Click the image to visit the book’s page on Amazon
This time last year, I had the honour of having one of my short stories, The Reason Why We Eat Turkey at Christmas, featured on the Mumsnet Advent Calendar.
Mumsnet, for those of you unfamiliar with it, is a highly-regarded, well-read parenting website. Dads are by no means banned from it, though some may be intimidated by the name.
Mine wasn’t a children’s story (though older children may enjoy it), because the calendar was aimed at parents – and what parent doesn’t love an advent calendar, big kids that we all are?
But in this age of the e-reader, another fun festive trend is emerging to get us in the mood for Christmas: the rise of the special Christmas e-books. These are usually short stories rather than full-length novels, because who has time to read much when there’s Christmas shopping to be done? Nor the budget to buy them – so these e-books are usually priced low, designed to provide an affordable treat that offers light relief from the stresses of Christmas preparations. Speaking as one who has yet to write a single Christmas card, post a parcel or finish my shopping, it’s a service made to measure for me. I’ve just enjoyed two very different such stories by my friends Joanne Phillips and Andrew Peters.
On finishing Andrew’s book, it dawned on me that here was a bandwagon (or perhaps I should say sleigh) on which I, as a self-publishing author, ought to jump. So last night I entered the fray, and hey presto, via the digital magic of Amazon, I’ve conjured up a new Kindle e-book of my Mumsnet Christmas story, under the new, snappier title of The Owl and The Turkey. As its original name suggests, it is a fun, frivolous and ever so slightly silly fable that suggests the real reason that we eat turkey for Christmas. The tale begins when a young Queen, bored of wild boar, despatches her Royal Huntsmen on a quest to find the medieval answer to fast food. No birds were harmed in the writing of this book, which is suitable for vegetarians of all ages.
The Owl and the Turkey is now for sale on Kindle at just 77p/99c here.
And while you’re reading it, I’d better make a start on those Christmas cards….
COMING SOON:
While we’re in wintry mood, make a mental note to come back to this site on Saturday, when I’ll be taking part in a special feature about the winter solstice, with links to fun and fascinating contributions from 30 other writers, kindly choreographed by my friend the historical novelist Helen Hollick.
It’s Halloween, and I’m in Disneyland Paris in a queue. No surprises there, as anyone who has ever been to Disneyland Paris will confirm: queuing is inevitable. For anyone with a low tolerance of queues, such as my husband, the best advice is to avoid it.
But we’re old hands, my sister, my daughter, and me. We’ve been coming here once every year or so since Laura was 4 – old enough to appreciate it yet young enough to believe in its magic. (My sister, aged 60, is still at that stage).
Over the years, we’ve become adept at keeping our queuing time to a minimum. But tonight’s queue is different.: I’m not awaiting a turn on a ride, but lining up, early evening, for refreshments in a Disneyland Main Street cafés. Like everyone else around us, we’re exhausted, but hanging on for the end-of-day audio-visual display before we head back to our hotel for the night. Having seen the show the night before, we know it’s worth the wait.
Looking Forward – and Backward – To Fireworks
Clear sky by day, laser-filled by night
Thanks to 21st century technology, the end-of-day show is far more sophisticated than when I first went to Disneyland, as a child living in California for a year. In those days, there was only one Disneyland, and we had the good fortune to live close by. Back then, we thought the traditional display behind Sleeping Beauty’s Castle was spectacular, but it was nothing compared to what we’re about to see. This display uses the Castle as a projection screen for a complex laser show, transforming it into Notre Dame, the Scottish castle in “Brave”, Beauty and the Beast’s palace, and more. Not only fireworks but huge blasts of fire shoot into the air around the castle, warming us all the way down Main Street.
After a day of bright sunshine and clear blue sky, the night air is bitterly cold, and we need internal warming to tide us over until the display begins, and so we’ve hit the café. I’ve parked my sister and my daughter in a cosy, comfortable booth of this Victorian-themed fast-food cafés, and I’m queuing at the self-service counter for tea and cake.
