No Smoking

It has now been two years since I gave up smoking. I started when I was about thirteen, when my friend Caroline threatened to beat me up if I didn’t smoke with her. Lovely girl. Knowing that this was no idle threat, I capitulated. I lived in London at the time, so we’d save up our tube fare - 30p it was - to buy a box of fags between us. We’d have one before and after school, then eat toothpaste and spray ourselves with Impulse to mask the smell. Mind you, I needn’t have bothered as I lived in a pub so all my clothes stank of smoke anyway.
I was 15, I think, when I took up the habit proper, undeterred by the fact that my Granddad was dying of emphysema, had to have oxygen 23 hours a day, and nearly blew himself up on several occasions due to smoking with the oxygen tube slung around his neck.
By 16 I was on twenty a day, and at the height of my smoking days I was on thirty. I tried to give up when I was pregnant, first trying cold turkey and then smoking awful herbal fags, which were probably as harmful as the real ones, and they stunk of horse shit. Matters weren’t helped by the fact that the father of my baby wouldn’t give up, as he put it, ‘because I’m not the one who’s pregnant.’ Charming. He’s on about forty a day now, lives in Newcastle, and has seen our son once in two years.
After numerous attempts at quitting, I managed it with the help of nicotine gum. An unfortunate statistic shows that more than 90% of bipolar, schizophrenia and psychosis sufferers are heavy smokers. It turns out that nicotine actually helps to alleviate psychotic symptoms, as it improves synaptic reflexes. I tried to use this as justification for smoking, but eventually even I realised that I was doing myself more harm than good.
Two years on, I’m addicted to nicotine gum. My doctors assure me that this won’t do me any damage, and, as it helps me concentrate, I’m not too worried about it. At least I always have minty fresh breath, and I can chew in public places.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

I had a traumatic experience this week, and only now do I feel able to talk about it. I went to the hairdresser. This is usually a lovely event; someone washes my hair for me and I look all shiny and new when I leave, and I feel all feminine, at least for a day or two. But my hairdresser, trusted confidante, she of the magic scissors, has left the salon and I have gone onto someone else's list.

It's not the same, the chemistry isn't there, when she asks me questions I just want to dive underneath my chair, although we were getting on okay-ish. Until:

The Fringe Incident.

I wanted it thinned out, just a little, she carved it up and sent me out looking like a two-year-old had been at my hair with blunt cutlery. It was all different lengths, jagged and choppy, nothing like my usual blunt cut. I wasn't happy.

But what could I do? Here's the dilemma; you can't tell a hairdresser that you're unhappy with her handiwork. So I just nodded, 'fine,' I said, while inside I cried. It's no over-reaction, men, please don't laugh, there's nothing good about paying twenty-three quid to look worse than when you came in.

Once home, I tried mousses and waxes and cursing and sobbing, but nothing made it look better. I had a play to review, and couldn't sit in the theatre wearing a hat, I'd look daft.

With some trepidation I marched back to the salon to ask if someone could straighten up my fringe. That was when my hairdresser, inflicter of my misery, stepped up to do her thing.
I was mortified, but tried to hide behind a barrage of small talk. My fringe got shorter, and shorter, and eventually I called a halt to her furious cutting technique.

It looked like my Nan's speciality pudding basin cut, showing far too much brow, but I put on a brave face, and when I got home, guess what I found?

It still wasn't bloody well straight!

Clare

Those were the days...

