APRIL 2004
Thurs 29th April, 6pm
(2pm) I don’t feel quite right. I think this has something to do with the fact that I haven’t had anything to eat since 6:30 this morning, which is when I had to get up so that I could spend five hours sitting on a hospital ward waiting for someone to come along and stick an astonishing quantity of needles in me.
I don’t like needles. Like all phobias, the assumption is that a needle fear is irrational and slightly hysterical. But they bloody well hurt which seems like an entirely reasonable foundation for a fear to me, except that I have a sneaking suspicion that it is somehow my fault, and that more rational people hardly even notice the buggers enter the body, let alone continue to experience a particularly unpleasant pain all the while that the needle remains under the skin.
I’ve frequently pondered the possibility that dental procedures and the like would actually be less unpleasant if they did away with the anaesthetic altogether. Or brought back gas. I used to love gas.
It was just a couple of bits of sea urchin. One in each leg. They’ve been there since a Spanish holiday seven years ago. Maybe I should have left them there. But they were getting red and itchy and OK, I admit it, I like going to hospital. Despite the needles.
Plus it was a great opportunity to lie around for several hours, reading, thinking, scribbling. I finished reading Mil Millington’s book, in fact I entered into a weird fevered race in which I was determined to finish it before I went into theatre. It was particularly weird because I was successful, but it went right down to the wire. I was actually reading the last page as they started to wheel me away, and had to kind of throw the book back at the bedside table. I blame testosterone. I’ve always suspected myself of having too much of the stuff.
Mil Mil’s book (Things My Girlfriend And I Have Argued About) really is laugh-out-loud funny, just like it says out cover. And that’s out loud. Not just saying “LOL” to yourself. So, what with laughing out loud and pausing every now and then to make notes, God knows what the nursing staff thought of me. And of course when they asked me what I do (idle chit-chat intended to distract me from agonising needle pains), I told them I worked in I.T.
I had thought that if I was published I would start feeling more confident about describing myself to strangers as “an author”. What bollocks. It feels just as pretentious as it always did. As does scribbling in a notebook, for that matter. But these days there are constantly thoughts crowding into my head, urgent, needing to be written down because I know I can’t rely on my memory (I’m not sure when it degraded or even if it has, but I’m sure I used to be able to remember more stuff). I end up with insane lists in my head. An example this afternoon: As I left the hospital I was chanting to myself “Need to know glamorous smoke character, thoughts tense.” Make of that what you will.
Generally I end up just letting go of the lists and accepting that the apparently important thoughts will just have to be consigned to the dustbin of history. This is particularly true when drunk or stoned, and anyway I know really that they’ll turn out, on later collation, to be mostly inconsequential dross. But then again, I also know that people have pointed things out to me about The Dying of Delight and I’ve thought, oh yes, I did notice that before, but forgot to write it down.
Actually I’m slightly perturbed by this whole business of having constant thoughts and needing to write stuff down. Writers are always saying stuff like “I need to write” and claiming to have unstoppable writing urges. I’ve never had any of these urges until recently. I wasn’t convinced I was a proper writer for this very reason. My mum wrote her first novel when she was 15, and even before that was constantly making up stories and writing stuff down. Not me. I always thought the whole idea of me even writing a novel was one big ludicrous pretence. I was always one of these people who says “oh yes, I’d like to write a novel one day” while in fact never putting pen to paper or having the first clue about writing. The first drafts of The Dying of Delight were complete crap. It took bloody ages for me to learn how to write, and because I was so stubborn (refusing to do courses or listen to upfront advice) I ended up doing it the hard way (trial and error).
So now I’m being published, and suddenly I’m carrying a notebook everywhere I go? Hmmm. Well, you’ve got to wonder, haven’t you? What the hell am I playing at? I honestly haven’t a clue. It’s not conscious pretension, is all I can say. It really is becoming an urge. But I’m not convinced it’s a healthy urge. I wonder whether publication is just a red rag to an ego straining at the leash. Maybe I’ve started believing that my thoughts mean something, instead of just being random dross that floats about the head and then gets flushed away. Surely I shouldn’t be encouraged? It’s just sanctioned introversy (is that a word?). I should be looking outwards, not inwards. Yes, OK, so a lot of it is observation-based, but mostly I’m only observing me. Even when I’m observing the rest of the world, it’s only the minutiae, not the important stuff.
