. It is a ridiculously quiet station, particularly after the bustle
of the Eurostar. In the hour I waited there only two trains left - to
Barcelona and Orleans.

It is a wonderful decayed building of sandstone, iron and wood, paint
blistered, plaster sprung, iron rusted as if the air of the
Mediterranean escaped from the arriving carriages with a sigh, and
seeped into the building over the decades.

And the best surprise. As I ate a large and not very exciting sandwich,
a fragment of bread fell to the floor.

Instantly I was surrounded by sparrows, wheeling over head, landing to
dispute crumbs.

There are no sparrows left in London. How has Paris managed to keep hers?

Then I realised that the whole great glass shed of a station was full of
the sound of sparrows singing.

I'm lying in the couchette, jammed between my bag, top and tail. It's
9.30, and in 10 hours time I wake up in Cannes.

Wednesday, May 07, 2008

From Snow to Sunshine in the course of 4 weeks.

Less than a month ago I celebrated finishing the draft of the Screenplay
>From Hell by brushing snow from the primroses at my door.

Now it's shirtsleeves and suncream and enough blue sky to fit out the
entire Dutch navy in bell bottoms.

Cannes in 10 days. I'll have to scrub up a bit first.

Gifts for writers

A neighbour asked me last night to propose a suitable birthday present
for an penniless aspiring children's writer, with a budget of £50-£60.

Any ideas?

Trouble is, as far as I can see there is really nothing a writer needs
beyond paper, a pencil and perhaps a Thesaurus. A laptop? Well beyond
the proposed budget. Time, will-power and inspiration? Not in the gift
of even the most generous of friends.

I couldn't recommend my favourite book for writers, "One Continuous
Mistake" by Gail Sher, as both gift giver and recipient are members of
an evangelical Christian church, and Sher's book is explicitly Buddhist
in inspiration. (Or rather, I did recommend it, but with the expected
outcome.)

Besides. that is one £7.99 paperback - not the large generous gift my
neighbour wanted to offer.

What emerged, as we ferreted around for ideas, was that my neighbour
imagined that all writers have the same approach and needs, and that I,
on the contrary, realised that all writers have wildly different
approaches and needs.

In the end I suggested a box filled with smaller gifts and treats, the
sort of things a hardworking penny-less writer might have fun opening
and playing with, and which would remind her that her friends knew her,
and wished her well and happy; a teapot for one, tea, biscuits, bath
treats, candles, coloured pencils, a good note book, a paperweight, a
photo holder, a CD of quirky music....

But what would you put in such a box - and what would you like to find
in it...?

(For me - a month's free coffee at Cafe Nero!)

(no subject)

The sun is shining (at last), I am sipping an excellent coffee, and I
have finished the Outline - the one I thought I could toss off before
the end of October.

This is very humbling. I have consistently underestimated the time it
would take me to complete this stage of the project. Despite turning up
at my desk every morning, 6 days a week, and producing reams of
material, I couldn't find shortcuts to produce 50 pages of story that
had a working beginning. middle and end, and smelt somewhat like a film.

Oh well. Live and learn.

Sorry for the extended silence - I made a New Year resolution not to
blog or watch TV (except Ashes to Ashes and Doctor Who...) until I had
finished.

From Snow to Sunshine in the course of 4 weeks.

Less than a month ago I celebrated finishing the draft of the Screenplay
>From Hell by brushing snow from the primroses at my door.

Now it's shirtsleeves and suncream and enough blue sky to fit out the
entire Dutch navy in bell bottoms.

Cannes in 10 days. I'll have to scrub up a bit first.

Who would've thought it? London elected Jack Aubrey as Mayor...

Thursday, April 24, 2008

Gifts for writers

A neighbour asked me last night to propose a suitable birthday present
for an penniless aspiring children's writer, with a budget of £50-£60.

Any ideas?

Trouble is, as far as I can see there is really nothing a writer needs
beyond paper, a pencil and perhaps a Thesaurus. A laptop? Well beyond
the proposed budget. Time, will-power and inspiration? Not in the gift
of even the most generous of friends.

I couldn't recommend my favourite book for writers, "One Continuous
Mistake" by Gail Sher, as both gift giver and recipient are members of
an evangelical Christian church, and Sher's book is explicitly Buddhist
in inspiration. (Or rather, I did recommend it, but with the expected
outcome.)

Besides. that is one £7.99 paperback - not the large generous gift my
neighbour wanted to offer.

What emerged, as we ferreted around for ideas, was that my neighbour
imagined that all writers have the same approach and needs, and that I,
on the contrary, realised that all writers have wildly different
approaches and needs.

In the end I suggested a box filled with smaller gifts and treats, the
sort of things a hardworking penny-less writer might have fun opening
and playing with, and which would remind her that her friends knew her,
and wished her well and happy; a teapot for one, tea, biscuits, bath
treats, candles, coloured pencils, a good note book, a paperweight, a
photo holder, a CD of quirky music....

But what would you put in such a box - and what would you like to find
in it...?

(For me - a month's free coffee at Cafe Nero!)

Monday, April 21, 2008

(no subject)

The sun is shining (at last), I am sipping an excellent coffee, and I
have finished the Outline - the one I thought I could toss off before
the end of October.

This is very humbling. I have consistently underestimated the time it
would take me to complete this stage of the project. Despite turning up
at my desk every morning, 6 days a week, and producing reams of
material, I couldn't find shortcuts to produce 50 pages of story that
had a working beginning. middle and end, and smelt somewhat like a film.

Oh well. Live and learn.

