When my old computer died, it took several chapters of Tamsin with it; chapters which I'd already edited so this means I had to do them again. I'd prefer not to have to repeat work but sometimes you just have to get on with a job! I've now finished the tenth, which brings me back up-to-date.

I also lost a Fantasy story which I'd been working on for two weeks already, and which also meant I missed the submission deadline for the anthology I was aiming it towards. I like the story, Turning Tides, which was about the annihilation of Druids on Anglesey, so I will re-write it ASAP and aim it at a magazine.

Richard had one of his many migraines yesterday. He suffers from them a lot. So, he spent most of yesterday morning in bed. Emily kept him company, not being one to willingly forego a warm spot. Later he took the dogs out for a walk, and Emily arrived home with the collar of her woolly coat half hanging off. Truely she hates the thing!

I've been reading a strange little tale by Andrzej Sapkowski called The Last Wish, which draws on popular folk and fairy tales while adding an individualistic slant of the author's own. An unusual novel, certainly.

Richard and I went to a performance of Sleeping Beauty staged by the English National Ballet. I've lost count of how many times I've seen this ballet, but I was able to watch some dancers whose work is new to me--such as Asta Bazevicute as Princess Aurora, and James Forbat who was very good as Prince Desire.

I was sitting next to a lady in her 50's who'd come to the ballet on her own as none of her friends like it. She had wanted to be a ballet dancer as a child but her mother had made her have piano lessons instead. Now she does Arabian dance, purely for fun, which totally scandalises her mother. Good for her!!

Last night’s premier of The Snow Queen, performed at the Empire Theatre in Liverpool was wonderful!

The English National Ballet more than lived up to its reputation for excellence with this new ballet choreographed and directed by Michael Corder. The fairy tale, originally written by Hans Christian Andersen, tells the story of Kay and Gerda, whose love is jeopardised when Kay falls under the evil spell of the Snow Queen. Kay leaves the village and Gerda, and goes to dwell in the Snow Queen’s icy palace. Gerda has other ideas, however, and dances all the way to the North Pole in a tiny pink dress to rescue him.

Fernanda Oliveira carried the demanding role of Gerda with seemingly inexhaustible vivaciousness. Daria Klimentova’s portrayal of the Snow Queen was suitably dramatic and aloof, and her glittering costumes must have been a delight to design.

The Snow Queen had two rather cute pet wolves. Every home should have one. Really, it should. So long as they didn’t eat my other pets, that is.

“Taste this,” he said, poking the thin drizzle of sauce zigzagging over his plate. He did not look happy.

“Hmm, apple pie and cough medicine. Interesting combination.”

“What’s yours like?” He peered across the table, over the top of the tea pot.

I scowled at the ugly square white plate sat before me, on which rested a thin, sunken floppy brown wedge. “Stale chocolate cake softened with cheap diluted sherry then warmed up.” I, too, had been presented with a miserable whisker of zigzagging cream.

Look, chefs, if I order pudding I want pudding, and not someone else’s idea of a break in an anorexic’s diet, ok? And what’s with the miserly drizzles? Humph!

The main meal had been pleasant but the portions meagre. I’d had to paddle through my korma to find any chicken, and I’d seen bigger stock cubes than his salmon steak. To top this, the place possessed all the aesthetic charm of a school dining hall – think N-O-I-S-E plus a constant flow of people pushing past us.

So, having grown tired of shouting at each other across the table in order to hear our conversation, we went somewhere much louder instead! *chuckles* It had been quite some time since I was last in The Swan Inn on Wood Street, but it’s not changed much – a few different pictures on the walls, and they’ve improved the restrooms, (cue dodgy accent impersonation –“Oh maa gaaaad, I’m sounding so American already!”) So we perched on familiar wonky wooden stools while happily being deafened by Van Halen and Free and the likes. Clearly it’s the same jukebox, except with a few Marilyn Manson and growly-stuff updates.

Anyhooow, shortly before 9pm we strolled next-door to the FACT Café, which was to be the venue for the Word Is They Say (WITS) literary event. The café forms one part of a much larger cinema complex, or so I gathered. It’s very spacious and modern and echoing; all hard flat shiny surfaces – but they make a fine cappuccino. Well, it has to be said that the turn-out wasn’t great, but those who had come along seemed to enjoy themselves. Certainly no-one wandered off – always a good sign!