As for telling people I’m an author, I cracked and told the hairdresser the other day. Oh dear. It was her fault. She’s never forgotten that years ago I told her that I was a singer. Ever since then she asks me about the singing whenever I go in. I haven’t sung properly for years, but still she asks me, and I always feel a bit dreary because I don’t have anything to tell her. So last week I said, “no, I haven’t sung for ages. Actually I’ve written a novel instead.” Argh! I don’t know why this perturbs me so. I’ve got used to the idea of relatives and colleagues reading the book, including all the sex, drugs, swearwords and random snippets from my personal life. But, oh I don’t know. They have a plate glass window through which they watch the Manchester world go by. They’re only down the road. They made me write down the details of the book. They might even read it. Every time I walk past now… ah well, fuck it [waves at the hairdresser who has just logged in and is reading this blog].
Because so much stuff is being written here and so much of my time and energy is going into writing in general, it’s getting so that my nearest and dearest’s best chance of keeping up with my life is to read this blog. I even catch myself thinking, when people ask how things are going, “Can’t you just read my blog?” like one of those awful managers saying “Haven’t you read my memo?”
[waves at Ally]
Mon 26th April, 4.30pm
Some little titbits of info on book progress, which I keep meaning (but forgetting) to mention...
I had a conversation with my editor last week about hyphens. It turns out that the inserted and removed hyphens were all technically correct, and indeed conform to the rules in the British copy-editor's bible (Butcher's, I think), but as it's my book, I get to have my way. Yay! Thank God for understanding editors. I doubt anyone else will notice, but I'll know. Apparently the bible says that "brand-new" and "bright-orange" are correct. How weird is that?
The book has now gone to the printers, and actual finished copies should arrive with Diva around 10th May. They'll be in the shops a week or two later. I think this might mean that my colleague can have an advance copy to take on holiday with her, which will make her very happy. Plus of course it's very exciting for me. I might actually have a copy in my hand in less than three weeks. Apparently it's the moment no writer ever forgets. Well, they said that about childbirth, and actually I found the joy was a slow-grower rather than an instant feller, but still I'm very much looking forward to getting them.
Also, I'm doing a reading at Gay's The Word (London bookshop) on Sunday 11th July (see Events). And I'm being interviewed by the Rainbow Network (a gay website) at some point. The interview will run next to a review of my book. Eek!
Mon 26th April, 3pm
I’m having a Manic Monday. I have a whole lovely delicious day, and as usual it’s dripping away down the back of the sofa. I don’t have any large, or even any urgent tasks, but it’s all the tiny little ones that are turning my brain to mush. So I’ve given up on my original plan, which was to write a gorgeous epic on here. I’ll leave that to a One-Job-At-A-Time moment.
In the meantime I’ll tell you more about last Wednesday (the event at the Boogaloo). Oh. Well. Oh. Hmmm. Now I think of it, maybe I’ve told all that I can. The rest might count as scurrilous gossip.
No, hang on, I can tell you this. Oh no, I already told you that. Well, I could tell you that I met Jamie Byng, who owns Canongate, and he bought me a drink and then proceeded to reveal that he absolutely no clue who I was. And then I realised he’d missed my reading, and beyond that he wouldn’t have any reason to know who I was. Canongate did actually say really lovely things about The Dying of Delight (“intriguing and uncommonly engaging”) and only rejected it “with a reluctant no”. I realised later that they must have had both mine and Helen Walsh’s manuscripts in front of them at the same time, and they were too similar for them to have published both. Funny how you get an inflated idea of yourself – I guess I assumed Jamie Byng would have been in on those discussions, but of course my manuscript never would have got that far. But what the hell, he bought me a drink.