Sorry for the extended silence - I made a New Year resolution not to
blog or watch TV (except Ashes to Ashes and Doctor Who...) until I had
finished.

Monday, February 18, 2008

Bavarian beer and cracked cords

Just took the last meeting of the festival, and now i'm working in the lobby of the hyatt hotel [where one coffee costs £4..] waiting for my producer to arrive.

I have lost my voice somewhere in town. There is only a strangled squeak coming out. High pitched pitching.

A friend bought dinner and read the pitch. He hated it. Which is oddly comforting.

Sunday, February 10, 2008

Silent running

I know, I know, long gap.

I made a conscious decision in december not to do anything - travel, films, reading, blog, until the step-outline was finally finished.

It is now, on the eve of the berlinale. One last trawl for typos etc, and it will be in the post.

Berlin is full of sunshine. Last year was sparkling with deep frost. I wore two coats and drank hot chocolate.

This year it is 11 degrees, bright blue and cold, one jacket and i'm looking for an icecream...

I have a suitcase full of gloves and hats and puffas I can't wear.

I lost my first chioice script-editor. I think she was just two keen to do it; she offered to work unpaid for a co-writing credit, but with 1/3 of the bursary ringfenced for script-editing that deal made no sense at all.

Very odd being in a city after months with sheep.

Saturday, January 05, 2008

I have running water in the bathroom

This is not a triumph of heath robinson plumbing, but the result of meltwater overtopping the ditch and flooding the porch.

Cue two very enjoyable hours building dams and channels in the mud to direct the new river elsewhere.

Luckily the cottage itself stayed dry throughout.

Being snowed in was huge fun. Being flooded turned out to be even better.

It's dark now - I can't wait to see how the water scours out my new ditches in the morning.

Still writing - getting closer. Thrown out another huge slice of ridiculous plodding stuff. The end should be getting nearer at last - in theory. Sigh.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Enjoy the longest night of the year...


After tomorrow the days grow brighter again!

Thursday, December 20, 2007

More lavatorial humour

I have seen victorian urinals with a delicate image of a honey bee enameled on the sweet spot.

As any well bred properly educated 19th century english gentleman would know, the latin for bee is 'Apis'.

Not such a po-faced prudish bunch after all.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

A crash in the kitchen suggests the mice got into the wine dregs in the washing up.

I'm too snug to go and fish drunken mice out of the washing up. They'll have to swim.

Just survived a dinner party in the cottage

5 adults, two babies, one stew.

That about as many as you can cram around the table and still breathe. The guests arrived cross country by landrover and brought coal - one of the most usual and thoughtful dinner gifts I have ever received.

Stew.

24 hours in advance - take a cast iron pot with a good heavy well fitting lid, hang over fire.

Add oil and diced bacon - sweat.
Add slices of beef shin - I left them whole, like steaks - they'll break apart easily enough.
Brown the beef on both sides.
Add 4 medium sized onions, whole but peeled, 1/2 a pound of mushrooms, a handful of tomatoes (optional), 4 peeled cloves of garlic, thyme, salt, pepper, a bay leaf and a strip of orange zest.
When all this is bubbling, pour on red wine - I think I added a pint and a half.

Clap on the lid and bring up to the boil - then stick the whole thing in a well insulated haybox, wrapped in old blankets, and forget all about it until tommorrow.

Heat for an hour, and serve the soft unctious result with spuds and cabbage, a glass of red wine and a screaming toddler.

Cheers!

Let's talk rude

I was digging through the cupboard in the back room when I found an extra chamberpot (a useful addition to any household where the privy may fall below zero on a sharp night.)

I turned it over to discover the manufacturer's mark.

It is delicately stamped 'PRICK'...

I have a one legged pheasant in the garden.

She's almost certainly a refuge from a shoot somewhere else in the valley, and has survived well over a week here in the garden, hop hop hop amoung the sheep. She gets a handful of extra feed from the bird table every day.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Funny how the solution to writing problems usually involves writing less...

... not more.

Cutting like crazy here.

from the bus - just crossing hadrians wall

Standing water is frozen to 2 - 3 inches and will bear my weight.

There's floating ice in the north tyne river.

The frost has turned even my 30 foot pine white.

I came here for a month's peace and quiet to write, expecting the cold to drive me out in november - i'm glad I decided to stay for december.

I'm not convinced that giggles are the sanest reaction to waking up in an ice cave

But it's so pretty (when I scrape the frost of the wihdows to look) and my duvet is so warm, I just can't help myself.

Perhaps I should be humming the theme from dr. Zhivago instead - you know, the frozen dacha?

Anyway, I woke up with one of the solutions to "the writing problem", so high spirits as permissable. "Sleep on it" is often the best advice. After all the story srarted as a dream, many years ago.

I'm about to hike cross-country to catch the bus to town. I day of shops and coffee and people and library is just what I need.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Hmmm... 8 inch icicles inside my kitchen.

At least it keeps the milk fresh!

Lunch from the ashes

Take an unpeeled onion and wrap it in a sheet of damp newspaper. Tuck the parcel into the ashes of a log fire.

When the paper has finally burnt away the onion is done. Split, scape out the soft core and eat with butter and pepper, or soft cheese.

Yum.

We have the most beautiful still hoar frost under a blue sky. Everything is white, every leaf, blade of grass, wisp of moss or cobweb.

This morning I paused for a few seconds on a large flat rock while walking in the wood over white grass. Within that tiny space of time my boots froze to the rock. It felt tacky, like glue...