When Bon Jovi were good. I bought the first album Bon Jovi ever released yesterday, and listening to it brought back the time when I was given my first Walkman, aged 9. I was being taken to see Bon Jovi at Milton Keynes Bowl for my birthday, and it was the first album I'd ever owned. Surprisingly, I can still remember a lot of the words, even though it's nearly 20 years since I last heard any of the songs.
The concert was my first, too, and we were right at the front. Vixen and Skid Row were terrible, and I only knew one song by Europe, 'The Final Countdown.' Then, it happened, Bon Jovi took the stage. And I passed out. It wasn't that Jon Bon Jovi made me swoon, okay, it wasn't only that, it was really hot, majorly crowded, and everyone surged forward when the main band came on. I missed the first song, and we couldn't get close to the front after I came round. They were fantastic, this was before they became all soppy, back when they wore leather trousers and had long curly hair.
It's my son's birthday soon, and I'm taking him to his very first concert. I gave him a choice - he wants to see Alice Cooper, which is good because I want to see him, too. I'm glad he didn't want to see 50 Pence or Kayne East or some other equally crap rap type thing, because I would have had to say no. He wanted a 50 Pence single, and I made him go to the desk and pay for it himself as I didn't want the staff to think I liked it.
I've got a busy month coming up, I'm going to see Lee Mack (Not Going Out) Alice Cooper, Squeeze, Manic Street Preachers (last gig of theirs I went to I can't remember, I was so drunk I spent most of the night with my tit hanging out of my top, God I miss alcohol) Kaiser Chiefs and the Foo Fighters. I may need a hearing aid in December.
Clare

Notes on a Book Festival

I look forward to October every year because of the Birmingham Book Festival. I like to take part in writing workshops and see authors read their work, so the book festival is a highlight of my calendar. This year I signed up for Comic Fiction with Mil Millington (What my Girlfriend and I Have Argued About), Night Writer on Tour and a Performance Skills workshop run in conjunction with Apples and Snakes.
Comic Fiction was a great workshop, primarily because the tutor Mil Millington, who is an author I really admire, remembered me from a workshop I attended last year. I’m memorable - he knew my name and everything! I got him to sign one of his books for me, and he put a nice personal dedication on it, so it now has pride of place on my signed-book shelf. Two and a half hours was nowhere near long enough to do justice to the subject of comedy, but it was a pleasant and interesting way to spend an afternoon.
Night writer on tour was a different prospect entirely. Last year we did a night writing workshop in the presidential suite at the Radisson hotel in Birmingham, which was very luxurious. This year was anything but - we were touring the Black Country on a mini bus from ten pm until six am.
Our first stop was Lichfield Cathedral, which I imagine is very beautiful, although I don’t know for sure, as it was dark. Trying to write en route was not the easiest thing I’ve ever done, especially when we turned right and my face got squashed up against the window. We journeyed to Ironbridge Gorge next, where we saw some dark water and some rather startled ducks - alas, no bridge, we were further down the river than that. Wenlock Edge was next on the agenda, where we tramped through some trees and then all turned off our torches. This proved inspirational to me, as I had a panic attack and furiously wrote about my fears when we got back on the bus. Next up was a coffee break at a service station, where we did some writing exercises and woke ourselves up with gallons of coffee.
On the road again, we made our way to Ludlow Castle. Well, not actually the castle, as it’s not open at four am, but we did have a nice brisk walk around the car park in the drizzle. The police who pulled up were bemused, perhaps thinking we were up to no good, but when we explained they were very nice, welcoming us to Ludlow and wishing us well in our endeavours. No doubt they shook their heads at the strange townies when they got out of sight.
It was a long journey back to Birmingham, and we all started to flag. Then we entered the bright lights of another service station, were told that we could have whatever we wanted for breakfast as it was included in the price of the workshop, and all perked up again. The good feelings lasted until we found out that we still had writing exercises to do, and we were going to be late back. We didn’t get back to Birmingham until half past seven, I looked like a zombie, and I had to wait for my lift home. I fell into bed at half past eight, considered the whole experience, and decided there had been too much travelling and not enough writing.
I had higher hopes for the Performance Skills workshop. I’ve done the odd performance, but I’m more of a reader-out than a performer, so I was hoping to get some tips. The input I got from Lorna Laidlaw has completely changed the way I think about performing my work. The highlight of the event was an impromptu performance in the middle of Birmingham town centre. Most people were worrying about looking stupid and furiously practicing their piece, while I was standing in a corner, sobbing uncontrollably and wiping my nose on my sleeve as I didn’t have a tissue. Not because I was frightened of the performance, but because I have agoraphobia and was terrified at the thought of going outside. My head was telling me I was useless and stupid, and I wanted to run away but I couldn’t.
I should explain my agoraphobia, because it is not the traditional type; I can go outside, but only if I’m accompanied by a trusted person, which would be my husband, my boyfriend or my son. I can just about manage getting a taxi to the school on my own if I wear a hat, which limits my field of visibility, my glasses, which I can hide behind, and have my mobile phone up my sleeve for easy access, but unplanned outside-going is not in my repertoire.
All around the room, people were practicing their poetry; I was staring at a brick wall and hoping that no-one would notice that I was crying. I read my poem and tried to concentrate on calming myself. I decided that I was going to do the performance, even though it would be difficult for me. In my mind, I chose a focus person, and as we left the building I just made myself aware of that person, making them more solid than the rest of the people and the surroundings.
We trooped off to Chamberlain Square, where, in front of the fountain, we staged a guerrilla-style performance event, much to the confusion of the people passing by, a lot of whom stopped to watch. My performance went well, but I was the first back to the building, so missed having my photo taken by the organisers. I couldn’t quite believe that I’d done it, and I think any performance I do now will be nowhere near as scary as that!