Helen Walsh suggested to one eager autograph-hunter that she might sign his copy of Brass with her tits. Poor man, he so wanted to say “yes please”, and although he knew she didn’t mean it really, you could see one little part of him desperately hoping she did. I wonder how it could be done? A pot of ink, maybe. Or lactation. Would you believe I’m still lactating, a year after I stopped breastfeeding?
The nicest thing that happened to me all evening was when Helen asked me to sign a leaflet advertising my book, in the midst of me trying to explain to her that her quote (featured proudly on my front cover) will almost certainly have a significant effect on the success of my book.
I also really appreciated the table full of Big Chillers, who cheered enthusiastically at every opportunity, and generally made me feel good. Also props to Rosie and Vince, who kept up the Sudbery end. (I love the sound of that phrase, but I don’t know what it means. Pit props? Theatrical props? Properties?)
This weekend I went to York again. This time it was a Society of Authors event, and parents, obviously. David Armstrong talked about his book, How Not To Write A Novel, and was then grilled by an enthusiastic audience of authors, determined to disagree with everything he said. I arrived at exactly the wrong moment; seconds after everybody had been instructed to “mill” for half an hour before lunch. I contemplated butting into some already-underway milling, but lost confidenec and milled on my own instead. But then a lovely woman called Clare Fitzgibbon came and milled me, and became My Friend for the afternoon. Later on I met 81-yr-old W.D, writer of 36 westerns, quite apart from the other 20 or so publications.under his belt. He was also lovely.
I also started off at entirely the wrong venue and forgot to Pay & Display, but despite that the sun shone, I finished reading Gwendoline Riley’s book (Sick Notes) in a wildflower garden that smelt of bluebells, and I started reading Mil Millington’s Things My Girlfriend And I Argue About in a pub where a smiley man let me pay £1.65 by Switch for a cup of tea and a muffin. Thank God for pubs that sell muffins, because it seems that there is some law against cafés staying open after 6pm. I also had the realisation that I’m now past the age where favours from men behind bars can be attributed to lust. Which means you can probably put it down to actual real niceness.
Both books completely different but good, by the way. Gwendoline Riley’s made me very fond of but thoroughly frustrated with her heroine. Daft endearing woman.
I had loads of thoughts on bisexuality to share, but they’ll have to wait.
Thurs 22nd April, 10pm
Oh blimey, it’s been one hell of a week. I was in bed all day Tuesday with a temperature. Achiness, nausea, headache. And even though I was still ill the next day (yesterday), I still caught a train down to London to do my reading at the Boogaloo. I think only complete physical debilitation would have kept me away. Which I suspect it nearly did. Well it went really well, and then I caught a 7am train back this morning, straight into work. Where I did my presentation about the book. Which also went well.
The Boogaloo was brilliant, and I’m really glad I went. I have a million stories to tell, but I was woken at 4am this morning by an anxiety attack, so I’ve only had 3.5 hours’ sleep, and now I’m going to bed. Here are some random musings from the train journeys, and when I get a minute I’ll write up the event itself, and edit this down a bit better. Which will be next week some time.
Gwendoline Riley told me she once got one fan letter, from a woman who said something about vaginismus (which Gwen illustrated with a brilliant hand gesture). I was intrigued by the concept, but she didn’t want to hear my story about vaginismus. I wasn’t trying to cop off with your girlfriend, Gwen’s partner. Honest (although she is cute).
Helen Walsh suggested we co-write a story about Silver (my protagonist) meeting Millie (her protagonist). I’m absolutely intrigued by this idea. She also asked me to sign one of my flyers for her, which I was completely bowled over by. And now I must remember to get her to sign our copies of her book! It was lovely to see her – she’s great.
If only I’d known the word vaginismus when I was writing The D of D. What a great word.
Tunnels lead into and out of the Peak District. And there seems to be a geyser somewhere near Hope.
Writing with a pen on a train is surprisingly difficult. Even when the motion seems smooth, there are tiny little jerks which betray themselves in disconcertingly spidery handwriting. Maybe it’s time I got myself a lap-top. I expect one day I’ll lose the ability to write with a pen. I’ve already lost that callous on my third finger. Or maybe it’s like riding a bike? The skill, I mean, not the callous.
I believe that saliva comes out of the end of my tongue. I’ve tried to prove this by sticking my tongue out and drying it, and then waiting for it to get wet again. It never does. Which probably means that the saliva actually collects in a little pool in the bottom of my mouth, and the action which I believe is me squeezing saliva from the end of my tongue is actually me dipping my tongue in the reservoir. But it still feels as though it drips out of the end of my tongue.
I was reading Gwendoline Riley's Sick Notes on the train. I love it. I think it's kind of rubbed off on me.
I’ve developed a strange fondness for the words “crikey” and “blimey”.
The problem with having an imagination is you get reality and pretence mixed up. Did I really breastfeed Felix in a velvet chair in the City Art Gallery?
Happy Birthday, Mum!
Sun 18th April, 10pm
OK, I reckon it’s time for a brown bear moment.
Nothing particularly eventful has happened to me in the last couple of days and I can’t think of anything in particular to waffle on about, so I’m treating you to a brown bear moment. I got the idea from my mum, who got it from… I can’t remember. Someone who likes to tell stories about brown bears. Anyway, she’s a lecturer, and she stops in the middle of each lecture to tell a story. To give everyone’s brain a rest, stimulate them. Apparently my dad does it now, too. They call it the Brown Bear bit.
So, are you sitting comfortably? Then I’ll tell you a story about a young woman, let’s call her, ooh, Clare. She’s twenty-three years old and she’s on a second honeymoon with her love, Ecstasy. She met Ecstasy at a party in 1992, and it was love at first sight. For a while they had a threesome – she, her boyfriend and Ecstasy. But after a couple of years things fell apart, the boyfriend left, and now it’s just her and Ecstasy again. Spending time alone together, they’ve rediscovered their love. They’ve decided they don’t need anyone else, and at weekends they go out clubbing together, just the two of them.
Their love shines out for all to see, and they can’t help but make friends wherever they go. Who needs boyfriends when total strangers will open their arms and invite you back to theirs for a party?
It’s a Saturday night, and Clare & Ecstasy have got their eye on a particularly cute lad in Oscar’s, the post-club café. Clare and Mr Cute have already swapped tongues, and he’s invited her back to a party in Ashton. But Ashton’s miles away, and she’s run out of money. No problems, Mr Cute has a mate with a car, and he’ll give her a lift home.
She finds herself in a bedroom in Ashton, with a whole bunch of people chatting, smoking, giggling. Mr Cute has disappeared – he hasn’t been seen for the last half hour. Clare & Ecstasy have got their eye on one his mates, Miss Cute, who really is super-cute but almost certainly straight.
Mr Cute’s mate, Wild Eyes, is a bit of a loose cannon. Driving them to Ashton he drove like a demon, and had a raging row with Mr Cute about nothing in particular. He’s scary. Clare’s decided to avoid engaging with him.
Wild Eyes has a water pistol. So does Clare. He squirts her in the face. It’s all very good-natured. She squirts him back. He rounds on her. Fucking bitch, he says. He squirts her full in the face again, stares at her, challenges her to respond. She pretends not to notice, turns to her neighbour, tries to engage them in coversation. The room is silent. Wild Eyes is squirting steadily, monotonously, at one second intervals, the back of Clare’s head. She gets up and leaves the room.
It’s a small two-bed council house, and downstairs is a karaoke machine. Clare settles in an armchair. She’s beginning to crash. Wasted bodies lie prone around the room. Mr Cute clatters down the stairs, a blonde in tow. They fall together into another armchair, entwined. Clare feels excessively rejected. She wants to go home. She’s had enough. She knows nobody.
Wild Eyes comes down the stairs and turns the volume up on the karaoke, grabs the mike. “Who is this fucking bitch anyway?”
He’s reloaded his water pistol. Squirt.
Squirt.
Squirt.