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Coldest morning yet - delicate flowers of frost etched on the inside of every window

Walking on the bone dry frozen fell behind the house sounds like the
crackle of gunfire. All the sheep have come up to the shelter of my
walls, and loom out of the mist under my trees. I took pictures - I
hope they come out.

Still no connection, so this will be posted sometime in the future -
near future I hope. I am walking towards broadband and central heating
for the afternoon, but right now I am just thawing out with a mug of tea
and Radio 4.

Still no solution to the writing problem. I've tried all the sort cuts
- working on another section, proof reading - I just need to solve the
order of about 10 key scenes, so that I believe that one character (who
I like) would participate in the torture of another character who he likes.

I worry that much of my story is bad science and bad history; one of the
characters is a member of the Ahnenerbe, the Nazi's corrupt "Ancestral
Heritage" think tank, who started by faking pre-history and ended up
murdering men women and children in concentration camps in the interests
of "science". They aren't a joke - historians need as much ethical
rigour as physicists and biologists. Perrhaps more, when fantasies of
racial and cultural purity and past injustice are used to justify
mass-murder.

So I am terrified that by writing about Bad Historians in an
entertaining way I am just further muddying a very murky pool.

Actually that may help me - my Character's remorse at the crimes he
commits must be the drive the story needs to drive it to resolution.

I just don't believe it yet.

Friday, December 14, 2007

My domain host changed all my mail passwords without warning...

Me and all other users.

I wonder what security scare prompted that?

They didn't even put a note on the home page. 24 hours and several
attempts to get into the control panel to find out what had happened,
and another day to get a connection strong enough to log-on and reset
the password.

I'm just glad I found a solution.

Radio silence

My normal email account is out of order and my phone battery is about to die and I left the usb charger cable at the bottom of the hill (and even if it had a full charge I don't know how far I could go towards fixing this on a little pda) - this is a major comms disaster!

Luckily I have lots of work to do- I hit another script problem, and I am busy sorting that out - it's just as terrifying as the last one, but I am just a touch more confident that I can stick it out and fix it. (well enough)

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Opps..

... I am getting through a pint of whisky a week.

Oh well, it's all central heating of a sort. The sky is full of stars and the
windows on the north side are icing up.

I'm within a few pages of completing this draft. Then revision, and I'm done,
(just two months late)...

I'll take a break for Christmas (plenty of background reading still to do) and
then start thinking about the next - full - draft.

Another hour of work tonight, then off to bed with two hot water bottles and a
wind-up radio.

Monday, December 10, 2007

Now - this really is cool...

Just came home by starlight. The grass is already crisp with ice, and it's not even 6pm.

The met is forecasting 4 degrees of frost. You can add a degree to that on the fell. You can bet i've already checked all the windows.

Wayhay! An excuse to open the whisky (again).

No wonder it was a little chilly last night.

I pulled back the bedroom curtain to find that the window was wide open all night. I'd propped it open when I headed out with the laundry, intending to air the house. It certainly did.

Just goes to show how well sheltered the house must be. I snuggled down last night listening to the roar of wind in the oaks, with not an inkling that my nose was only 6 feet from an open window. The curtain didn't even twitch.

It seems to have blown my cold away

Sunday, December 09, 2007

Freaking cold...

I am working in fingerless mitts. My face is tingling with cold - it's almost refreshing...

It snowed yesterday - everything washed away over night.

Tip for the day - peppermint oil really works against mice. They avoid any surface wiped with it. And it smells fabulous.

Saturday, December 08, 2007

The Night of the Living Deadline - part deux.

Like 28 Days Later this one has a happyish ending. (Sorry if that spoils the
movie for you, but any one with a taste for zombie movies really should have
seen it by now, and any one who hasn't may be reassured enough to watch it).

The realization that I was so many weeks behind my own schedule, and no where
close to a solution precipitated a magnificent "Lost Weekend" - hangover, sofa,
movies, the penultimate episode of Heroes, long into the night, followed by a
few hours of staring into the darkness, desperate to sleep. I mean by that
every sane cell in my body screaming at my stupid skull to switch off and let us
rest, while the skull entertained lurid yet banal fantasies of failure and
starvation and a wasted life. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Even my misery was proving
uncreative and dull.

I ended up re-reading Edward Rutherfurd's London: the Novel, which is one of
those books which is shockingly bad and thoroughly entertaining. It has to be -
it's XXXX pages long. The research is impeccable (and reproduced in bleeding
chunks every 80 pages or so - how to build a coracle, what a kiddle is and why
the king banned them from the Thames, the origins of the whores of Southwark,
etc, etc), and one has to root for a historical novelist who names his 13th
Century heroine "Tiffany" (it is an authentic name, but what cohones!) Tiffany
is 15, oval faced, slender and small breasted. As are the majority of
Rutherfurd's heroines from 55AD to the present day.

So that's the bad place. I realise that the story I have been trying to tell is
probably untellable after all, and because I am 3 miles cross country from the
nearest pub, drown my sorrows in pulp fiction rather than booze.

This is just a long way of saying that crucial breakthroughs always seem to need
a few day of despair.

It didn't come in a flash of inspiration. It came from 8 hours with a note pad
and pen, scribbling, working out, tearing up, pacing, more tearing up (good
firelighters), more scribbling...

By 10pm I thought I might have a solution, but off course, I was delirious from
sleep deprivation, and wasn't sure if any of it made sense, or, if it did, I
would remember it in the morning. I made one last page of notes - in capitals -
that I hoped I would be able to interpret the next day, and fell in to bed.

