Am I ready for tonight? I think so… I hope so! Yesterday, I was chatting to Julie Mann, one of the librarians at West Kirby Library, and we remarked how the initial planning for New Tales for Old Byways had begun at a meeting a year ago. That was when the Wirral Bookfest had been scheduled for April, before the threatened library closures set everything back months. Julie will be taking photos tonight, just as she did for last year’s Words from Wordsmiths event.

Wirral TV will be filming tonight’s event. This was confirmed only yesterday. It should be an interesting experience to have a film crew moving around.

I’ll be reading Seth’s Basement, which introduces one man’s strange hobby; and also Food, which is one of my series about the Caldy Hill fae. But the program is very diverse, being a group effort.

Hope to see you there!

Tune in to 7 Waves Radio on 92.1 FM today (Friday) between 1pm and 2pm (GMT), to hear Tim Hulme, Peter Hurd and myself live on Cath Bore's Lunchtime Forum.

Non-Wirral residents can hear the show via the station's website at http://www.7waves.co.uk

I'll be reading Food, which is the latest in my series of short faerie tales set on Caldy Hill.

Richard photographed this gorgeous dragonfly yesterday, when we'd taken the dogs for a walk (through many apparently fascinating puddles) beyond Gilroy Nature Reserve and along a country path which winds through the golf course towards Hoylake.

Some good news - Catherine has passed her science foundation course and will enrol at university in September, where she'll be studying forensics. We're all really pleased for her!

On Sunday, Evelyn and Mum had only just arrived here when Catherine and Hazel arrived too. Here we are in the photo, which Richard took: from left to right - Cat, Hazel, Mum, Evelyn and me.



The six of us went to The Twelfth Man for dinner. My chicken alfredo was lovely but other people were served frozen peas and oven chips, which are always tasteless and lifeless. The waitress dropped half of one dinner on the floor as she was about to place it on our table, and though she replaced the food she didn't bother to clean up the spilled food from the carpet. That was still there when we left.

Saturday saw me in Manchester, when I met with two friends. When burgers were suggested for lunch I hesitated. Regular readers of my scribblings will know I avoid junk food like the plague. However, my two friends hold similar leanings regards health and aesthetics and they said this restaurant made its own burgers from 100% Aberdeen Angus beef. We just made it before a monsoon drenched the city!

http://thatsfoodanddrink.blogspot.com/2007/07/gourmet-burger-kitchen-opens-in.html offers a fair description of GBK.

So, yes, if you’re in Manchester and are feeling hungry, I can recommend the place – pleasant surroundings, reasonably priced and excellent food. The milk shakes were yummy, too.

Sunday saw Emily waiting for Cat to arrive. That puppy explodes into happy yipping-yapping when my niece’s arrival makes the front gate squeak. The poor girl can hardly get through the door for our two dogs excitedly greeting her. She was wearing black jeans. Oh dear. When will she learn? Black jeans, white dogs….!!!

Right – on with some work…

“So,” I said to Richard, “what did you cook for yourself on Saturday night while I was away?” We were on our way back from Lime Street Station where he’d kindly come to collect me after my weekend in Manchester.

“I got indigestion,” he said.

“What from? What did you eat?”

“Pilchards and scrambled egg on toast,” he said, “followed by rhubarb pie. And haggis.”

Ah, the bliss of a cup of Chai.... I have become seriously enamoured of this drink. Twinings do a lovely one, flavoured with ginger and cinnamon.

And I deserve it, too, I think, after climbing up and down that horrible creaky step-ladder all afternoon. I've been spring-cleaning the kitchen, tackling the dusty tops of wall cabinets and the towering fridge-freezer; a tedious task, but one of those domestic chores which simply need attending to every so often.

The morning was given to nearly-finishing Clara's Wristwatch. I say "nearly" as I'm not altogether happy with this story yet. It's another in my series of short faerie tales for adults, and arose from the latest project for Riverside Writers.

At the end of our last meeting we had two minutes to pick the next project's topic, (before "throwing-out time" at the library). There was a magazine lying on the desk, one of those glossy society rags which people leave on their coffee tables if they feel compelled to fake aristocratic leanings. Anyway, inside was an advert for diamond-encrusted wristwatches, and so this became the theme of our latest writing project.

Mum is now upside-down for the next three months. Who will I talk to on Saturday afternoons?!! Since my father died last year, we'd developed the habit of phoning each other on Saturdays. We talk about nothing of any consequence most of the time, but that's not important. So, she flew to Australia on Wednesday - hmm, maybe she's there now, or nearly there; the flight takes around two days, apparently.

Riiight, I'd better go now. I must get the Alaskan pollock out of the freezer. Naturally, hubby has already nicknamed it the "Alaskan pillock" but, with a name like that, what else can you expect!

I’ve picked up some kind of 24-hour bug. All yesterday was spent endlessly sneezing and feeling hot and cold by turns. I’ve thrown it off overnight, and apart from sore ribs from all the yaa-choooing - and mild lethargy, which I’ll fix with a good feed shortly – I’m ok again.

Still, it gave me the perfect excuse to curl up with Laurell K Hamilton’s The Harlequin, which I’m enjoying. I’m about ¾ through the novel – spoil the ending for me at your peril!!

Richard is addicted to carbonara. My Richard, that is, not the fictional werewolf. We caught the tale-end of a cookery program last week, when someone was cooking it, and Richard liked the look of the meal. So I had a go at making it – and it really is ridiculously simple and takes only about half-an-hour, and makes an incredibly tasty, nutritious meal. Never let it be said that I let a good opportunity go to waste; I’ve now got Rowan cooking it in chapter 31!

The leg fell off the ironing board. There is no alternative purpose for a monopod ironing board incapable of defying gravity, so the rickety old contraption is now propped outside in the rain, next to the recycling bin.

This happened on Sunday morning, when we were trying to leave the house for a set time. Two thick bath towels doubled over and spread across a kitchen work top proved themselves to be a serviceable stand-in to the ironing board, and we even congratulated ourselves at how smartly dressed we were as we locked the front door.

Big mistake. Five minutes later, it began to rain. Ten minutes later, despite huddling under umbrellas, we were drenched from the thighs down.

We managed to dry out during the forty-five minute bus journey. Most of the sand brushed off, too. Yes, sand; we live by the sea, remember. Each time a storm blows in from the west, it carries half of the beach with it.

Our bus arrived in Liverpool city centre at the same time as the thunder storm which had seemingly opted to keep us company. In the five minutes it took us to walk from the bus stop to the shelter of the Empire Theatre, we were saturated just as badly once again. Guess who was wearing linen. It’s relatively quick-drying properties are somewhat countered by its penchant for crinkles, so in the rear of Lee and Lynn’s car I attempted to iron myself with my hand.

Richard, of course, happily drip-dried, thus demonstrating one of the remaining gender differences. Men are casual, while women are merely bedraggled.

We drove further under the belly of the growling sky, all the way to Bickerstaffe, actually, and to an adorably picturesque ex-farmhouse which is now The Sandpiper country pub and restaurant. And a fine meal we had there, too – a traditional roast beef dinner, with Yorkshire pudding and fresh vegetables.

Hours later, we drove back through Liverpool, which is a fascinating experience in itself. Not for nothing has the area been recently described as Europe’s biggest building site, as the skyline is clustered with massive cranes. Old buildings are being torn down and new ones are emerging in their places, so much so that it’s almost disorientating as once-familiar streets become changed – for the better, in my opinion. Not everyone would agree with me. Some people decry what they see as cultural vandalism. In my view, if you want to inject new vigour into a place (or, indeed, into anything) you first have to make room for it. To do that, some stuff needs to be jettisoned. And many of the demolished buildings were eyesores anyway, which had long-since fallen into neglect and decay.

One example of the stylish new architecture emerging across the region is Birkenhead Park Pavilion. The rear of the building is shaped like a Big Top – round sides with a pointy roof. The glass front overlooks manicured flower beds which lead off into the re-generated park beyond. Inside, the foyer café is light and airy, its uncompromising modernity softened by fronds of greenery twining its way up an interior wall. And they make a rather good cup of tea, too…..

I was there to attend the latest meeting of Wirral Writers Inc. People are now busily creating work for various projects, and there is a huge amount of enthusiasm for this joint venture. Two new musicals are being written - Wirral UDI and HMS Blair. Many other writers (including me) are more interested in the monologues and dialogues projects, and manuscripts are already being handed in. I’ve written a 2,000-word/20-minute monologue, Beautiful, specifically for this.

Tonight, the defunct ironing board was joined by the deep-fat fryer. There I was, lazily poking at a pan of peas with a wooden spoon, when a waft of burning plastic caught my attention. Were the peas off? Was a neighbour having a bonfire in the rain? Was that awful smell really getting stronger? Richard appeared, sniffing like a Bisto kid. Then a long coil of green-grey smoke coiled up from the lid of the fryer.

“Unplug it!” I yelled at Richard, who was standing right next to it.

He did. One second later it went BANG!

“Don’t lift the lid!”

But he did. Fortunately he did not get a face full of flame….

No flames at all, thank goodness. But imagine if I’d just nipped upstairs or down the garden for a minute! Disasters can happen so swiftly.

Anyway, the chips tasted fine.

Wash all fruit well, and check for any wildlife!

It's jam-making season once again - which is a something of a misnomer, as fruit is easily available all year round these-days, of course. However, my raspberry canes are producing their annual harvest now. It's not the best crop; many of the fruits are small this year due to the lack of rain, (ironic, as now the fruit is ripening much of Britain is contending with flood conditions.)

Home-made jam has nothing in it but fruit and sugar, unlike most manufactered products which are laden with synthetic chemicals. Take a look at the labels, and ask yourself why a preserve needs extra (synthetic) preservative. The answer is pretty obvious - they're made from junk, that's why - and turnips; which is why often find flavourings and colourings added. Yup, you're eating dyed, sugary turnip pulp.

The solution is easy. Make your own.

This, too, isn't 100% healthy as most fruit has been sprayed with insecticides, and most preserving sugar has been bleached so it looks white. I've yet to source a brand of unbleached preserving sugar.


Raspberries and cherries cooking and being sieved into another pan.

Choose your fruit, (use only healthy fruits, not mouldy stuff), wash it well, and add a couple of chopped-up apples, (including skin & pips), to add natural pectin, which is the stuff which helps the jam to set. Then boil all this in a pan. Sieve the pulpy result into another pan, thus removing crunchy bits. Bring this to a rolling boil, (so it looks like lava), and carefully skim off any scurf which will come ot the surface. (The scurf won't hurt you; it just spoils the opacity of the finished jam.)

Then stir in roughly half the weight of preserving sugar to fruit. There's no need to faff around weighing things; just guess. Have a saucer in the freezer. When your jam is boiling like crazy - and don't be tempted to stir it - and it's started to look like sryup, then put a small blob of jam onto the freezing saucer. Leave it a minute and poke it gently with a teaspoon, and the surface wrinkles then your jam is done. If it doesn't, simply boil it a bit longer and try again, then carefully pour this into sterilised jars.

One thing - watch out for the boiling jam in case it spits. You'll be working with very high temperatures, and for this reason I would not recommend jam-making as a project to do with young children. Plus any spots of boiling jam will stain your clothes, so wear something you don't care about.

Jars - there's no need to buy these. Recycle glass honey, puree or coffee jars. Just wash them well, put them on a baking tray in the oven, then switch on the heat to 100 degrees for half an hour. This is sufficient to sterilise the glass. Once you remove them, using oven gloves of course, the in-rush of air will instantly expose them to air-borne bacteria. That can't be helped; the same thing would happen with any sterilisation method. So leave them in the oven until you're ready to decant the jam from the pan.

Good news! My niece, has landed herself a new job, with training thrown in and greatly improved prospects than with her current job.

On Monday, a party of us enjoyed a very good dinner at The Wheatsheaf in Neston. Richard and my mother had the Barbary duck, my sister Evelyn chose lasagne, and I had the chicken curry served with Basmati rice. Everyone enjoyed their meals, and the place itself is spacious, contemporary country in style. We’ve dined there before and have always been pleased.