The common cold

I have a cold. Not a terrible illness, there's not a lot of dramatic potential to it. I've gotten to that curious stage where everything seems slightly unreal, a bit like some psych meds make you feel, or like psychosis just before you think your loved ones are being inhabited by replicants intent on making you commit suicide. My bedroom smells of old menthol and there is dust from hundreds of tissues swirling about in the air. I would open the window, but I live on a main road so it is not likely to be refreshing.

I can't sleep but I can't get out of bed, so I've read two good-sized hardback books since yesterday, worked a bit on an article and on the books I'm writing, although my heart wasn't really in it. I spent time writing and rewriting the same sentences until I gave up.

My skin looks like uncooked pastry dotted with several zits that have reared their ugly heads. My eyes are all swimmy, like I have cut a few onions, and my head feels as if it has been stuffed with the multicoloured foam that you get in old teddy bears.

Still, musn't grumble, eh?!

Clare xxx

Car crash in slow motion

Rather like when you can feel a cold coming on, I knew about a week ago that my mood was tipping over into a depressive state. Unfortunately, unlike a cold there is no vitamin I can take to ward it off, and that slow slide into depression is a terrible experience. Then you hit the bottom, and it's even worse. I sit here now, three days into it, with unwashed hair, unbrushed teeth, and I probably smell because I need a bath. It feels like there is no point in cleaning myself up. I feel a sense of hopelessness, not just about myself but about the whole of humanity. Our race has such potential, and can create such beauty, yet busies itself with wars and genocide and happy slapping and raping pensioners and kidnapping children and murdering for money or hate or jealousy or kicks. Sometimes, I am ashamed to be human.My other quarters are well versed in what to do now, they make sure I don't read newspapers or watch the news, and try to stop me reading true crime books about serial killers. I have no sharp knives in the house at all - a right bugger when I'm trying to carve a chicken, but it's a good excuse to go to Harvester instead of cook - and now I've forgotten what I was going to say, so I'll sign off there.
Clare