That was a week ago. The solution I had been seeking for 5 years is in sight,
and the story is falling into a meaningful pattern at last.

So what was the key?

Well, turns out it was the scene that I have never been able to write – for all
those years I have scribbled a placeholder ("X questions Y, Y doesn't break, X
holds Y for further questioning"). What would Y say to X that would convince Y
to X her live it relative freedom for another 5 days? I always put that off,
for the time when I had the rest of the script working. Dumb, huh?

When I finally wrote it – having nowhere else to go – I realised that whatever Y
told X was a lie, and the audience would know it was a lie (because they already
knew what had happened to bring Y to that point.) and at that point the whole
story became a yawn. Everything else I had written to cover that was melodrama
and co-incidence, and could now been seen through. It was trash.

Hence the melt down.

The solution started in exactly the same place – with that troublesome
interrogation, and what each participant thinks they know before and afterwards,
and the story unwinds from there….

It took me another 24 hours to get the spine of scenes down, and now I have to
write or edit them into the step. All the melodrama has melted away. All the
improbable skills and co-incidences are ashes in the fireplace.

It may not be a brilliant piece of writing, but at last it has a beginning, and
middle and an end, and an interesting way for my poor characters to get from one
to other without becoming ciphers or puppets.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Just brought the christmas tree indoors. Far to early, but at least in these tempretures it won't drop before the 25th. Besides, if i'd left it outside it would have blown over the hills and far away by now.

Wonder what the mice will make of it? Apart from dinner, that is.

Tropical skies and deadlines

The advantage of being so cold is that mild mornings like this feel tropical.
At sunrise the sky turned blue, the birds started to sing, the breeze was sweet,
and for a few moments it felt like Mexico.

There is no getting around the fact that I am almost two months behind schedule.
I hoped to have the step outline of the script finished by the end of October.

The whole point of taking time out to write this project was to solve some
fairly fundamental problems with the structure. The story has three time frames,
three protagonists and three major locations. Making that work in a way that is
still interesting, entertaining and meaningful is a bitch.

It proved impossible to do while I was still working full-time as a copywriter.
Even when I was working 50 hours a week I could manage 1500 words a day. I
got up at 6, hopped on a train, bought a coffee and wrote like crazy in the
Caffe Nero around the corner from the office. I left work at 6, or 7, or
sometimes 8, and, headed back to the same bar to hack out another page or so.

Some of those 1500 words were almost good enough...

But there were two overriding problems. First, I couldn't find enough brain
cells and time to revise the structure of the storytelling. It just made my
brain ache. And secondly, every holiday I took was spent in bed with antibiotics
and an interesting opportunistic infection. I would just be at the stage when I
could dress myself and crawl into sunlight when the holiday would end and I
would be back at my desk.

So, there I was, in September, with the miraculous support of Screen WM, able to
take a break from the salary trap and final sort the damn script out.

Looking back, a month was an absurdly short time to give myself. I suppose I had
spent so long wading through separate scenes, sections, sequences that I could
no longer see the who structure at all.

Every day I turned up at the keyboard and tried a new approach. Scratch pads,
flow diagrams, re-reading old drafts, research, long walks, reading other
scripts - even just making sure I wrote 6 pages every day...

I kept coming to the same spot in the script, and coming to a full stop - it
didn't work, I didn't believe any of it, and the patient was dead on the table.

Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, no matter what I did I woke up in the same
place the next morning....

Monday, November 26, 2007

I am surrounded by sex; it's tupping time in the hills, and every field and fell around me is full of randy sheep.

The local crop is hillbred crossbred lambs, which are sold each autumn to lowland farmers for fattening. The ewes are hardy blackfaced mountain sheep - swaledales I think, and they have the look of goodtime girls slightly past their best - narrow sweet sootyblack faces, framed by curly horns like hoop earrings, shaggy white coats, and black stockings. They are up for a good time after a summer as single mums, herding together to eat and natter, buck and fight.

The tups are nowhere near as pretty or as bright. Dumb bone-headed roman-nosed Leicester lummoxes, in short sheepskin jackets. All they need are little porkpie hats at an angle to complete the look.

Two rams to a field, and they never stop doing what rams do. I've been out at midnight, in 3 degrees of frost, the air cracking with moonlit ice, and have found them stretching their huge snouts into the air to sniff out the ladies.

Friday, November 23, 2007

I've been travelling, checking up on home, catching up with family, friends, flatmates and the foremost points of interest in current British Culture (i.e., the Tate Crack and recent episodes of Heroes), and pretty much lost my regular connection to the WWW.

I did however work, and I am very close to completing a step-outline of the script. I'm 30 days behind schedule, and trying not to let that worry me - the structure of the last act took much more sorting out than I had anticipated. I hope the northern breezes blowing through my skull have sharpened the brain rather than addled it, (they do make my fingers a little stiff in the morning, so spelling can be a little eccentric) and that I have a suitable structure to start hanging a film on.

I've come back to the cottage to find that winter has descended from the fell. It was blowing in when I left, stripping the last leaves from the sessile oaks, and tossing the crows about the sky.

Now we have had the whole range of winter weather - including snow, which I missed by 90 mins. My train pulled into Hexham station just as the last traces melted away, leaving only salt.

The colours have all changed - all the yellow is leached out of the grass, leaving that wonderful blue-grey they call "wintergreen", and has fled upwards to the fell where the bracken is the colour of ginger biscuits or a new welcome mat.