Fast Food It Ain’t
Tucking into treats by day
As in all Disneyland Paris’s fast food outlets, the term “fast” is a bit of a misnomer. The French simply do not understand the concept of fast food. If they did, the Park’s profits would surely soar, as they’d serve thousands more meals and snacks every day.
I resign myself to waiting however long it takes to reach the cashier and spend some time inspecting the display of Halloween-themed cakes. Having chosen a fruit tart to share between the three of us, I lean back against the brass rail that runs the length of the self-service counter, channelling the queue towards the till, and I turn my attention to the others in the queue. It’s a good thing that I enjoy people watching: it helps pass the time.
Behind me I observe two American ladies who are just deciding to buy four souvenir plastic cups, adding 20 Euros to their drinks bill. This purchase seems rather coals-to-Newcastle, considering they hail from the land of Disney. I wonder whether they’ve thought how much suitcase space these cups will require on their journey home.
Halloween Treats
Ooh La La!
In front of me is a middle-aged French lady whose loaded tray includes two pumpkin-coloured tarts adorned with marshmallow ghosts. I’m just speculating whether they contain real pumpkin when I’m distracted by the appearance of a small olive-skinned child whose curly head is bobbing under the brass railing beside me. Pushing through to the counter, she stands on tiptoe beside the lady with haunted tarts, one of which I assume is destined for her. I’m therefore surprised when the little girl reaches up to the counter to help herself to another one exactly the same. The French woman looks down, startled, without a flicker of recognition of the child. They’re not together.
Although I know that not everyone is as disciplined at queuing as we English, but still I wonder at the child’s cheek. I wonder whether her mother has already reached the till and sent her to collect the cake as an afterthought? A glance at the front of the queue tells me otherwise: a man on his own is carrying off a tray without a glance at the child.
Then, as quickly as she appeared, the little girl vanishes, dashing off down the café among the banquettes, the pastry still in her hand. The French woman and I exchange astonished glances as the child settles down next to two coffee-drinking women.
The Mystery of the Vanishing Cake
Next up at the till, the French woman lays into the cashier indignantly. He and his coffee-making colleague are not perturbed: it seems they’re used to such infringements.
“Ça n’est pa grave,” he assures her, totting up her bill and sealing plastic lids on to her drinks order. “Ça fait rien.”
My well-mannered daughter and friend
I know enough French to recognise that the lady thinks it very grave indeed. As she pays, she continues to rail against the child’s action, the body language on both sides of the counter becoming more pronounced as words fail to resolve her disagreement with the cashier. I begin to wonder whether she’s about to make a citizen’s arrest. Finally, she gives up, muttering crossly as she retreats with her tray to her table.
The child’s mother seems even less concerned than the cashier, continuing to drink coffee and chat to her companion, though she must have noticed her child’s petty theft.
Thankful that at last it’s my turn at the till, I order our teas and pay. As I’m waiting for my drinks to be poured, I hear a rustle at my side at waist level. The little girl has returned. Ah, I think, she’s seen the error of her ways and come to apologise, perhaps paying from her own pocket money as a punishment.
She pushes past me without a care and smiles innocently up at the cashier, before saying in fluent French: “Please may I have a spoon with which to eat my cake?”
With a twinkle in his eye, the cashier passes her a spoon. Well, it is Halloween, after all.
If you enjoyed this post, you might like this anecdote about self-catering in France: Always Read The Label
If you’re off travelling this summer, be careful who you sit next to on the plane. You never know where it might lead. Here’s a cautionary tale from my pre-Hawkesbury days.
Geneva Bound
Sailing close to the wind on Lake Geneva (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
In my 20s, I worked as a journalist for a trade magazine in London, often travelling abroad on business. When going somewhere new, I always tried to add in a day’s holiday for sightseeing. One Sunday on a flight to Geneva, I opened the novel I’d brought with me: Boris Pasternak’s Dr Zhivago.
“Oh!” said the middle-aged businessman next to me. “What a coincidence! I’ve got that book in my bag too.”
So began a long conversation that lasted till we touched down and ended with us arranging to share a boat trip around Lake Geneva that afternoon. He seemed pleasant enough, and after all, we had something in common – Dr Zhivago.
The sun was shining, it was a glorious trip, and we followed it up with a drink in a bar, where he asked if I’d join him for dinner. All of a sudden, I started hearing what he was saying as if through the ears of my fiancé back in London, who would certainly not have viewed this man as a platonic friend with no ulterior motive.
I made a transparent excuse and declined. The man gave me a wry smile, we shook hands (our only physical contact all day) and parted forever.
Falling to Earth
The enigma of Doctor Zhivago (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
Only later that evening, alone in my hotel room, did I begin to wonder whether I’d been hoodwinked. Had I just been the victim of a well-practised chat-up line, an opening gambit honed by years of business trips? Suddenly I realised: I never had seen his copy of Dr Zhivago. I suspect now it didn’t exist. And I never did tell my fiancé.
So, wherever you’re going for your holidays this summer, have fun, take care – and don’t talk to any strange men!
I blame you, Boris Pasternak (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
If you enjoyed this post, you might like these other tales of troubled travel:
Travelling Light – how to cope with your husband’s packing deficiences
With thanks to intrepid traveller and writer Laura Zera, whose call for stories of interesting people met on planes triggered this long-suppressed memory. Laura writes a fabulous travel blog too: www.laurazera.com. This post also appears in the July 2013 edition of the Hawkesbury Parish News.
Current London Underground (Tube) from Transport for London’s official website
Last weekend I came across a terrific new scheme to entertain bored commuters and tourists as they travel beneath the streets of London on the city’s famous Underground system, commonly known as the Tube.
It’s called Books on the Underground and does what you might expect from its name: it distributes books on the London Underground system for people to pick up and read for free. They may either dip into a book on their journey and leave it where they found it, or take the book home to read in full. The only proviso is that they release the book back onto the Tube afterwards. A branded sticker on the cover makes it clear that each book belongs to the scheme and acts as a reminder to return it.
Who Sends Books Underground?
Alison Morton’s alternate history novel transports readers from Stockwell to Roma Nova (Photo by Books on the Underground)
Anyone can donate a book, including its author. Many authors I know, through my book promotions consultancy Off The Shelf and the Alliance of Independent Authors (ALLi), whose blog of self-publishing advice I edit, are climbing aboard the scheme. It’s a fun way for an author to gain visibility – literally – for their work.
I’m sending a copy of my own book underground this weekend. As Sell Your Books! has a narrow target market (it’s a self-help book of promotion advice for authors), I wasn’t sure the scheme would want it, but their lovely administrator Hollie assures me that they would. After all, authors travel by Underground too.
My Top 10 Books for Reading on the Tube
I began to wonder what other titles might be appropriate for Underground travellers. Here are the 10 titles I’d most like to find there:
Alice’s Adventures Underground (the original title for Alice in Wonderland, seen on old copies) by Lewis Carroll
Down and Out in Paris and London by George Orwell
Travels with my Aunt by Graham Greene
Journey to the Centre of the Earth by Jules Verne
Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift
The Odyssey by Homer
The Incredible Journey by Sheila Burnford
Lost Horizon by James Hilton
Heart of Darkness by Joseph Conrad
and finally, ending on a lighter note: Are We Nearly There Yet? by Ben Hatch
Action Stations
Travelling To The Fair Land by Tube (Photo from Books on the Underground’s website)
As a former London commuter, I’m well acquainted with the Underground network. I can easily picture the books travelling through the different stations on familiar lines. So it struck me as especially magical if a passenger picked up a book at a particularly relevant Tube stop. I’m longing for someone boarding at Covent Garden to pick up my friend Lucienne Boyce’s fab historical novel, To The Fair Land, which opens with a vivid scene in the Covent Garden of 1789. What a great way to escape from 2013 London for the rest of their journey.