Artsfest a Painfest

I was all excited, and had managed to infect the children with something approaching enthusiasm, for the Birmingham Artsfest was taking place 14th-16th September. We decided to go on the train so hubby didn't have to park, or indeed drive, in Birmingham, and see a few of the things on offer on Sunday. After getting lost for a while, due to the fact that we can no longer get a train to New Street station from where we live and instead had to go to Moor Street, we managed to stumble across the Artsfest by accident, after I spotted a row of tent-like structures. These proved to be exhibit and information tents from organisations such as Tindal Street Press and Stage 2 youth theatre. With a bag made heavier by leaflets, we moved on.
At Comedy on the Beach in Chamberlain Square we saw the Young Blood Theatre Company from Coventry presenting Punch and Judy, which amused kids and adults alike. Funny, a little bit rude, with brilliant costumes and performances from the actors, it was a show that took the main elements of a traditional Punch and Judy show, added some acid and a pinch of sarcasm, and mixed it up until the end product resembled an LSD trip to Blackpool. Highly recommended.
In Birmingham Museum and Art Gallery, I wandered around the exhibits while the kids made their own badges, then we caught the Birmingham Bach Choir in the Industrial Gallery. An uplifting performance, visually stunning as they sang on the staircase in front of us.
Then, what was to be the highlight of our trip, a visit to Levity II, an installation created by Architects of Air. At 50 metres in length, it promised to be spectacular. All we had to do was hop on the free transport provided to go to Millenium Point. Simple.
No, not particularly. We made our way to the nearest stop for the free bus and land train, which was on Broad Street according to the map. The road was closed off, and there were volunteers manning the barriers. We walked up past the Paintings on the Railings exhibitions, but could see no sign telling us where to catch the free transport. We asked a volunteer, he'd not even heard there was supposed to be any, so we walked on. Around which time my own personal Painfest began. My legs were hurting, and I was finding it increasingly difficult to walk without limping. I have fibromyalgia, and it was beginning to make it's presence felt. We asked another volunteer, further up Broad Street, who told us that the land train stop was by Paintings on the Railings. So we turned around, and trudged - slowly - back down Broad Street. We couldn't see any sign of the transport, so we asked another volunteer, who told us that we could catch it by the ICC.
By this time I was trying not to cry, as I had mascara on, and the pain was excruciating. We decided to give up on Levity II and go home. If only some bugger hadn't, for a laugh, changed the direction of the sign pointing to Snow Hill station...
So, my verdict on Artsfest is C- Could Do Better. It's no good having the transport laid on if no-one knows where to catch it, and some of the festival, because of this, is made inaccessible to people with mobility problems. Also, those of us who are clairvoyantly challenged would have appreciated better signposts to the different parts of Artsfest. Maybe the reason that this event has little impact outside Birmingham is because those people who do not know Birmingham like their own back yard - me, for instance - do not know where the events are in relation to each other and end up stumbling around in an Arts-deprived haze, then go home early enough to catch the coverage of the event on the news.
Clare

I can see clearly now...

I have finally drageed myself to an opticians for an eye exam - my first since primary school. My doctor suggested I go, as my pupils aren't reacting properly to light, so I end up wearing sunglasses a lot. Which looks okay outside, but very strange when you're shopping at night in the 24hr Tesco. I have been adamant forever that I would never wear glasses as I would look like a librarian. After the shock of not actually being able to read the first line of letters correctly, I meekly submitted to the notion that I needed spectacles.

They're not as bad as I feared - some looked horrendous when I tried them on, mainly all the brightly coloured ones that I was drawn to. Retro styles did, indeed, make me look like a librarian. I settled on a black Guess pair with a discreet diamante trim on the arms, and had a grey tint to my lenses so I don't have to keep squinting every time an advert comes on the tv or the car in front shows it's brake lights (I don't drive, you'll be pleased to hear.)

So now I suppose I'll have to get used to the fact that I am a person who wears glasses. There should be some sort of counselling service set up for this sort of thing, as it's a massive emotional upheaval. Although not as bad as my Dad sending me a 'Now you're 30' birthday card even though I was only 29.
Clare 8-)