It's still wriggling with life - two days ago I saw a weasel, bright red, leaping from the water trough to the old tank and back into the rushes. Adders have been seen (not alas by me) sunning themselves on the walls. My missing frogs turned up in the scrub around the burn, big and fat and old and wary.

Last night was full moon and frost - I could see from one side of the valley to the other, and all of it sparkling.

But inside I am warm enough, and dry enough. I have cracked to the extent that I am lighting two portable LPG heaters - one in the bedroom for 15 minutes before I slip under the quilt, one downstairs first thing in the morning, and on very cold nights after 9pm.

And I have water, blessed running water, thanks to a swift decision by my landlord. The contractor brought a mini digger up to the fell, and for two days this week two men worked in the pouring rain to capture the original spring (using a box, pea- shingle and masses of the sticky impervious bright yellow native clay), dig in a new settling tank 100 yards above me, and run a new pipe down.

seconds after the connected the new pipe to the original, water gushed at at least one bar pressure from the old brass kitchen tap, bringing with it all the peat that had clogged the older one solid. After two minutes of high velocity black mud I had clear water. No more wading through the mud to collect from a stream.

I'm looking out now for a replacement for the 19th C sink, which disappeared some time ago - a shallow stoneware slopstone, wide and shallow enough to stand pans and jugs, wash and prep veg, gut fish etc.

Now that I know that there are weasels in the wild wood, and that I am constant enough to stick out the cold weather, I finally feel more like tough wise old Badger, and less like eccentric fly-by-night enthusiast Mr Toad.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Ahem... Nervously clears throat.

I'm back online.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Border Reivers

I have always felt at home - in the sharp, biting challenge of 'rightness' rather than comfort - in border lands. I grew up in the space between England and Wales, never quite sure if we belonged to the bleak beauty of the black mountains or the enfolded green and red and gold of Hereford and Worcester.

One year I spent Christmas in a house which literally straddled that border, in the village of Clyro. It seemed appropriate, given that I entertained both my parents that year, one on Christmas day, one on Boxing day, as at the time it seemed easier to bring down a wall in Berlin as to imagine them sharing the same space and time.

My ancestors' graves are scattered on either side of that border, both sides partaking equally of Welsh and English DNA. Coal merchants, magistrates, china dealers, farm labourers, army officers, parlour maids, professors, factory hands.

In the years since I have discovered other landscapes that invoke the tooth of recognition - of rightness, home, and only now do I realise that they are all border lands, liminal places; seashores and coastlines and the meeting places of language and cultures.

Some borders are more extreme - the limits of human life themselves; I have slept best in a hammock below the waterline of a ship, the dark Atlantic ocean running inches from the tip of my nose. I have perched in the mast, swinging between the great dome of air and the vast disc of sea.

It's there in the stories I try to write - the meeting of Ethiopia and Europe through the medium of approximate translation, the exchange of culture on a pacific island in 1789, between the islanders who swim, and the men of the sea who drown.

And even now I am writing this in the new border my family have settled in - among the Border Reivers of Northumberland, where boundary disputes still rumble between families with 800 years of cross-border raiding history.

Monday, October 29, 2007

This one is funny....

Monday morning is swimming. I share a car into Hexham, 30mins away at. 7.30 am. But as i live at the top of a wood, this means waking at 6.30, dressing in the dark and cold [no fire] and walking 25 min through the trees by starlight. I have to be 'very brave', [more about the getting up than the walking.

This morning I had a landrover. This does not make things faster as I have to stop to open and close 5 gates.

But when my alarm went off, I Did It.

I put my head down, ignored the pain and the desire to crawl back into my lovely warm bed, and dressed and drove and opened and closed and admired the stars swinging overhead and...
...hang on a mo...
...the clocks went back last night, it should be light by now...
And I checked the dashboard clock with bleared eyes. It was 1.38 am.

Bloody alarm clock.

I had two choices - drive back through those 5 gates to a cold dark house, crawl back between the cooling sheets and do the whole thing all ovee again in 5 hours time.

Or sneak into my sister's house, curl up on the sofa and hope not to be blasted away by a spooked neighbour with a shot gun.

I just been woken by a txt. Swimming is cancelled.

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Shocked to discover what a reactionary I am...

... I have caught myself musing that perhaps we got it abiut right by 1750 [industry, agriculture, shipbuilding, music, sanitation, food etc] and it's been downhill ever since.

I'll just go and die of childbed fever to cure myself of this ludicrous opinion.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Today

7.30: woke up to a pale window. Listening to radio 4 in bed while watching the painted cows appear from the mist. It's warm in here, cold out there.

7.55: deep breath, slippers and wrapper on, downstairs. It's still dark enough to need a light. Light the fire, make tea, draft writing plan for the day and tidy up last night's notes.

9.00: wash, dress, make breakfast; bacon and eggs. It takes almost an hour to get the fire hot enough to cook.
I'm still looking for a way of warming plates without cracking them or knocking them flying. There isn't a good place by the fire.
I suspect a hot water container may be the key... will have to look up the reference books to see what devices were being used in the 18th/19th C and improvise around that.

10.00: Write

11.00: Fetch water, top up the filter, wash up and clean kitchen. The mice are slacking. Perhaps they are having lie-ins too. Or maybe they have moved on to pastures new for the winter.

11.30: Writing again - a whole new scene, a whole new character, distilling pages of backstory and exposition into one short conversation that also sets up the next scene and drives my character on. If I've got it right - result!

12.30: Stack firewood. I have a log pile in the yard, and another in the porch, where it dries out before I bring it in. Looks like I will have to order more within the next week - and start sawing my own to make it go further.

1.00: lunch: Chilli beans. The chilli powder is red hot - my nose is on fire! Very satisfying.

1.30: writing again. The next scene is a very old one, a set piece love scene, but it now sits better in the whole structure and drives the plot. (I hope).

2.30: clean pheasants for tomorrow's soup. They are a gift from the ruggedly handsome landlord who happens to be my brother-in-law, and leant the cottage a rural film set look for a short while, hanging beside the porch. I've no use for a whole bird, and no way to roast them anyway, so I skin them and take off breasts and legs to cook with raisins and a little wine.

Then I sat and finished a curtain to hang in the bedroom. I bought the fabric in Kelso 10 months ago; curtain making has been a very stop-start project, slowed down still further by problems with a borrowed sewing machine. The onset of winter is more than enough encouragement to finish them by hand.

5.00: write - almost completed a whole section today.

7.00: The Archers, supper, book of the week (The Tenderness of Wolves by Stef Penney. Read an interview with the author, who is famously agoraphobic, and so researched the entire novel, which is set in Canada, without being able to visit the country. If she hadn't been open about her illness would anyone have commented on this? The novel is set in the 1860s - she hasn't visited there either. That's what writers do. I like her.
"Why is one of the characters gay?" "Some people are you know."

8.00: write - finishing up for the day.

9.00: Connect up the disc drive and watch the second half of The Wind that Shakes the Barley.

Tomorrow I have a lift to the swimming pool at 7.30. This means getting up and down the hill in the dark. Could be interesting!

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Yay! Sleet!

And it's only just past Trafalgar Day...
And island in a still sea of mist. Every blade of grass, every leaf, every berry edged with ice.

I understand now, in my bones, exactly why our ancestors wore caps to bed..

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Potty talk

The new earth closet, based on the Seperett system, is a huge success. After a month's use there is only a small amount of entirely inoffensive dry matter, already very like soil, to move to the main compost area, where, mixed with fresh earth (to boost the number of microbes) it will continue to break down into loam. No smell, no fluids, no need to handle anything unpleasant, all wrapped up in bio-degradable packaging. I am very impressed. Bear in mind that this is the most basic of the Seperett systems; no ventilation fan, no turning chamber, just a portable seat which separates solids from the rest. The entire kit cost less than £80, and I am now strongly inclined to invest in one of the more deluxe versions next year, which will make the cottage much more attractive to the less hardy visitor.

Had a visit this morning from a contractor with a solution to the running water problem. At present water is collected at a spring 200 yards above the cottage and runs downwards in a 4 inch salt glazed pipe, cracked at several points, to a settling tank just above the kitchen. This then feeds a tap in the kitchen, which is frequently blocked, on account of a) the peat and leaves collected on the 200 yard journey, and b.) the lack of pressure in the syphon between tank and tap, which are almost level. As a result I rely on water collected in jerry cans from the settling tank itself, and the tap is unused.

The proposed solution is a new lightweight tank at the spring itself, and a 1 inch pipe leading directly to the kitchen. Any overflow at the tank would be diverted back into the old pipe to feed the trough. The resulting pressure - 50 feet of head - would be strong enough to keep the tap running – and even, in the longer term, to feed a shower and/or drive a small turbine to provide electricity.

But let's not get too excited – it's three days work with the small digger, and a large capital investment. I may be walking to and from the outflow with a jerry can for some time to come.

Cooking: Sloe gin. Found about 20 lbs of sloes (wild plums) in the hedgerows; I started picking on my own but the landlord got intrigued, then enthusiastic, and my two pounds turned into a vast haul in several sacks. They are all in the freezer at the bottom of hill, waiting for bottling. (Freezing breaks down the tough skins, which otherwise need pricking. 1 Lb of sloes, 4 oz of sugar, 1 pt of gin (or vodka – gin was traditionally the only clear spirit available in this country until the 2nd half of the 20th C) Bottle and shake every other day.

After 3 months the liquor is a rich purple, and the dry bitter sloes have worked an extraordinary alchemy to produce the richest, most flavoursome drink imaginable. It can be drunk at once, although it improves still further with keeping.

Reading: Ball of Fire by Antony Brett-James: rats, my copy is damaged, with pages missing just as the partisan leader, Ras Seyoum – a key figure in the film – is launching a wild attack on the Italian fortifications. I shall have to hike to the library and order another copy and hope that it arrives in good time. If not it will have to wait until I can get to the British Library in November.

Watching: The Wind that Shakes the Barley. Lovely storytelling.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Smoke gets in your eyes - and hair, and clothes and lungs...

First time back at the cottage for almost 2 weeks – the leaves have fallen and light is falling on the West side for the first time in months. The mice have been slacking – almost no damage.
Found a hedge of sloes which I will convert into gin for Christmas tomorrow

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Falling leaves

Back in Northumberland, nursing the last of the cold, as a guest of my lovely sister and bro-in-law, who have an aga (bliss).

It is the coldest morning to date – verging on frost and with a dense white fog. The Beech tree beyond the door is shedding leaves so fast it looks like golden snowfall, with a similar crispy whisper.

Today is the first day I feel inclined to work again – I am making use of the Aga to stay in pajamas and try to make up for lost time on the step-outline.

I have been working on the same story now for 6 years (not exclusively, of course, but pretty consistently. The thought process is different – a series of small "aha!" as I rehearse the possibilities while walking.

This story has its origins in a sickbed. In 2001 I had been writing short stories for under a year, all arriving as a result of internal conversations, "what ifs" and being resolved into finished pieces within a few days I actually used to rush home from work to complete them in a hot flush of invention. There was no room for any other words in my head.

Then I got bronchitis after a bad winter cold – exacerbated by the fact that my desk at the time was in a basement, which was also used as a smoking room by other employees. The window next to which I perched was thickly coated with tar, so that the light filtering down from street level had a sepia glow to match the 1950s conditions. I had a bar heater on one side and the PC to the other to provide heat. A year later the

It took me almost 4 weeks to recover. When I tried to return to work the smoke drove me straight back to bed within two days.

I was soooooo bored of the hours spent swaddled in bed – upright to relieve the strain on the lungs, listening to the radio, sleepless through the night, listless through the day and living on soup. I doodled as a listened, a woman in a black coat running down a the stairs from a court room, a man following who had believed she was dead, who needed to know why she had disappeared. It was a scene I had created and run through my head for amusement for almost 15 years. I tried to remember where it had come from. A dream about a desert, a crashed jeep, a woman with a rifle and two lovers. For the first time I tried to write it down.

4 hours later I had 15 pages of single line typescript, starting:

*****

INT. WATERLOO STATION. DAY

Ellen alights from the train in the smoky grey dawn light, carrying a small vanity case and a handbag. She passes porters, early morning workers, mail bags being unloaded, two West Indian Airmen with kit bags, international travellers from the boat train, a cleaner sweeping the concourse.

She searches in her purse for change. She is wearing close fitting black leather gloves.

She opens her purse. No change, only notes.

She buys a newspaper with a 10-shilling note. The seller grumbles.

She enters the ladies rest room, and uses a penny to open a cubicle door.

INT. LAVATORY CUBICLE – DAY

Ellen locks the door and lowers the seat. She kneels on the cubicle floor, places the vanity case on the seat in front of her and opens it. Rummaging inside she retrieves the parts of a handgun and assembles it - with remarkable efficiency. She is still wearing the gloves. She puts the gun in her handbag.

********

It's very different now. But so is the rhythm of writing, and that is why I am procrastinating by blogging instead of working!

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Bugs and dustbusters

The week in Suffolk ended on a snuffly note - I caught a chill walking from
Orford to Butley through the woods in the rain.

Haven't written a word since - too busy hiding under the covers with a stash of
tissues and laudanum reading up on natural (and other) disasters, which always
cheers me up.

My flatmate's awesome mother stayed in the London flat while I was away -
awesome because she scrubbed every room from top to bottom and transformed it.
The bath sparkled, the walls shone. And then she cooked goulash and left in the
fridge for me. I've never met the woman (I have spoken to her on the phone, but
as she speaks no English and I speak less Magyar they were short conversations)
but I want to hug her.

I should explain that the flat was a cheerless wreck when I moved in – It had
been trashed by previous tenants and needed to be steam cleaned over two days
before I could move in. This left many corners of grime and dinginess to tackle
and smashed fittings to repair, but as I was in a plaster cast at the time, and
trying to catch up at work, mush of this wasn't tackled at the time.
Redecorating was postponed while we chased an insurance claim against the owner
of the flat above us, which seems to spring a leak every second month. And we
got used to the lime-dulled taps and streaky walls.

It took a skilled and determined woman to put us straight.

Mrs. Ambrus, I salute you. And your goulash rocks.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Score to date...

4 miles of orford shingle
6 avocets
2 heron
2 egrets
2 curlew
1 shelduck
10 cows
5 smoked sausages
3 scenes

Eastward Ho

Having been in the North for two weeks I am now in the east - Suffolk (Orford to be precise.)

It was in a converted pigsty a few miles from here, in 2002, that I wrote the first draft of Translations. I'd been stuck at home with bronchitis and wanted to escape. Foot and mouth had left holiday cottages empty, and so I was able to rent the pigsty (which was very sweet). I took a pound of coffee, my very first suitcase and an elderly 'laptop' running windows 3.1 and textpad. Without a car I was forced to walk everywhere.

The story came out in huge chunks - 4 hours at a time.

This time there are more distractions (i.e., company) but I am gratified to discover that the story is coming in big blocks. Must be all that sky.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

Doesn't get much better

Solved some major act 2 problems on the script, the rain is falling past the open door, I have a glass of red wine and a fat cuban cigar. All I need is a sailor on leave to make life perfect.

I just hosted a dinner party in the cottage - with half of the guests under the age of two. It was noisy but entertaining and has left a mound of washing up.

Back to the keyboard in 30 mins.

Monday, October 01, 2007

All the curses of hell fall on the heads of spammers

At regular intervals [say every 2 weeks] some mf spoofs my address to send bulk mail, and my mail box crashes under the weight of returned mail. This is irritating enough when I have broadband, a laptop and a mail filter. When I am on a mountain relying on the webbrowser on a mobile phone it is heartbreaking. I haven't been able to read mail for 48 hours... I can clear it out in the library tomorrow, but right now I am feeling really un-buddhist in my desire to inflict pain on the bastards who have hijacked my mail.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Lunch for the [deputy] landlord...

Baked beans, cottage style.

Two pork ribs, trimmed off a bit to make supper tomorrow, and a piece of smoked bacon, chopped - browned over the fire for 5 minutes or so.

Added a chopped onion, garlic, then a few minutes later, a tablespoon of brown sugar.

Opened tin of tomatoes - and sod it, the new 99p tin opener doesn't work. Curse Robert Dyas then open tin with brute force.

Add 'tin opener' to the shopping list chalked onto the mantel piece.

