Leigh’s Scribblings

About this time last year, I wrote a blog in praise of Catherine O’Flynn, a Birmingham author whose second novel, The News Where You Are, I was reading at the time and which inspired me to pick up my pen once again after a couple of years’ absence and procrastination.

I recently unearthed her acclaimed first novel, What Was Lost, in a charity shop (2 paperback novels for £3 – bargain). Oh wow, I’m only a third of the way through and I just know it’s going to be one of those books I will be incapable of putting down and will finish in a couple of days.

What Was Lost is set in Birmingham (partly) in the 1980s – what’s not to love? And its main location is a shopping mall named Green Oaks, very reminiscent of Merry Hill, the Black Country colossus in which I whiled away many an hour as a teenager. For Black Country youth, the “Mezza” was (and doubtlessly still is) a popular Saturday afternoon hangout, and bunking-off destination if you fancied escaping school on the bus.

I won’t give too much away, but Chapter 1 begins in 1984 aboard a bus, with Kate, seemingly a young policewoman, observing the shifty antics of her fellow passengers. It soon becomes clear, however, that Kate is in fact a lonely, precocious, fantasist 10-year-old girl who, bored with humdrum school life and left to her own devices by her family, dreams of becoming a detective and lives out her fantasy by making notes of “suspicious” behaviour and painstakingly drawing assorted noses, moustaches, glasses, etc, in a makeshift Identi-Kit book.

This is an utter gem of a book. The writing just leaps off the page. I adore the setting, of course, and the 80s touches. Most of all, I can identify with little Kate.

The younger Leigh harboured no aspirations to investigate crime, but I was that quiet, imaginative kid in class, whose brain would leap ahead of her; the misfit; the one who usually befriended the deprived, unruly, misunderstood genius (named Teresa Stanton in the book). I yearned for a world away from netball, incomprehensible maths and watching Science Workshop on that huge telly and Betamax video the teachers used to wheel in. In my case I used to bury myself in creating stories. Some things have not changed.

The urge to write still marches through my fingers. I am feeling so inspired today. Engrossing myself in effortless-looking prose like Catherine’s really spurs me on to try and make something of my own writing.

Retro Food Week was a great success in our household!

My hubby and I have been on a nostalgic journey through childhood gastronomy.

Arctic Roll was a scrumptious throwback. It had been almost 30 years since I last bit into an Arctic Roll, and I am delighted to say time had not diminished its sweetness. I recalled how as a nipper I would always chomp the sponge first, then scrape the raspberry jam off the ice cream, then finally devour said vanilla ice cream at the centre of the wheel.

We enjoyed Alphabetti Spaghetti for breakfast one morning, childishly spelling out our names on the toast. It was pure baby food: soft, simple and tasty. I was transported straight back to lunchtimes watching Rainbow with a tray on my knee.

Neapolitan ice cream was another delight. Thankfully this tricoloured dessert comes in user-friendly tubs these days, as opposed to the impractical cardboard blocks that used to house it in the 80s. What was the point of those cardboard containers anyway? They would never fold back together properly, used to get all sticky, and the ice cream would slither out of them. Was there ever a receptacle more unsuited to its purpose?

Ice cream is pure comfort food to me. Mum would feed it to me when I suffered from sore throats as a tot – until my tonsils were whipped out at the age of four – and I remember its soothing qualities.

As with the Arctic Roll, I recalled a kiddie ritual I had forgotten all about: I used to eat the chocolate Neapolitan stripe first, then the vanilla, then my favourite, the strawberry. I had some peculiar foodie routines back then. I used to eat all my fish before my chips too.

My coq au vin (steady!) was absolutely delicious, if I say so myself, though I chickened (no pun intended) out of making a chocolate gateau for pudding and indulged in a frozen Tesco beauty.

These 80s dinners set us both reminiscing about Angel Delight, Fish & Chips crisps, Ice Magic, Walls Vienetta and the like. And what about Slush Puppies, those radioactively-coloured ice drinks inexplicably sold over the reception desks in leisure centres? A nice E number-laden beverage to quench the thirst after a swimming lesson. The raspberry flavour was blue, for some reason (never quite understood that).

So viva the 80s – the decade of garishly artificial colours, cod-French names, cod in sauce and inventive food that was just FUN, something often lacking from plates these days!

I am proud to say that I am in print again!!

Well only a sentence this time, quoted in somebody else’s book, but it’s something!

Ben Francis, who runs this super fansite in celebration of the 80s sitcom Watching: http://www.watching-home.tv has published a book in tribute to the show, 25 Years of Watching.  Almost exactly a year ago, Ben contacted fans who had contributed to his guestbook, asking for quotes and memories of the show, with a view to them being included in his future publication.

The book is now out: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Watching-Ben-Francis/dp/1478272724 and a line from “Leigh from the West Midlands” (no surnames included, so you will have to take my word for it  that it’s me!) appears on page 115.