Clare is bowing her head, but he’s still getting her in the face. He continues his amplified rant. Loud, amplified, into the room, into Clare’s head. “She’s taken all our drugs, and we don’t even know who she fucking is!”
She asks whether there is a phone. Nobody answers her. They’re all looking away. Pretending it isn’t happening. Scared to divert Wild Eyes’ attention towards themselves. Bastards. She doesn’t know what to do. She’s desperate. Squirt. Squirt. Squirt.
It’s one of those tiny houses where the front door opens into the living room, straight off the pavement. She gets up, walks across the room, opens the door, and that’s it, she’s out on the street. There is laughter as she shuts the door. She marches up the street, head bowed. She hears a click as the key is turned in the lock behind her.
The sun has risen and the morning is cold and grey. She’s never been to Ashton before. The streets are damp, narrow and identical. Terraces. She finds a phone box, but it’s vandalised. There is nobody around, not a soul. She wanders the streets for an hour or so, but finally she is forced to return.
She walks straight in. They’ve unlocked the door again. Maybe somebody worried about her. She hopes so. She catches a sympathetic female eye, gestures them to follow her out of the room and upstairs.There’s a phone in a bedroom. All the time it’s ringing, she’s terrified he’ll appear in the doorway.
She rings a friend. Thank fuck, he’s there, he answers.
“Good fucking riddance!” shouts Wild Eyes as she walks straight out again. She runs to the corner and shivers as she waits for the taxi, whose suffocating interior provides no warmth. She quivers quietly on the back seat. The friend answers the door and she collapses into his arms. He makes her a cup of tea, they go back to his bed and he holds her, just holds her. Because he’s a friend, and everything’s all right.
The next day, Clare and Ecstasy have a row. Why didn’t Ecstasy stick up for her? Why did Ecstasy encourage her to go off in a car to the middle of nowhere with a bunch of strangers, when it was clearly a bad idea? She thinks Ecstasy should taken more care of her. She says she wants some time apart.
A week later, Ecstasy calls. They row again. But Ecstasy tells her not to be so bloody stupid, she’s responsible for her own destiny, Ecstasy was just as caught up in the moment as she was. There’s nothing wrong with trusting people. It’s good to make friends with strangers. The world would be a better place if we all did it more often. It was just bad luck that she ended up in the company of a nasty nutter.
They make up.
I’ll try and find a more cheerful brown bear next time. That was just the first thing that came into my head.
And I’ve just remembered that this weekend hasn’t been at all uneventful, because yesterday Felix’s cousins came to visit. He pulled out every single toy he owns, to show and then shout “Mine!” when they tried to play with them… but by the end of the afternoon they were all chalking happily together on a blackboard. Aww. And this evening we had another visitor, whose name he didn’t know, so he just called him “Man” despite being repeatedly told his name. “Ma-an!” he shouted when he wanted his attention…
I reckon people reading the Felix stuff will divide about equally between those who go “Aww,” and those who think, “Oh for fuck’s sake, why do parents have to be so bloody boring about their children?!”
Fri 16th April, 11pm
I don’t know whether to own up to this or not. The thing is, I know you’re out there, OK? From your perspective it means I can see you log on, and I know which pages you visit. And when I meet you I’m going to test you.
If only. No, the fact is I can’t, because you’re just a random stream of numbers and unfortunately I have no way of knowing who “25.89.124.12” is. Yes, you! Stop picking your nose. Although actually, did you know that it’s good for you? Your nose hairs filter the crap, you see. The aim is to keep the germs away from your lungs. That’s what bogies are made of. But when you eat them they end up in your stomach, which is a good place to be, as your system absorbs them in a relatively safe environment (protective stomach acid and all that) and then you can build up an immunity. I’m very pleased about this, as I’m an only-slightly-closeted nose-picker-eater.
Anywhere, where was I? Oh yes, I’m spying on you. But I don’t know who you are. But I do know that this week you’ve almost certainly followed a link in some kind of promotional email, almost certainly from Diva Books, but possibly from my wonderful Ally, or maybe even from Canongate.
BUT most of you never get any further than the front page, you bastards. Well, not you. You’re not a bastard, because you got further than the front page. You’re all right. I like you. Except that now you’re here. And where is here exactly? What the hell am I aiming for? Am I talking to intellectuals, grannies, people just looking for a laugh? It’s difficult to write when you don’t know who the audience is. Particularly when you know it might be somebody who is Somebody, and can actually make a difference to your career. It’s fucking paralysing, is what it is.
So then I find myself looking back over previous diary entries, and editing them to make them look slightly less pathetic. Which does feel horribly like cheating. But surely it’s my site and I can do what I want?
Anyway it probably doesn’t help. I can’t bloody tell the difference between natural / charming, and irritatingly self-conscious. Arrggh. Really the only solution is to stop thinking about it, and just go back to talking about bogies. No, come back. Oi! Don’t click on that…
Wed 14th April, midnight
Today I did a Q&A email interview for Diva. Took me a while to get used to the idea, but then I warmed to the task. I'm sure I spouted a ton of nonsense, and I swore a lot, but there you go.
Came home to an answering message from Chloe Poems with a great quote for the book (see front page), and a lovely email from a Big Chill forum person who's been enjoying this site. Oh shit, people are paying attention.
I discovered today that if you google me and spell me wrong (as long as you're correctly incorrect), you still get directed to this site. Aha, my evil plan worked! I find this kind of thing pathetically satisfying.
I’ve agreed to talk about Being An Author at the next company get-together. Yes, I am completely insane. Haven't a clue what I'll say. Maybe I should tell them about all the orgies, screaming fans and swingers’ parties. Jesus, I'd run a mile screaming if I thought anything like that was really going to happen.
I've finished reading the proofs. Spotted some continuity errors and disagreed about some stuff. Someone has been through inserting and removing hyphens, apparently randomly. I guess there must be some important rule which I've been ignoring. Unfortunately I appear to have some kind of hyphen fetish, as I found it all stupidly annoying. Oh well, it’s out of my hands now. But if you see any misguided hyphens, it's not my fault, all right?
I was attacked by a cat today, who assaulted me and demanded cuddles on my way back from nursery. When I wanted to leave, first it tried to trip me up and then it stretched its jaws around one of my feet and hung on with its teeth.
Speaking of pets, our friend Emma (an arachnophobe) discovered my pet spider in our loo. Oops. My colleague berated me for not naming him(?) and then christened him Sidney. Now there’s a thing. I’m constantly annoyed at how I default to masculine when I don’t know a gender. I keep finding myself assuming that genderless characters in kids' books are male. Then I correct myself and make them female. Felix is probably just going to end up thoroughly confused. I made him a train driver yesterday (out of a golf tee) and the gender fluctuated madly. But the boat in the bath is piloted by a fisherwoman, and his nee-naw is driven by a buxom female firefighter. That sentence wasn't intentionally rude.
My glands are more or less back to normal. I spent Easter at my parents' in York, with the littl'un, who had lots of fun going "Toot toot!" at the Railway Museum. He was almost as excited as the grownups.
I love my mum and dad, I do. I particularly love them when I'm watching them being all besotted with their grandchild. I also had fun showing my aunt Jenny (who's brilliant - hello Jenny, if you're reading) this website, and being shown hers, which is much cleverer than mine (Jenny Olive) because it has hint texts on the pictures. And it's got maths. In fact I might have to put a maths section on this site, just to keep up. If you google "percentages" her site comes up as number two!
Right, now I'm going to go have a bath and read the last few pages of Claire Dowie's book Creating Chaos, which I've been saving up to savour in the bath. I don't really want it to end, which is why I'm postponing the final gratification. I do have to finish it, though. In typical impatient fashion I emailed her before finishing reading it, just because she sounded so ace. But then she responded and called my bluff, asking exactly what I thought of her book. So I couldn't write back until now. But I love her book, and hopefully I’ll get to meet her asap. The book's about a more-or-less self-sufficient hippyish community starting in the 70s and coming right through to the present day, and it's totally convincing in its description of all the fun, frolics, backbiting and ludicrosity that these kind of things throw up. Brill. No. Cool. No. Ace. No. Oh fuck it, it’s pretty bloody good.
Thurs 8th April, 9pm
My glands are all swollen, and my head hurts, and I want to do nothing but sleep. Still, at least it means I got to watch Countdown today. It was funny. They got exactly the same nine letters, twice running. The funny thing was that the contestants got the same words; the loser failing twice in a row to spot the eight letter word, "climates". He got stuck on... oh jesus, I can't believe I've forgotten. It had seven letters, and now I'm going to have to use my anagram software to find it. Hang on. Atomise, that was it.
Things keep happening, and I keep forgetting, because it's all happening too fast to stay in my head, particularly when my head is full of the desire for sleep. But I do remember that today I finally got the proofs of my book. Maybe I should release the woman in the cellar now? Nah, I'm getting quite fond of her. Really I should be proof-reading. I'm torn between thinking I should get it out of the way, and thinking that my head isn't working properly enough, and I should be resting so that my glands can recover. The proofs aren't as exciting as I thought they'd be. Ally was right about that. But they are still exciting, and I'm intrigued by silly little details like the fact that the first paragraph in every section doesn't get indented. And the adverts for other books at the back.
Another thing that's happened is that a friend has just finished reading a copy I printed out for her. Her comments have been fascinating, and have highlighted much more clearly to me how the book fits into my life. She liked it, but she got annoyed with the main character for taking too many drugs and not sorting her life out. When I was writing it, I'd just been through a period of taking fewer drugs and sorting my life out; I think the book was a kind of farewell to all that nonsense. My mate's life has followed a similar path. Does this mean that the book will work better on those who are still indulging, or those who've left it behind?
Apparently I'm going to be interviewed for Diva magazine. And Gay's the Word want me to do a reading in June or July. I've never been interviewed before. I read somewhere that you should know in advance what questions you want to be asked, and what answers you want to give. I haven't a clue. I suspect this will probably be the only interview I'll get, though.
I got hold of some Nine Ladies photos today. I should put some up on the site. Later.
I think I need to go and sit on the sofa, nursing my headache and drinking tea.
Tue 6th April, 9pm
Well, the backlash has started already. I'm sick to the back teeth of Me Me Me. Egotistical I may be, but there's only so much selling of myself that I can do. I was just in the process of uploading more pictures of me (Me Me) for this site, when I suddenly realised that in every one I'd chosen I was grinning like a demented egophile (is that a word?) and I started to feel like one of those awful smiley people whose job it is to sell stuff, although in this case it's Me (Me Me). Unfortunately our photo album doesn't seem to have any photos of me scowling, or making obscene gestures at the camera.
It's just all too bloody saccharine, and seeing as I'm way too self-obsessed to start with, it's obviously not healthy to encourage myself to spend all my time uploading smiley photos of myself onto the internet! So I'm going to turn off my PC monitor and do something less self-indulgent instead.
Until the next time, of course. Darling.
Oh look, I couldn't resist. Damn my ego.
Sun 4th April, 9pm
There are insects living in our PC. When the sound system's plugged in and switched on, but there's no music playing, there's this constant but random ticki-tick, flutter flutter, ti-ti-ti-ti-tickety noise. I'm getting quite fond of them.
I spent most of the day outside in the pouring rain, moving crap from garden to dump, and generally getting started on making the garden safe for a small boy. I got wet and felt virtuous.
Last night was a friend's birthday party. I swear I really did see milk coming out of my friend's boobs. OK, so that doesn't mean it was there. And I do understand that my suggestion that it might be pus didn't make her feel any better. We decided in the end that cysts was an acceptable explanation.
Aside from tit-related faux pas, I had lots of fun with an old friend, coming up with hair-related schemes. We were both first years at the same time, at Uni in 1988. I didn't have very many student friends, as I wasn’t that keen on students. They seemed so incredibly boring and immature. But this particular woman was different. But then she left and went to London. But she did live in a really cool squat (a deserted primary school near Angel tube - just imagine having a whole old fashioned classroom as your bedroom! She could ride her bike from one end of the room to the other. And the windows, oh the windows), and she did introduce me to my girlfriend who I really was in love with even though she (the girlfriend) never believed me, so it's all right I guess, although our contact since then has been sporadic.
Anyway. Hair. It's a pain. It's a pain because it keeps changing. It's not a skill you can learn, cos just when you find a way of doing it that make you look slightly human it goes and grows again, or the wind changes, or your period starts. And whenever you have it cut, it looks terrible, until about six weeks after the haircut, at which point it looks fantastic. For about a week. But then you can't go back to the hairdresser and say, "You know that cut you did for me last time? Well it was crap. But it was great six weeks later. So that's what I want. The crap cut, but with an extra six weeks added on."
What we need is to be able to freeze good styles and keep them somehow. What a great idea! We could be onto something here. Our fortunes are made. We'll remember this day in years to come as the day we had The Idea. Oh, hang on though, it's already been done. It's called a wig. Uh-uh, hold your horses, OK, so yes, there is such a thing as a wig. But nobody has really exploited the potential for using a wig as a way of recording a good haircut. What's needed is a hair emergency service. At the precise point at which your hair looks good, you need to be able to call the wig-makers, and they need to come round immediately. It would be no use waiting until morning, because it would have gone. They'd have to come round in an emergency wig vehicle, lights flashing, sirens blaring. The neighbours would peep out the curtains and say to each other, "Aw, bless, they've just found a new haircut at number seven. Do you remember when our bob was born?"
In fact, this is such a good idea, it could really take off. People would shave their heads as a matter of course. Everybody would wear wigs. Children would all have shaved heads, until they reached puberty, at which point they'd start to grow... and cut... and grow... everybody waiting with baited breaths to see what kind of style their hair grew into... and then at the crucial moment, flashing lights, sirens, twitching curtains... aww, a new haircut is born.
But the really brave would be those that tried again. People would start to notice that their wig wasn't fitting properly. "Are you trying for another...?" And then would come the day that the wig is removed, and the emerging haircut is brought out into the open. People would applaud you. They would stand up to make sure you had a seat on the bus.
But some people would rebel. There'd be an underground movement of anti-wiggers. Terrible people who - shock horror - don't shave their heads! Never have wigs! A whole movement of people with permanent bad hair days! But then of course, it would get more and more popular. Then it would get co-opted into popular culture. Everybody would be at it. Wigs would fall out of favour. Until an underground wig-wearing movement was started...
Thurs 1st April, 9pm
Oh dear, it was supposed to be an early night. But then Ally persuaded that what I needed was not sleep, but beer and relaxation. I don't remember much after that, but I know we laughed a lot. We've decided that it doesn't matter if Ally keeps smoking tobacco, because Ally dying of lung cancer means I can just go out and shag lots of exciting new people with impunity. Not sure it sounds like such a plan in the cold light of day, but we thought it was hilarious last night.
We also made loads of amazing plans to take over the world, but now I can't remember any of them. Damn. I knew I should have written them down.
Today something weird happened. Somebody who read the extract on this site thought they recognised themselves, and were rather hurt/disconcerted. They were wrong, but it was a bit freaky. I've added a disclaimer, but I guess it won't stop people thining such things. I wonder if this kind of thing happens a lot? I know when I've read stuff by people I know I haven't been able to resist looking for myself in their characters. I did consciously decide though, not to make any of my characters be real people. Tiny little aspects of real people have been popped into characters who are (purposefully) nothing like the originals, but that's all.
There was a brief discussion today of whether "Sassy Northern Birds" is all right as a title for the events with Helen Walsh and Gwendoline Riley. In some contexts I don't like it when people talk about "birds", but this is very tongue in cheek, and I think it's funny! So it's all right by me. It's even better when you think of our books as being "chick lit for grownups"... the idea being that birds are chicks wot have grown up. Need to find a better way of encapsulating that idea, though... "bird lit" just sounds like the equivalent of cat litter.
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Clare Sudbery