The performances began with four folk/blues songs by Rob Clarke, who accompanied himself on an acoustic guitar. Following this came readings by several writers, including Aidan Pilkington-Burrows, Paul McDermott, Robert Carlisle, David Bateman and organiser Amanda DeAngeles. (That’s possibly not the full list, but being more interested in listening than playing good journo, I forgot to take notes.) Oh, and I went on fourth, when I read aloud the first chapter of Tamsin.

Monday night saw us at the Empire Theatre in Liverpool for a performance of Swan Lake by the Russian Classical Ballet Theatre. The role of Odette/Odile was danced by Nadezhda Schepachiova. Odette was danced well, but Odile needed much more vivacity than it was given. It is the contrast of characters which gives this twin role its purpose. Vladimir Statnii as Prince Siegfried and Ghenadii Badika as Baron von Rothbart also needed more power in their movements, though otherwise they danced elegantly. Evghenii Tkach as the court jester performed some delightfully controlled athletic jumps.

The corps de ballet was, unfortunately, weak. The spectacle of the swans’ dances relies heavily on the perfection of timing, of the exact synchronicity of all the dancers' movements. This was sloppy. (And don’t tell me this can’t be done – I’ve seen it done!) Also, I don’t expect to twice see dancers narrowly avoid collision, or to have to scuttle quickly into the correct alignment. Perhaps they were used to a different size of stage. Certainly the orchestra’s own sense of rhythm would not have helped the dancers; the pace of the Neapolitan Dance went completely haywire. To the dancers’ credit, they managed to maintain dignity.

In ballet, it is not enough to move fluidly with lyrical gestures. Energy, power and emotional expression are also required. Swan Lake devoid of real passion was a sadly lacklustre affair.

And per-leeze ditch the duck on a scateboard which trundled across the rear of the stage....!

My Peculiar Aristocratic Title is: Her Most Noble Lady Adele the Bard of Wirral Get your Peculiar Aristocratic Title

Much of yesterday was spent writing Shell Boy. Did it really take all day to produce five hundred words? Hmm, I’m afraid it did… Sometimes that’s how writing goes – with me, anyway. One day words will flow so swiftly it’s as if my typing isn’t quick enough to keep up. On another day, however, it’s like treading through treacle.

While writing Shell Boy, I was thinking about the film Death in Venice, and of those who indulge in people-watching along the promenade here. I was also thinking of a valued friend of mine, an Italian who shares my penchant for collecting shells, in particular an LJ post of his in which he had smiled kindly in response to the interested gleam in an elderly person’s eye. He had recognised that, in time, he might well find himself cast in the role of the aged and easily overlooked admirer.

I was also thinking about a role of Michael Cane’s which had him declare that he’d been through two wars, had held friends while they died, had loved one woman with more passion, and had experienced more of a life completely experienced than the youngster who was giving him earache. (If this isn’t an altogether accurate rendition, I accept full responsibility, my memory for films being notoriously suspect! In fact, I can’t even recall which film this was from.)

Interestingly, the above paragraphs come to 258 words – just over half the length of the story, and written in a fraction of the time.

Onto something else…
Recently I wrote a book review of Dancer by Colm McCann, which is published on Amazon. In this, I mentioned an old newspaper clipping depicting a photo of Rudolf Nureyev which I’d kept since childhood. Having written this review, I wondered where this clipping had gone to. I couldn’t imagine throwing it out; it is one of that particular category of personal treasures in which no-one but the owner could possibly find any value, and yet which are precious nonetheless.

Waiting for the bath to fill, I browsed through some old books which are crammed onto a shelf in the front bedroom, which is destined to become my writing office eventually. Meanwhile, it’s piled high with large boxes containing our new bathroom, DIY tools, paint tins and “useful stuff” ad infinitum. Anyway, I happened to pick up a paperback by Richard Bach. The spine is damaged and some of the pages have come loose, but never mind about that. It had been at least ten years since I had last read Illusions. So I opened up the battered front cover with a smile – and there was Rudolf, coolly gazing out at me. He’s now stuck to the side of my computer desk. If you wish to know the significance of this image, you'll have to read the review. Meanwhile, here he is:-

Let’s begin with a little quiz lifted from gingerspark who declared, “Ask me 3 questions: no more, no less. Ask me anything you want. Anything! Then go to your journal, copy and paste this, allowing your friends (including me) to ask you anything. C'mon I dare you... I double dog dare ya!”

Ok, so I dare you. Keep in mind that pithy retorts may well prove mandatory.

Tuesday afternoon saw me grubbing around in the attic, brushing aside inches of dusty cobwebs in the search for old magazines which have featured my writing. You can now see some of these on my updated profile page.

Tuesday also saw us in Birkenhead, when we bought a digital camera for him. He’d turned his nose up at the prospect of using a digi initially, but when he saw the results from mine he changed his mind. Plus the digi will easily fit into his pocket, whereas our old SLRs are bulky by comparison. He wants to take photos of his art work, partly to put on his MySpace site (ok, for me to put on his MySpace site!!!) but partially simply for his own pleasure, as a visual record of his creations.

So, he enjoyed his thirty-ninth birthday – with much teasing about hurtling towards the Big Four-Oh. Time flies, hmm? Oh, and he extends his thanks to all those who sent birthday wishes for him.

On DVD we enjoyed Rudolf Nureyev’s production of The Sleeping Beauty with Ballet de L’Opera de Paris. The costumes by Franca Squarciapino were gorgeous – lavish and highly detailed without distracting attention from the dancing. Princess Aurore was beautifully danced by Aurelie Dupont, and Manuel Legris as Prince Desire performed several excellently choreographed solos. He has his own website here:- http://www.manuel-legris.com/ and there’s an interesting interview with Aurelie Dupont here:- http://www.ballet.co.uk/magazines/yr_03/nov03/interview_aurelie_dupont.htm

This afternoon I wrote the first draft of Swap, a 1,500-word story which has been floating around in my mind as a vague idea for around two years. This piece fits in neatly with a set of stories which are loosely linked by location and theme (dark fantasy/local history). Eventually I’d like to collate these stories into book-form, and maybe add some photography of the sites used in the stories.

For me, writing short stories offers me an enjoyable break from grinding my teeth over the penultimate chapter of Tamsin which is proving to be something of an uphill struggle. Or maybe I just allow myself to be distracted too easily. But I really did need to go to Birkenhead this week so buy new net curtains. Really, I did. The old ones were vile in the extreme, I assure you. And I bought three books, too. It will be a while before I read them, though, as I’ve only just begun a lengthy biography, Margot Fonteyn by Meredith Daneman.

I don’t believe I mentioned my battles with the power-hose this week. What a pity it conked out half way through the task. Now our drive has a definite “before” and “after” look. Also, the instruction booklet omits to mention that the spray-back carries rather a lot of dirt with it. Anyone using the appliance rapidly acquires the appearance of an animated mud pie. Need I add that I speak from experience?

There, see how easy it is for me to get distracted from my original intention? I was supposed to be writing about how my collection of short fiction parallels the proposed series of novels. I intend to write some short fiction featuring some of the characters in the novels. What I need is more hours in the day to get everything done. So how do you stretch time?

Can the English National Ballet possibly get any better? Every time I’ve seen them, I spend days afterwards with my mind full of colour and swirling images of theatrical magic and lingering awe.

The costume department had excelled themselves to create beauty which complimented the dancers’ movements without becoming visually overwhelming. The stage sets for Sleeping Beauty were simple yet evocative, first bringing us into the heart of the royal palace and then implying the growth of the forest which sprang up while Princess Aurora slept, having pricked her finger on the enchanted spindle given her by the evil fairy, Carabosse, (danced by Andre Portasio). The role of Princess Aurora was danced with extraordinary fluidity by Daria Klimentova, while the good, or “Lilac”, fairy was beautifully performed by Fernanda Oliveira who I’ve seen dance several times previously, most recently in the twin roles of Odette/Odile in Swan Lake.

The highlight of Act III simply had to be The Bluebird and Princess Florine, danced with breathtaking agility and grace by Erina Takahashi and Cesar Morales, which was rewarded by a deafening applause from the packed audience. I’d last seen Erina dance Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, and recognised her tiny frame immediately. Surely this young lady has a fabulous career before her.

My seventeen-years old niece was captivated throughout the entire performance. Even a certain member of our party who has been known to quietly nod off during the latter stages of ballet productions remained wide awake, despite suffering from the onset of a flu virus which kept him in bed with a fever for the next two days.

A wonderful evening, certainly – and an exquisite performance from this inspired ballet company.