It’s Retro Food Week, folks!!  That’s not a national thing, it’s just in our house.  A silly scheme my hubby and I have come up with.  Because we can!  Because we’re Rock ’n‘(Arctic) Roll like that.

Our inspiration was a recent Hairy Bikers show (I love the Hairy Bikers – and, as an aside, their Mulligatawny soup recipe is something else), in which they paid homage to 1970s cuisine, cooking up classics such as Chicken Kiev and Beef Wellington with a modern twist.  It got me all nostalgic.

Although this was a 70s-themed episode, I vividly remember such menus in the 80s, particularly on our holidays in Guernsey and at Berni Inns.

For starters there was the inevitable agonising choice between prawn cocktail, melon balls, a wedge of grapefruit with a cherry on top, or fruit juice.  Fruit juice!!  What was that all about?  A tiny glass of orange, grapefruit or tomato juice presented on a saucer, not as a drink to accompany the meal but an hors d’oeuvre, a prelude to the steak au poivre (with onion rings!) or coq au vin.

While we’re on the subject, this was the era of pretentiously bestowing dishes with French names to make them appear exotic.  “Oh, it’s not a cake, it’s a gateau.  Not a stew, but boeuf bourgignonne.”  Nowadays we are cynical enough not to be blindly impressed by trumped-up foreign titles.

When I was a kid, my idea of a heavenly meal involved fish in sauce with croquette potatoes, followed by the aforementioned Arctic Roll.  Or maybe fish fingers, with Angel Delight for dessert.  A Saturday night treat for our family would be smoked kippers and lashings of bread and butter in front of The Generation Game.

Forming rude words out of Alphabetti Spaghetti whiled away a few hours too.  I loved spaghetti hoops on toast, and embarrassingly I was well into my teens before I twigged that spaghetti was pasta and not a tomato sauce-drenched invention that came out of a tin!

One thing I drew the line at was Cadbury’s Smash.  Whilst I enjoyed the humorous adverts, featuring Zippy-esque aliens, when I was a tot, I was never a fan of the product and am perfectly able to peel a potato and cook it for “20 of my minutes.”  Actually these days I tend to avoid ready meals and “convenience” foods in general.  I am a big fan of home cooking.

Having said that, on the shopping list this week are Neapolitan ice cream, fish fingers, spaghetti hoops and Arctic Roll (which these days is known as ice cream roll but it’s essentially the same product).  I shall also be rustling up prawn cocktail, coq au vin and chocolate gateau.

Bring on the 80s…

I am delighted to report that for the first time in 3 years I have picked up my pen (well laptop – but that doesn’t quite have the same ring) and written a short story.

This afternoon I e-mailed the finished manuscript of my latest effort, Scents of Time, to My Weekly magazine.  I will keep you posted on my progress.

The writing bug has not left me.  It’s as though I have never been out of the old frustrating yet elating routine of living and breathing a story, consulting my trusty thesaurus, and falling asleep dreaming of troublesome sentences and paragraphs.  Whatever ensues, I do feel a sense of achievement and satisfaction.

I forgot, though, just how damn hungry writing makes me.  It saps my energy, and I have to replace the calories.  I’ve just had tea and toast in the middle of the afternoon.

Today’s random “That makes me feel ancient” thought: this year (well technically last year) would have been Scott and “Chaarloyyne” Robinson’s silver wedding anniversary!!

That’s right: it’s 25 (26) years since a young Kylie walked down the aisle with her bubble perm, to the strains of Angry Anderson belting out “Suddenlee you’re heeearing meee,” to tie the knot with lovely Jason and his mullet.

And yes, before any pedants pull me up on my maths, that legendary wedding occurred in Australia in 1987, but due to us UK viewers being 12 months behind back then, it wasn’t televised over here until 1988.

I had my tea in front of the telly that night, aged 11.  I remember brushing away an errant tear as the characters, including Mrs Mangel and Harold Bishop, cast those cheesy “loving” looks at one another across the church.

I haven’t watched Neighbours since I was at school, and Kylie and Jason obviously haven’t been a couple for several years, but I like to think that as Scott and Charlene they are on some level still together, raising their family in Brisbane, that well-known haven of exiled Neighbours/Home and Away characters.

Take it away Angry Anderson…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KeEppeK0F2I&list=FLoV-XQpZYwxzdUTPX1qTAJg

This week I won my first ever competition prize since I became a serious comper in September – a pedometer from the Tesco magazine!!  Well it’s a start.  I was ridiculously excited to see the jiffy bag on my doormat.

I am truly addicted to entering competitions.  It’s the “Someone has to win – why shouldn’t it be me?” mentality that spurs me on.

I really hope this marks the start of a winning streak.

Or at the very least more walks.

And so the countdown begins.  Well it’s a four-year countdown, but I’ve always liked to plan ahead.

I am not quite 36 but already planning my “40 things to do when I am 40.”  It’s a sort of bucket list, of new or unique experiences, some of them very small.  There will be nothing expensive or terribly daredevil on my list – don’t expect to see bungee jumping or white water rafting.  Where I possibly can, without being silly, I’m trying to think of ideas related to the number 40.

Below is what I have come up with thus far.  This is very much a work in progress, and I shall continue adding to it until I get to the elusive 40.  Any other (clean) suggestions would be welcomed.

- Plant a tree or something significant in the garden to mark the occasion

- Get a cat

- Get a second tattoo

- Self-publish a novel

- Have a party

- Have a nice holiday/weekend away somewhere

- Swim 40 lengths of a swimming pool (possibly for charity)

- Donate £40 to a charity

- Donate bone marrow

- Visit a cheese factory

- Have a personal shopper experience

- See a West End show

- Do a vineyard tour

- Do a cookery course

- Eat some new foods I haven’t tried before

- Go for a long walk (e.g. the Cotswold Way)

- Do a first aid course

1. I have a kind of phobia of ice – or perhaps, more to the point, a phobia of falling on icy ground and smacking my face in.  When I’m dithering in the middle of an icy car park or stretch of pavement, contemplating my easiest route to the patch of soft-ish snow at the edge, I literally feel sick.  No joke – sick, light-headed and panicky.  Even in robust walking boots, I have no confidence whatsoever when walking on snow, slush or ice.  I mince along like an 88-year-old, clinging frantically to anything – lamp posts, cars, random people – for dear life.

2. In this wintry weather there are people, usually postmen, who insist on strolling around half naked, in shorts or without coats, scarves, etc.  And they are the ones who stare at me, togged up in thermals and waterproofs that would make Scott of the Antarctic look ill-equipped, as though I have two heads.

3. The rail companies need to get their act together.  Seriously.  I have been reliant on public transport to get to work this week as I am too much of a wuss to drive on the white stuff, and the delays have been extraordinary.  A “signal problem” was blamed for the long hold-ups for a couple of days.  What does that even mean??  And the “wrong” kind of snow being on the track…!!  On Thursday train after train was cancelled, and I was half an hour late for work.  Call me tight, but I shall be making my claim for compensation from the rail network.  I’ll only get a couple of quid, but it’s the principle.

4. Who else needs to get their act together?  The road gritters, as mythological as Santa.  I haven’t seen a single one this last week.

5. Ditto the binmen, who apparently couldn’t make it along our road this week in their heavy-duty trucks, presumably due to “elf and safety,” meaning that the trash is stacking up.  Pathetic.

6. I felt about 95 on said train one day this week when I overheard a group of lads discussing learning about “something called the Dunblane massacre” in history class!  I remember that tragedy like it was yesterday.  I was 19 and at college when it happened.  These kids (and how ancient do I sound saying “These kids”??) were not born at that time, so I can’t blame them for not having heard of it.  Plenty of tragedies occurred before I was born, of course, and I remember my mum being mortified when I was learning about the 1960s – her heyday – in history when I was at school.  I just found it a rather poignant reflection on the passage of time and the way events fade into the past.

7. Thankfully the snow and train delays did not impede me from seeing either the hilarious panto Robinson Crusoe at the Birmingham Hippodrome, starring Brian “It’s a puppet!” Conley, or the wonderful Strictly Come Dancing Live show at the NIA last weekend.  It seemed typical of my luck that the only two shows I had booked this year, so far, should be placed in potential jeopardy by the grotty weather.  But I “battled” through, and was superbly entertained.

8. As you may have gathered, I am sick to death of the snow now, and can only hope the promised big thaw is on its way.

This evening I was determined I was going to make a return to writing, and revisit Majella Bracebridge, the 1980s-set novel I tentatively started about two years ago.  Pathetic as it sounds, it actually took some courage to even open the files on my computer which contain the first chapter, my mapping out of the MB plot and my various notes and research.  But when I did my spirits soared.  It just felt so good to be thinking about words, consulting the thesaurus, pulling apart sentences.

Aside from my blog and diary, I have not written a word for nearly two years, due to looking for a house/moving house/doing up our house taking up so much of my time and energy.  But of late, the dormant urge to be creative has been reignited.

I would like to explore self-publishing someday.  It’s on my bucket list.  In fact I am compiling a list of “40 things to do when I am 40” (I have just over four years to go) and that list includes self-publishing my last novel The Four Matthews and this yet-to-be-written Majella Bracebridge.

I have made one or two modifications to the opening chapter of Majella Bracebridge.  You can read the revamped version here:

http://leighmathers.wordpress.com/category/novels/majella-bracebridge/chapter-1-majella-bracebridge/

If you feel like critiquing it, please be kind.  Remember these are my first words of fiction in what feels like a lifetime, and I am rustier than Dusty Bin.