Right, time for some writing

Part of me is sad that Big Brother is over, although I'm glad Brian won. But I've calculated the time that I spent watching it instead of writing, and it's not pretty. An hour show every night for 5 nights and 1and a half on Friday, so that's 6.5 hours. Then there was the On the Couch programme, which I tried to see every week, so that was another hour. Then there was all the live feed I watched. Basically, watching Big Brother has been like a part time job for me over the last 3 months. What am I going to do with all that extra time?
Hopefully I'll get some writing done. I've started my second novel, but I haven't been doing as much work on it as I should have, which is obviously all Channel 4's fault and nothing to do with the fact that I can be a lazy so-and-so sometimes.
I auditioned for Big Brother 6, but I don't think I'd want to again. I wouldn't like to be on camera all of the time, and I know I'd be one who got booed like Charlie or nasty Nick, 'cos I don't think about what I say before it comes out of my mouth. I always give too much detail, too. I was giving an interview to a journo earlier today, and she asked why me and hubby split up (don't worry, we got back together a year later) and I said, 'Well, I cheated on him about 8 months previously so I told him because I knew it was the only way he'd let me leave without a fight,' (metaphorical, not physical, I'd pail the crap out of him!)
Too much information, girl! It's like I have no filter any more, everything just comes pouring out. Which is not great when you're being interviewed, you're supposed to prepare and only let out the information you don't mind being made public. I do think about it, but as soon as someone starts asking me questions it's like my brain goes on holiday and my mouth takes over.
Duh!

Getting older

I am fed up of people rolling their eyes at me about my age. I'm 29 tomorrow - nearly 30. Because my blokes are both 15 years older than me, they look upon 29 with affection and nostalgia. I could never imagine being this old, and it's freaking me out. I get weird around my birthday anyway, because when I was little I used to spend the day on tenterhooks, waiting to see if my Mom would come, or call, or send a card. Most of the time I went to bed in tears, because she hadn't bothered. Now she's dead, I feel like I should be able to celebrate my birthday, but now all I think of is how I'll never get to see her on my birthday ever again, because she killed herself. I'm angry, and I feel guilty for being angry with her. I had my mirror fixed onto the wall the other day, and I looked in it and happened to glance at the old photo of me and my mom which is on top of the TV unit - the only picture I have of her - and it shocked me how much I look like her. People have commented on it before, but I've never seen it. I guess I'm about the same age now as she was in the picture, so perhaps that's why I can see the similarity now but I couldn't before.
I'm going shopping tomorrow for my presents, which is the best thing to do on a birthday. I'm frightened I'm gonig to wake up in the morning and find I'm suddenly gripped by an urge to wear sensible grown-up clothes instead of tutus and pink Dr Martens, and I won't be me any more. Weird, huh?
Clare xxx

Surviving in the wild

I have just returned from holiday in a fantastic cottage that I want to live in. I massively impressed my son by lighting a log fire and keeping it lit - he thinks I'm brilliant now! The fact is, I lived in places in the countryside when I was younger where coal fires were the only form of heating. When we ran out of coal, we used to go out and gather pine cones and bits of wood for the fire. Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? It was bloody freezing!
I'm now catching up with my e-mails (about 72 of which are ones trying to get me to buy viagra or watch porn) and trying to get all the washing done. I've had a touch of PHB (post holiday blues) as I've come home and found that the damp walls in my bedroom haven't magically healed themselves, and a slug that had somehow gotten in had left trails all over my carpets. My house sitter couldn't find it, but I located it - by standing on it with my bare foot in the middle of the night. Nice.
Clare

I'm off on holiday today, yay! The highlight of the trip will be a visit to Cardiff, as me, my son and my boyf are all big Dr Who and Torchwood fans. My son is hoping that Torchwood is really there, and that Captain Jack might be around to give us a tour. Mmm, me too! The best of it is that we're going nowhere near a beach, so I don't need to 'get beach gorgeous.' I am still my pale and interesting self. What is the deal with fake tan? I don't want to be orange, thankyou. My sister always calls me milk bottle legs, but I refuse to be upset about it. I just tell her she's got streaks, that always gets her going.
I've packed for all weathers - I have dresses (optimistic), jeans, t-shirts and a fleece, two pairs of Dr Martens and a pair of jelly shoes. I've got a little heater that can be set to cold and used as a fan (the cottage has a wood burning fire, lovely to look at but a pain in the bum to prepare).
TTFN
Clare xxx

How is it for you?

I'm writing an article for Arts Disability Culture magazine on blogging and disabilities/mental health. I want to know what mindbloggers or any disabled bloggers out there think. I won't use any names whatsoever. Answer any or all of these questions on the comment page to get your views across.
Has blogging helped you?
Do you see it is a therapy, or a hobby?
Have you ever had nasty comments or cyber-stalking from someone who has read your blog? If so, how did this make you feel?
Have you ever found yourself blogging when you should be doing other things, because you feel a responsibility to your readers or a fear of becoming less popular if you don't post regularly?
Is being part of a blog community such as mindbloggling better than going it alone? If so, why?
Have you ever regretted or worried about something you have written in your blog?
On the whole, is blogging good or bad for society?

Of course, feel free to add anything else that you think about blogging, and if you do want your blog name used, let me know, otherwise I will make up aliases for everyone whose comments I use.
Cheers,
Clare xxx

This is me performing in Borders bookshop in the Bullring. I was commissioned by Brook Avisory Service to write a poem to celebrate their anniversary and then perform it at a special event. I suffer with anxiety, depression and fibromyalgia, so performing is difficult, but I've managed to do it a few times. Anyway, below is the poem that I wrote for them.

You Don’t Know Where They’ve Been

Gary tells her he is okay,
he’s had a vasectomy
and he gives blood regularly,
so they can go bareback,
it feels more natural that way.
Laura obliges and opens up,
crying in the waiting room later,
passing time, reading out-of-date
magazines and panicking
that she might be pregnant,
and her Dad is going to kill her.
Donna says she is okay,
she’s on the pill and it’s been
a long time since her last fuck,
she’s not infected with anything
but lust for you, Bay-bee.
Ben can’t believe his luck
he’s fancied her for ages,
he can’t think of safety while
the slippery walls of her cave
are sucking him into oblivion.
Simon and Mark are okay,
they say, only mates,
having a laugh that night,
a bit drunk, it’s not like
they did anything wrong,
Right?
Of course they’re not gay,
lady killers, the pair of them,
on the pull tonight to prove it,
dance with a pair of right goers,
then give them false numbers.
Johnny is lonely, he used to
be one of a pack, now he lies
forgotten,
past his sell-by-date,
in a dusty bathroom cabinet.
He always wanted to be
a superhero, to slay chlamydia
and fight the advancing hordes
of gonorrhoea and herpes.
But he could only watch,
a mute witness to the reckless
mingling of bodily fluids, and cower
when he saw HIV stalking its prey,
powerless to save those who
would not accept his protection.
Gary
Laura
Donna
Ben
Simon
Mark
R.I.P

Clare

But I want it!

I have been overcome with desire this week. The object of my affection is a new, shiny, gorgeous, pink laptop. I already have a laptop, which I bought in October last year, so it's difficult to justify the purchase of another one. These are the reasons I've come up with so far:

1) I've been offered money-off coupons towards it, so really I'll be saving money,
2) The one I have already isn't as good. The new one is faster, has more memory, and isn't as heavy to lug around (I know I don't really go anywhere, but I might if I had the new laptop),
3) The one I have now is not pink.

I think the third reason is the main attraction. Okay, I've read all the blurb and it has a list of impressive initials and numbers and stuff that I don't really understand. I use my desktop computer for internet and e-mail, I only use the laptop for writing, so I wouldn't use most of the functions anyway. But who wants a boring grey laptop when you can get a lovely hot pink one?

I'm going to have to come up with some better arguments.

Clare

Live Earth

I must admit to being a bit sceptical about this Live Earth concert. Immense power usage in the stadium, travel for the bands and their people, and not to mention the fans, would seem to be a funny way to contribute to slowing down climate change. But the combination of the music and the Live Earth pledges being flashed behind the bands was a powerful one. I hope the message gets through to people like my council. I have a recycling box, but I can't recycle plastic or cardboard in it. The only facilities that I know of to recycle my cardboard is at the council tip, which I don't go to as I don't drive. I get a friend to recycle my plastic bottles for me, as there is a facility for recycling them on a supermarket car park near their house. But what about all the other plastic? I hate to think of it all going to landfill, polluting the Earth for future generations.
Anyway, back to the concert. The Pussycat Dolls, from what I saw, consist of some women singing and doing what appeared to be a routine that, up til now, I thought only strippers or lapdancers would do. They had put their make-up on with shovels and seemed to have mistakenly appeared onstage in their underwear.
The Foo Fighters were awesome. Blistering lyrics and guitar juxtaposed with Dave Grohl's voice, sometimes raw, often melodic, was as close to a religious experience as you can get sitting on your sofa.
Madonna was, ahem, interesting. Scarily thin, her voice seemed to be struggling and her attempt to rock across the stage in a pair of high heels with her guitar was ludicrous. She also seemed to have got all her choir girls and boys from a Victorian timewarp. Boys in short trousers and long socks and fresh-faced, angelic girls are not the kids I remember from my school choir. In fact, the only reason to be in the choir was to get out of a science or humanities period. Consequently, a lot of us choir girls and boys ended up parents at tender ages, owing to missing crucial sex education lessons.
To top it all off, Madonna had some weird old Romany gypsies warbling and dancing to a completely different song than everyone else. A bizarre choice of songs did nothing to help her set, and it all ended up looking far too Eurovision for my taste.
Clare xxx

Considerably Richer Than Yow

I’ve just had dinner in a family pub/restaurant next to the ‘Considerably richer than yow’ characters from Harry Enfield. There was the Mum: a hard faced, blonde streaked, fake tanned stick insect with inflated bosoms and gold jewellery covering her. There was another woman, who was obviously Granny - the same as Mum, but older and more leathery.
There was Dad, with Jeremy Clarkson hair, an open-necked shirt straining to cover his huge belly, and a thick gold chain around his neck.
Mum was upset with the children; Chanel - no, I’m not making this up - Sky and a teenaged girl whose name I didn’t catch, who was whining loudly that the only thing she wanted for Christmas was a Rolex. All of the girls were dressed in baby pink and dripping with jewellery. Even the baby.
The mother kept telling the baby to behave herself, but did absolutely nothing to keep her amused, and left it to the girls to follow her around and make sure she was safe, while Mommy dear drank Chardonnay - or maybe that was one of the other kids’ names? I get confused.
At one point, after hearing her mother complaining that the baby wasn’t behaving and seeing her pouting her collagen filled lips once too often, one of the older girls told the mother that she was embarrassing her, and to shut up. The mother’s reply was pure class; she slapped the teenager across the face.
All the money they kept loudly talking about - twenty grand this, forty grand that - didn’t stop them availing of as much free salad and bread as they could carry.
They were vulgar, crass, loud and inconsiderate of other families; considerably richer than me, of course, but only in financial terms. As members of the human race, they were dirt poor.

Watching Feet at 3am

I'm watching a foot on TV and I'm not even sure whose it is. I can't make out any distinguishing characteristics, and the rest of the person is hidden by a duvet. I'm lying on my bed and my pillows have gone flat, so I plump them up and get more comfortable for watching a foot on TV. I eat a few chocolate buttons and drink some lukewarm tea.
I fidget, not only do I have restless legs but also restless arms and eyes and bottom cheeks. I check the action - another foot has made an appearance next to the first. I look at my own feet and decide that they are pretty, certainly good enough to be on telly.
Hold on, a foot just changed position as the sleeping person snored and rolled over. I wiggle my toes and mentally encourage the person on-screen to do the same.
Nothing.
I rearrange my quilt, smoothing it out then messing it up when I snuggle beneath it.
I'm comforted to know that out there, somewhere, other people are the same as me - watching feet at 3am.
Clare xxx

Recipe for the worst cup of tea ever

Try this...if you dare
1. Get someone to make you a cup of tea (if you're lazy like me.)
2. Take two sips, then leave the rest for at least half and hour until it is stone cold.
3. Put cup in the microwave on defrost. Sample.
4. Turn microwave dial back up to the high setting and curse the person who left it on defrost (which I would never, ever do myself.)
5. Leave cup in microwave until the tea bubbles over the side in manner of lava from an erupting volcano.
6. Stand for at least ten minutes until it is safe to drink (unless you have an asbestos-lined mouth.)
7. