This algid impersonation of summer seems to have inspired a degree of nostalgia. Once upon a time, long long ago - well, about four years ago, actually - there was a lively little group of cyber-pals sporting the suitably ridiculous moniker of the Brotherhood of the Jacuzzi.

Rest assured that this bubbling watery attraction existed only in the colourful imagination of its inventor - who was not my good self, before you ask. The cyber-Jacuzzi was the fanciful setting of many a late night scheduled chat for this group of RPG players, their game having a somewhat historically inaccurate Templar flavour soured, inevitably, by the usual sniping and sycophantic twaddle.

…Amongst other things. But I won’t go into that.

The plug was pulled, but the Jacuzzi’s bubbles were heading down the drain even before then. And so everyone went their separate ways, which is the usual pattern of behaviour within the cyber-realm, as elsewhere. Most fell off the radar; one went off to find fame - though not before encouraging me to stop RPGing and write something of my own, (for which I’m truly thankful!)

And then there was The Imp - though I didn’t believe the innocent-led-astray façade, or the pretence of youth (which would have cast this person in the role of the most eloquent multi-lingual teenager ever to walk the Earth.) And I don’t care about all the half-truths, the veiled truths or the blatant fantasies - and who but The Imp knows where the divisions between these lie anyway! All that is not important.

What is important is one of my fictional characters derives his appearance, scathing wit, personality and mannerisms entirely from The Imp - or rather, from my perception of The Imp. To base a fantasy on a fantasy… Most amusing; but also my tribute to the original. And also presenting something of a dilemma, should the real Imp protest.

Maybe I should cast a fairy ring - formed of anchovies, rather than mushrooms, of course* - and invoke The Imp to appear on LJ once again.

*private joke, presenting absolutely no humour whatsoever for anyone other than said Imp and myself.

We know we're not supposed to be on here....

Wrote 1,850 words this morning, which takes the total word-count for Bethany Rose up to 23,250 so far. Writing the spooky bits is such fun...!

Warm spring sunshine yesterday enabled me to get some weeding done. Today's torrential rain has forced me to postpone further efforts. We have three yellow crocus and a patch of snowdrops in bloom. What happened to the rest of my crocus though? I planted heaps of them four years ago, and there has been less each year. Anyway, yesterday I had no sooner finished weeding a stretch of one border when a cute little robin came to investigate. I was looking out of the kitchen window as I was washing my hands, and saw a wren on the fence.

Bathed the dogs yesterday. I managed to capture them in the bathroom by stealth. Otherwise if they hear the 'B' word they hide under the bed and will not come out! I bathed Emily first as she was the cleanest. I'd no sooner towelled her dry than she jumped back in the bath to torment Ygraine. So then I had to clean the bathroom too--completely.

Sylvia's beloved dog, Gelert, died on Tuesday. He'd had a couple of peculiar wobbly spells recently, and then he had another and died twenty minutes later. Poor Sylvia is devastated. As any pet owner will tell you, shen a pet dies it's like losing a member of your closest family--more so, quite often, as people often far prefer their pets to their legal relatives.

Reminder: Until Friday, you'll still be able to hear Spanish Jones (part one) on http://www.citytalk.fm/showdj.asp?DJID=48793 Just move the curser along almost to the end of the show, as I'm on then.

Yesterday I had the very real pleasure of meeting Kimberley (AKA thenaiadmuse) and her friend and travelling companion, Jordan.

Kimberley is coming to the end of a three-month tour of Europe. You can read about her adventures in her blog.

They only had a few hours in Liverpool, having arrived from Birmingham by National Express coach. I offered to show them around the truly excellent Walker Art Gallery, where they could leave their huge backpacks in the staffed cloakroom before wandering through the many long, cool galleries of seriously exceptional art. For good reason is the WAG considered to offer one of the most prestigious collections in Europe, and both Kimberley and Jordan enjoyed it. Jordan was thrilled to view the original Echo and Narcissus by the Pre-Raphaelite artist, John William Waterhouse, as he has enjoyed displaying a print of this in his home for years.

Take a peek - http://www.liverpoolmuseums.org.uk/walker/

Over dinner at the nearby Wetherspoon's, we chatted non-stop about art, their European travels, our own creative work, philosophy, ecology and green issues, life, the universe...! They both said the highlight of their travels had been the time they'd spent in the Damanhur community.

http://www.damanhur.org/

Kimberley and I have communicated via LJ for around five years now but this was the first time we'd met in person, and we got along incredibly well. Jordan was lovely too, and it was a pleasure to meet them both.

The time flew, and soon they were on the train to Glasgow, which is one of their last stops before heading for Vancouver and home.

(My bathroom is now filled with the lovely fragrance from the sample of Kimberley's home-made soap!)

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…

Sylvia and Richard on Caldy Hill

When Richard, Sylvia (gelertandbess) and I sat on the crest of Caldy Hill, the day was sunny if breezy - but what else can you expect being so close to the Irish Sea! Sylvia hadn't been on Caldy Hill before and promptly fell in love with the energy of the place. Emily and Ygraine adore the ancient woods which over this hill, of course.

By the time we'd hiked over to Thurstaston, having said hello to the horses en route, a distinct chill grew in the air. But as we had the dogs with us, we weren't allowed inside The Cottage Loaf - which is fair enough, of course.

As the waitress walked to our table with lunch, look what happened!


Sylvia and Richard outside The Cottage Loaf

Riverside Writers met last night and we had two new people join us, which is always nice. Last month’s writing project was to create a poem or short story with the title of The Killing Tale, and all but one person had produced work for that.

We were joined by John Gorman of the Wirral Academy of Arts, which has just been granted charitable status. He was able to tell us that the public performance (by professional actors) of submitted work for Wirral Writers Inc has been postponed until April 2008, in order to combine this event with another literary festival and so make promotion more effective.

The bad news is that the Hallowe’en ghost tour has also been postponed until next year, because apparently I’m the only writer who’s produced any work for it! What happened to everyone else?!! Ah well, c’est la vive… I’ll use my work elsewhere in the meantime.

If anyone’s in Liverpool on October 4th, drop into Central Library on William Brown Street, as there’s a Poetry Marathon as part of National Poetry Day. I’ll be taking part in the afternoon.

A change of subject….

It looks like there’s a storm blowing in for this evening. I’m having to keep an eye out for raindrops while I’m typing this, as I’ve a line of washing outside. I ought to give some thought to tonight’s dinner, too, as Richard’s going to a Fish concert at the Pacific Road Arts Theatre in Birkenhead, which is a very nice venue, actually. But his friend Lee will be here around 6pm, so we’ll need to have dinner early.

Actually, Lee and Lynn have just come back from Portugal, which they absolutely loved. The place was spotlessly clean and the people were very friendly, and the food was great, they said. They waited ¾ of an hour for a bus to take them to the next village. Only later did they realise they could have reached the village by walking along the beach for fifteen minutes!

They brought me a gorgeous shawl back. It’s red and goldy-brown, in a paisley pattern, with silky tassels. I wasn’t expecting a gift at all, so that was a lovely surprise.

Our two dogs took us for an enjoyable woodland walk around Frankby at the weekend. (Yes, I know it’s now nearly next weekend but I’ve been busy, ok?!!) There were carpets of snowdrops under the trees. A friendly pony came to say hello when we trudged along the muddy path beside his field. Emily was terrified of the bewildered creature, and hid behind Richard’s feet.

Emily is still learning to walk on the lead properly. She’s got the general idea but is distracted by scents very easily, and noisy traffic unnerves her. She has a habit of stopping dead, which consequently means that whoever’s walking her has to be ready to do likewise or else nearly fall over her.

We called in to The Farmer’s Arms, but escaped to the garden rather than struggle to talk over the exuberant crowd of football enthusiasts who were happily yelping and yowling at the big TV screen. (Fear not, I’ll resist the temptation to launch into one of my diatribes about boring sport!)



I’ve now finished the first draft of a short story set on Hilbre Island, called Seagull Inn. The finished MS is intended for submission to an anthology whose brief requested pieces with a strong emphasis on history and archaeology.

(Insert conversation with Slightly Dippy Person: “But history didn’t exist when they put the archaeology there!”)

Anyway, trying to segue factual information into a story without turning that story into a history lecture is no mean feat. People read fiction primarily for entertainment, after all! Consequently, it took me approximately a week to produce 3000 words – pathetically slow, by my usual standards. Maybe I was just trying too hard, as the very act of over-concentrating can raise a barrier to many things, creativity included.

Anyhoooow, permit me to introduce an old friend of mine who has recently opened a journal here on LJ! Actor, playwright, film director and drama class teacher, and all-round fine lady – meet gelertandbess Go say hi!

Revealed - the mystery behind the poem (mistakenly attributed to me) which appeared on Terry Wogan's radio show! Meet Sylvia: actress, playwright, stalwart of medieval battle re-enactments, and soon-to-be film director (shooting starts this spring) - and old school pal.

We were reminding each other of the dubious delights of our old school days just recently. Sylvia volunteered the information that it was she who had caught me when I passed into blissful unconsciousness during The Human Biology Film. You know, the one with some brave woman howling, "Oooooww!!! Arrrrrrgh!" rather a lot. How could I resist reminiscing about the day Sylvia fell into a cesspit during a cross-country run? Ah, the joys of youth.

I keep trying to coax her to open an LJ but so far....

Well, our builders have finished plastering the bathroom walls, the new bath is plumbed in and some of the floorboards have been repaired. If any of you would like some dust, we have plenty going spare.

When the conversation you’re having is destined to become an LJ post, you know you’ve been on-line too long….

Me: Remember Sylvia? Well, she’s teaching drama at our old school now.
Slightly Dippy Relative: Does she do demonstrations?
Me: I expect so.
SDR: Karma – that’s that Chinese thing where they move slowly.
Me: Huh? No, that’s Tai Chi!
SDR: What’s karma, then?
Me: That’s the philosophy of how you reap what you sow.
SDR: (mumbles)
Me: Anyway, she’s teaching drama, not karma.
SDR: Oh, that’s no good, then.

Ah, the heady days of summer are definitely behind us now. Taken earlier in the year, this photo shows the very first of the strawberries grown in our garden – our dog helped harvest much of the remaining crop. We’d wondered why the fruits were so sparse. Ygraine’s pink chin handed us a clue.

I have just learned that a friend of mine, who is in her eighties, is recovering from a stroke which temporarily rendered her unable to speak. Peggy’s doctor has told her that her heart could give up at any time, but then she’s already been living with that idea for the two decades that I’ve known her. Her speech seemed fully recovered when we were talking over the telephone. The stroke has damaged one arm and one side of her face, she told me. The stress of waiting for the immanent death of her long-time friend and mentor isn’t helping her condition. Some of you may remember me posting a few poems written by West Cheshire Lad, which is one of the pseudonyms used by the gentleman in question. Well, he is currently – so Peggy told me – in very poor shape, being given blood transfusions every three weeks and being kept alive by various tubes and medical aid. Each time his health takes a turn for the worse, so does hers.

I’ve just finished editing chapter twenty-three of Tamsin. I keep describing this as the second draft though this is hardly accurate, as some parts of the MS have been re-written several times already. Let’s keep things simply by describing this as the second complete draft. So anyway, progress with this is steadily continuing.

Here's a photo of the rose, clematis and honeysuckle trellis before it collapsed under the weight of flowers and foliage.

Why does submitting to the attentions of a dental hygienist inspire me with the overwhelming urge to devour inordinate quantities of sticky, gooey, caramel-laced chocolate the very second I’m through the surgery door? It is an act of infantile defiance, no doubt, which declares immediate rebellion against any puritanical tendencies designed to inspire the maintenance of creamy white, freshly polished toothy-pegs.

And, anyway, I walked up the hill. That’s bound to burn off a few of the calories gained.