Added tomatoes to pan. Wiped the fine spray of tomato juice from my face. I probably look like Paul Bettany in Gangster No. 1. The tin died hard...

Added black pepper, bay leaf, majoram - no salt, salt hardens beans.

Added bowl of white beans soaked overnight and water from kettle.

Brought to boil for 10 minutes.

Now, if I had a hay-box, i'd have slid it in there and left it for 4 hours. I don't, so the pot went into the lpg stove in the back-kitchen.

Mmm - lovely smells. Time for breakfast, and a 2 hour stint at the keyboard

Only two hours work today - i'll have to do better tomorrow. Most of the day was taken up with learning to drive a landrover, then carrying stuff up to the cottage in it - an old windsor chair, a zinc chest to store food in, etc.

Home made baked beans taste remarkably like heinz, oddly enough.

Picked a pocket full of blackberries on the way home - i'm eating them with greek yogurt.

Called home to hereford - it's still summer down there as far as the fruit is concerned.

Reading: Five Red Herrings by Dorothy L Sayers. Silly book. Nothing like as strange and funny as Nine Tailors. Just a lot of unlikable suspects and some train timetables. And almost NO Bunter...

I wonder if I should learn learn to fly-fish. There's salmon in that river..

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Bah - turns out I can post to this blog from the cottage, but not moderate or comment - so that will just have to hang on until I have babysitting duties at the bottom of the hill and can use a real computer.

Meanwhile, either:
A - it's a mild night.
B - i'm toughening up.
C - the place is finally warming through.
D - any combination of the above.

I know this to be the case as I just found myself with no clothes on while getting ready for bed. Didn't manage that when I was here in july!

The pop-pop-snap-hiss of a log fire is one of the loveliest sounds in the world. Seriously.

Just clocking off - 4 hours work on step-outline, trying to make sense of the different stories that make up the whole.

Nice egg and a pot of tea, then a few chapters of Bleak House, which i've had on the go since I got stuck overnight at JFK overnight in June.

Landlord climbing up for lunch tomorrow, so I am soaking beans.

Have to remember to borrow the sewing machine on Saturday and finish putting curtains up before I freeze.

I've cracked under the strain of living wild.

I just caught myself collecting sheeps' wool from the gate to leave out for my mice, so they won't be tempted to carry off my socks. Commit me, now.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

I and da mice are v v cosy

It's 8.30, and almost dark (still some reflected light in the sky).

As of 5pm yesterday I am now living full-time in the Stone Caravan. October. Bloody awful timing - although, to be honest, August was almost as cold!

The composting loo is working, the water filter is doing its work and the fire seems to be just warm enough for comfort – although I am looking at a pot belly stove that I can install in a month or two...

Just went to make tea and found a disgruntled mouse in the recycling bin. I had to help him out, which probably induced a mouse-sized heart attack of terror...

Monday, September 17, 2007

Running a live test…

I am updating this by email from the North Cloister of Westminster Abbey (a delightful spot with a healthy draft and a fairtrade coffee offering to mitigate the chill of the stone seating.

It's good to know that the Abbey still resembles nothing so much as a national auction house, the bays are crammed hugger-mugger with beds, chairs, stacked portraits, chipped busts and broken vases, all in magically odd conjuction with each other. There is the same tender shock at recognising long dead affection in the portrait of a child, or a faded postcard from the front, lost in the back of a drawer. Poet's corner is, of course, the book section…

Happy New Year everyone!

Wednesday was the first day of the 3rd Millenium in the Ethiopian Calendar (which is based on the Coptic Church calendar).

I spent Tuesday evening in Trafalgar Square, with what looked like at least 3000 Ethiopians and their friends, partying "like it's 1999" for the very last time.

September is a great time to start the year. It's still warm enough to sit out and barbecue and drink wine at midnight.

Saturday, September 15, 2007

Roman Wall Blues
 
 
Over the heather the wet wind blows,
I've lice in my tunic and a cold in my nose.

The rain comes pattering out of the sky,
I'm a Wall soldier, I don't know why.

The mist creeps over the hard grey stone,
My girl's in Tungria; I sleep alone.

Aulus goes hanging around her place,
I don't like his manners, I don't like his face.

Piso's a Christian, he worships a fish;
There'd be no kissing if he had his wish.

She gave me a ring but I diced it away;
I want my girl and I want my pay.

When I'm a veteran with only one eye
I shall do nothing but look at the sky.

WH Auden

Hmmm... I have been trying to find a way to update this on-site, from the hilltop, but Blogger is not really PDA friendly.

I have to solve this, as I will now be on the hill for much longer.

'Cos - I got the bursary!!!!!!!!!! For the next 4 month I am a full-time paid up commissioned writer in a stone caravan.

Just as well - the application process (3 - 4 hours a day writing, on top of a 10 hour working day, with long-haul travel thrown in, for 35 days) - almost finished me. I spent 10 days in a darkened room if conjunctivitis straight afterwards.

I was contemplating giving up one of the following:
  • The long-houred Job (but even eccentric hermits need an income)
  • The Writing (but I would probably go insane)
  • The Cottage...

But, for the next few month I don't have to make that choice...

I was heading up the hill again in a week, to live and write in the cottage over October/November.

I am a little worried about Foot and Mouth. This is a very very hard time for hill farmer, as September is the month when the harvest the lambs, just before the grass on the hill dies back. They are at a standstill, with no cash coming in after a year's work, and no way to feed the excess stock through the winter. Walking through the pastures daily carries minuscule risk, but I don't want to do anything to cause more distress or concern to my neighbours at the moment.