Just a few minutes along the narrow country lane is Ness Gardens. My mother had last been there when Eric was still in a pushchair, and Evelyn had never visited Ness before. They both thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. The gardens offer so much contrast, from shady, hilly woodland glades to rambling meadows, to ponds and tidy flower beds, to jagged rockeries and glasshouses. The photo above shows the Alpine glasshouse, leading into the herb garden. And who couldn’t admire the glorious wisteria in the photo below, hmm?

“Let’s go for a day out,” said hubby, gazing expectantly at Monday’s clear blue sky.

Off we went, evidently having missed one Chester bus but we happily waited for the next, scheduled for half-an-hour later. By the time we accepted that this bus was never going to materialise, we resigned ourselves to waiting for the next one. Finally, we settled down to the enjoyable journey through the western towns and villages of the Wirral peninsula until, when just beyond Neston, the driver yelled, “No brakes!”

I thought his driving had been getting a little hairy. Fortunately, he stopped the vehicle safely then radioed for help. Another bus would come for us all, he said. So we waited. And we waited.

One little old lady loudly grumbled about her missed appointment. No doubt this was inconvenient to her, but rather less so than crashing upside-down into a ditch, surely! Not to be consoled, she declared she was going to write to the council about it. Perhaps they might consider passing a bylaw making it illegal for busses to break down? Ah, I shouldn’t tease….

The bus grew hotter and hotter as we sat there for an hour, then hubby turned to me and said, “I’m hungry. Let’s walk back to Neston and find food.”

Once again we wandered on our way, and entered the first pub we came to. Did they do food? The barmaid told us, “If you come back on Saturday we do sandwiches.”

A five day wait seemed a tad excessive so we tried elsewhere, the Greenland Fisheries, to be precise, where we enjoyed a simple but thoroughly satisfying cod, chips and peas in a cosy and congenial atmosphere. Some people might wonder at any connection between Greenland and our sunny corner of Cheshire, but oodles of time ago there used to be a thriving port at nearby Parkgate. Now, of course, the harbour is marshland, famous for birdlife and infamous for mosquitoes.

Popular science insists that the harbour silted up quite naturally, but if you wish to learn what really happened to prevent the tidal River Dee from returning to port, you’ll have to read my A Wirral Otherkin Trilogy (which is under consideration by a publisher at the moment.)

It was to Parkgate that we strolled next, enjoying the scenery and quaint houses, and the heady fragrances of flowering magnolias which thrive in Wirral’s sunny microclimate. We sat on the low sandstone harbour wall, and poor hubby gazed mournfully at the world famous ice-cream shop and cursed his dairy allergy.

So, having ambled along the busy promenade, we arrived at the bus stop where we checked the time-table. Yup, we’d just missed one bus, and had an hour to wait. Oh well, the view across the marsh to Wales is enjoyable on a sunny day, no? *chuckles*

You are invited to join in with a debate about TV viewing here: http://2e0dtoeric.livejournal.com/5536.html

Read a beautiful poem about Alexander the Great and Bagoas here: http://rothalion.livejournal.com/49459.html

This morning, the synopsis and first three chapters of Tamsin were emailed to the submissions department of a prospective publisher. All I have to do now is wait for half a century until someone deigns to read it!

I’m still waiting to hear back from another prospective publisher regarding A Wirral Otherkin Trilogy, which is a trio of short Dark Fantasy/Folklore stories.

The 3000-word Seagull Inn is currently undergoing tweaking and polishing, in preparation for submission to an anthology, (deadline April 15th).

And I’m still recovering from the biggest chocolate and vanilla ice-cream sundae, with chopped nuts and brandy snaps and runny chocolate drizzles that I’ve ever encountered! Slimming it wasn’t, but scrumptious it most definitely was. Neither I nor Mum could finish the entire dessert. Poor Richard could only look on, over the expanse of plain apple pie which he’d chosen.

This was yesterday, in the Waterside Inn in Leigh, which stands beside the Manchester Ship Canal, the historical waterway which joins Manchester to Liverpool and the Irish Sea. Back in the Victorian era of wealthy cotton mills and coal mines, this canal provided a vital route for import and export. Now it’s used mainly for tourism. The mills stand empty, unless they’ve already been converted into luxury apartments. The coal mines were closed during the Thatcher years. And Leigh, like many mining towns, never really recovered from the loss of traditional industries. Many shops are empty or derelict – yet the entrance to Pennington Park glowed yellow with cheerful daffodils, and the gnarled old magnolia trees holding aloft their stately pink and white blooms stand as a testament to tenacious local pride.

“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....!

"Mmm, this tastes good," he said, sipping a smoothie.

"What's in it?"

"Oh, you know... Live yoghurt, a dash of pure orange juice for liquid, four bananas, two plums, two apricots, a big spoonful of honey, a carrot, half a brocoli and ten sprouts."

…As you just might get it. Well, I certainly did – x2.

So there I was, contentedly strolling home from the village, drenched despite my umbrella. In my other hand swung a carrier bag plump with a new jumper. As I approached the dog-legged walk-through which cuts five minutes off the journey, I could hear a man’s heavy footsteps getting quickly closer behind me. Call me paranoid if you wish, but I took the long route which brought me within sniffing-range of the takeaway. “Hmm,” said my inner alter-ego, the one who has no regard for calories, “it’s light years since I had a curry. I’d really like something hot and spicy.” And so, my will power being somewhat soggy due to the torrential rain, (she says, grasping straws - or should that be "oars"?), I thoroughly enjoyed a rather tasty chicken curry served on a bed of steamed rice.

Now, understand this: this household rarely dines on takeaway food. It’s expensive, often tastes mediocre at best, and tends to be saturated in goodness knows what kind of fat which is goodness knows how old. Old fat = heaps of free radicals.

Soooo…. 8.30pm came and went, and still he hadn't returned home from work. 9pm had faded history before the garden gate scraped its familiar squeak. As I opened the front door, there he was, holding aloft a fragrant carrier bag and wearing a big grin, (plus mandatory garments, I’ll add, before some smart aleck pipes-up). “Hey, erm, since it’s so late I got us dinner at the takeaway. Chicken curry sound good?”

We enjoyed an excellent meal at The Devon Doorway in Heswall. The contemporary restaurant is tastefully arranged, with comfortably spaced polished tables in a series of alcoves. The cuisine was of a faultless standard, and when we discovered that everything on the desert menu contained dairy products the chef quickly offered an alternative choice which – like the main meal – was beautifully presented.

The occasion was, of course, Hallowe’en – which is also our anniversary. Time is a funny old thing, don’t you think? We fell to the predictable subject of how long we’ve been together and of the experiences this has brought. So many people told us, at the outset, that our relationship wouldn’t work, that we were too different. We are, in all truth, two very different people; two highly independent, individualistic people. And yet here we are, still together and happily so. In fact, these-days we get along better than ever.

( Read more... )

Emailed to me by Gisela:-

The Final Word On Nutrition

After an exhaustive review of the research literature, here's the final word on nutrition and health.:

1. Japanese eat very little fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.
2. Mexicans eat a lot of fat and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.
3. Chinese drink very little red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.
4. Italians drink excessive amounts of red wine and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.
5. Germans drink beer and eat lots of sausages and fats and suffer fewer heart attacks than us.

CONCLUSION: Eat and drink what you like. Speaking English is apparently what kills you.

I would have to suggest that the consumption of vast quantities of fast food, junk food, ready meals, tinned or frozen food and food cooked in microwave (radiation) cookers has also played its part in getting Britain voted the most obese nation in Europe. Not that we're actually members of the European Union yet...

Laurell K Hamilton talks about her novels and offers advice to writers here:-
http://www.barnesandnoble.com/writers/writerdetails.asp?z=y&cid=1021632#interview

There’s an interesting blog entry about the process of novel writing here:-
http://douglas-clegg.livejournal.com/57446.html

Speaking of writing, I’ve added an extra chapter to Tamsin which seems to smooth out a ‘bump’ in the flow of the novel. Chapter thirteen, which follows on from this will, require a radical re-write, so once I’ve posted this LJ update that’s what I’ll be working on today.

We enjoyed a lovely trip to Chester on Monday. The River Dee had flooded the lower level of the river walk, but I have seen the waters higher on rare occasions. A gorgeous swan came to say hello to me. What beautiful creatures they are; and though to describe them as regal might be an unforgivable cliché, this word truly does belong to these magnificent birds. They can be surprisingly fierce – apparently their wings can break a man’s leg – and yet if you’ve ever watched one sailing along with cygnets hitching a ride on their backs then you’d know how tender they can be also.

We lunched in The Slug and Lettuce, which was rather pleasant, before having a wander round the old city. I bought some rather snazzy stiletto boots. I’ll admit to a fondness for boots… And once we’d wound our way down to the swollen river, we naturally went to our favourite Blue Moon Café for tea and cake – and they do make the most fluffy yummy cakes imaginable!

Chester is easily one of my favourite places. The energy of the place just feels right, somehow.

My mother and sister Evelyn came to visit, too. We had dinner at The Queen Anne in Oxton whose décor was lovely inside. What really caught my eye was the tasteful barn conversion to one side of the pub, though – huge windows, sandstone walls, with a small courtyard in front. I’d love something like that!

Lee and Lyn have just returned from a trip to Cyprus, which they enjoyed. Lee said everything was very expensive, though; they were charged $9 for two coffees and ice-creams.

Hmm, I’ve just noticed that this post is mostly about food. Spot the girl who’s on a diet.

If I objected to people leaving me messages, I’d have curtailed that option long ago. But, honestly, do I really give the impression of seeming likely to contribute to a rap album, or appear inclined to derive inspiration from anime bosoms? Trust me when I tell you I’m straight – and, besides, my artistic tastes tend more towards Caravaggio and Botticelli than some nerd with a set of felt pens.

A recent rash of odd little messages allegedly “showing some love” has raised a few chuckles on this side of the glass screen. Love? I find myself struggling to conjure one iota of information about these enthusiasts, who in all truth would struggle to qualify as even the most tentative of acquaintances. Amiable conversation is always welcome, I assure you all. Expressions of private fantasies, however, are perhaps best kept to oneself.

Soooo, how was your weekend? Mine began with a trip to Birkenhead in search of the elusive Siberian Pine Nut Oil, a quest which proved fruitless (or nutless), as did my attempt to find some decent sandals as my usual pair are rapidly descending into dereliction. I often wear sandals around the house, much preferring them to trainers which are, I find, too hot and clumpy – and ugly.

True to form, the book shop called to me… I’ve just finished reading Anchee Min’s Empress Orchid which was interesting, if only because life within the Chinese ‘Forbidden City’ is something I know so little about. I exited the shop with, among other books, a copy of Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time which I’ve been meaning to read for several months of Sundays.

Monday morning found me wishing I could go back to sleep after a busy night’s dreaming. I won’t share the dream; it’s too long and complicated, plus it would make an amazing plot for a novel. Move over Stargate. I woke with a real craving for pancakes! Guess who had no lemons in? Pancakes without freshly squeezed lemon just aren’t right somehow.

Monday night saw another meeting of Riverside Writers, and everyone had participated in the project which required us to write a story beginning with, “What shall we do with the bicycle?” The concept of setting a group project for each month seems to be proving popular. It gives the meetings a unifying focus without impinging on our precious informality. (I rapidly grow bored with social groups which take themselves too seriously and squander half of each meeting fussing about committee trivia.) Writing projects like these are valuable tools in stretching a person’s imagination, as they produce a story which they may have otherwise not thought of. Also, the simple act of completing the project increases a writer’s confidence in their own abilities, and at the same time has the possibility of improving on those abilities.

The issue of constructive criticism was raised – and it’s a potentially contentious topic. I would absolutely hate to deter anyone from writing due to any opinion of mine. If a piece of work seemed dire to me, I’d be more likely to say little or nothing about it rather than crush a person’s confidence. Put me in a paid position as editor, which I have been in the past, and you’d hear a direct critique. But a writers’ workshop is surely a place to encourage and nurture talent. Besides, we can all list successful authors whose work isn’t to our personal taste, so what is the value of one opinion anyway? And how honest an "honest opinion" do most people really want?