My friend Sylvia has nice teeth. No really, she does. I noticed this on her latest promo photos, where she’s posed with one of her movie-cameras hoisted onto her shoulder as if in readiness for the film she’s going to shoot next spring. She has a warm smile and lovely white, even teeth.

Anyway, onto other things…

The second monthly newsletter for my Yahoo! was posted today, and only later did I realise that not one of the links worked. It’s hardly the end of the world, but a nuisance nonetheless. Maybe I should release an emergency update (ha! some “emergency”!!) which contains functioning links.

Remember me mentioning the short piece I’d written for Riverside Writers recent meeting, which was called The Four Seasons? Well, that has now been submitted to an anthology competition being run by http://www.writerscafe.org/ Actually, if you toddle over there and feed my name into the search-for-writers facility, you’ll be able to read some of my poetry, which I may well add to when I have the time.

Meanwhile, work continues on editing Tamsin - and also I’ve been wondering how I’m going to re-write Cry for Innocence as at least half of that needs changing. I may change the title, too, so that each of the series is named after the main character. Ah well, time will tell.

I do hope I don’t entice people into a somnambular trance when I write about writing… I have visions of readers’ eyes glazing over as their hands reach for the scroll button. Oh well, I am the way I am – if you don’t like it, hit ‘delete’.

Goodbye

The morning’s so beautiful;
Summer’s golden warmth
Envelopes this room,
And I know you’re out there
With the sunlight in your hair,
Laughing at some little thing –
I love you!
I sense the emptiness between us;
The time we spent together
Was so precious,
To me at least;
And now we travel on,
Our orbits drifting further –
I love you!
Under the same sun
But with a measureless distance
That I will not try to cross,
My own journey proceeds
With the weight of raw memory
That burns yet from your touch –
I love you!
Goodbye….

Have you ever met anyone who taught you some important things about life and living? Things which you may not have learned had you not met them? Perhaps I have been fortunate, as I can easily recall several such people who acted, knowingly or not, as living sign-posts who pointed me in useful directions at the right time.

A friend of mine once described her life as a being like a series of mini-lives linked together, rather like the segments of a chain. Her life had progressed through distinct phases, each quite different from the other. With each phase she’d learned something new before moving on. The process of change was often difficult but nonetheless valuable in itself. Always it seems that some out-grown things need to be annihilated in order to make room for something new. And we often like to hang on to that which is familiar, like a child who’s not quite ready to discard a favourite teddy bear. (And sometimes you can find yourself feeling more like the teddy bear who’s been discarded.)

Yesterday, two Mormon “missionaries” knocked on the door. Dressed in identical black suits, with a big plastic ID badge on their lapels, they looked to be not long out of school. How arrogant, I thought, to presume to preach to anyone about how to live life when they’ve hardly experienced any of it yet! What can these self-proclaimed "missionaries" possibly offer other than phrases learned from books?

If spiritual knowledge could be gained from books, then every university would be thronged with saints.

This was my overriding conclusion after having attended several seasons of lectures held by The Theosophical Society in Liverpool. Its members seemed perfectly amiable people and were most welcoming of any visitors. No-one tried to apply pressure to join or to impose their point of view, which was a pleasant change. The lectures themselves covered many aspects of Theosophy, and the speakers had clearly dedicated considerable time and energy to preparing their enjoyably scholarly talks. However, the most striking words I heard while there came from a lady who’d given a lecture on angels. She said, “I don’t know any of this; I just got it out of books.”

How rare it is to encounter someone who does not merely quote memorised phrases but who actually embodies real knowledge, who truly lives according to their philosophy. Such people have no need to quote from a book; their knowledge is embedded in their psyche; their knowledge is a vibrant part of who they are, and hence is an inseperable part of their lives. Such people need not be without flaw. (After all, who is?) But certainly I have benefitted from the privilege of spending time with several such people.

When these times, these phases, come to a close it can be difficult to accept such changes. We’ve learned so much and clamour for more; or perhaps we simply miss the enjoyment of sharing time with a similar soul – a rare enough event in itself.

But needs must. All things end, no?