Here are another top 10 titles that I’d like to find at a particular station:
A Zoo in my Luggage by Gerald Durrell (Regent’s Park)
Mrs Dalloway by Virginia Woolf (Westminster)
1984 by George Orwell (Westminster again)
The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Conan Doyle (Baker Street)
Peter Pan by J M Barrie (either of the Kensington stops)
Babar the King by Jean de Brunhoff (Elephant and Castle)
The Adventures of Paddington Bear by Michael Bond (no prizes for guessing that one’s station)
Heidi by Johanna Spyri (Swiss Cottage)
The Wombles by Elisabeth Beresford (Wimbledon)
The House at Pooh Corner by A A Milne (just about anywhere on the grubby old Northern Line)
I’m sure you can think of more books you’d love to find Underground. Please feel free to add them in a comment below – I’d love to hear your ideas. And if you’re travelling on the Underground and come across my book, please send me a photo!
We’re getting there – London Underground map from 1908 (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
With the end of May heralding the Cotswolds’ most idiosyncratic sporting events – the Tetbury Woolsack Races and the Cooper’s Hill Cheese-Rolling – I’ve been thinking about the inextricable link between event and setting. These two ancient rites would not attract the same following if removed to other places. Hefting a Woolsack the length of Chipping Sodbury’s level high street or rolling a cheese through Bourton-on-the-Water would be nowhere near as exciting.
The original Marathon – not a happy ending for the runner (Image: Wikipedia)
You can stage a marathon anywhere in the world, but it will never be the same race. Ask anyone who has run in London, Paris, New York, or, er, Marathon.
This fact first dawned on me when, in my pre-baby running days, my husband and I signed up to enter the Cheltenham 10K.
This will be a sedate little number, we thought, passing elegant Georgian facades and corporation planting. We warmed up with a few shorter runs: a pleasant 5K jaunt around Bourton-on-the-Water, followed by the Chippenham River Run, both events equally defined by their setting. The post-race refreshments left a bit to be desired, but we were looking forward to Cheltenham’s more genteel offering: cucumber sandwiches and Earl Grey, perhaps?
But it was not to be. A week before the race, a letter announced that due to unforeseen circumstances (a row between the Town Council and the event organisers), the race would now take place at the Moreton-in-Marsh Fire Service College. Ok, we thought, Moreton-in-Marsh is pretty too. Not a problem.
Only on arrival did we discover that the College is set well away from the town and offers quite a different scenario: surreal mock-ups of emergencies in which firefighters may hone their skills. We ran past crashed aeroplanes, burnt-out buildings, overturned railway carriages and motorway pile-ups. It was like fleeing from the apocalypse. Well, that’s one way to cut minutes off your personal best.
Introducing the HU5K Run
Follow HU5K’s Yellow Brick Road
Which is why I’m particularly pleased to be organising a race this month in a much more peaceful setting: what’s dubbed by local runners “The Yellow Brick Road” – the level stretch of the Cotswold Way that skirts Hawkesbury Upton, with fine views down to the Severn Valley. On a clear day, both Severn Bridges wink back at you in the sunshine. The HU5K Run will take place on Saturday 15th June, starting at 10am, giving woolsack-toting, cheese-rolling racers a couple of weeks to get their puff back first. All ages (7+) and abilities are welcome. Leading the way will be former Team GB Olympic runner Nick Rose, veteran of the Olympics in Moscow in 1980 and Los Angeles in 1984. Now there’s a man who can tell you what a difference a venue makes.
Former Team GB Olympic runner Nick Rose is an inspiration to runners of all ages
Registrations in advance are preferred, to make sure we’ve got enough medals to go round. For more information, visit our the official HU5K website or call 01454 238401. I’ll race you to the starting line!
This post was originally written for the Tetbury Advertiser’s June 2013 edition.
COMING SOON:
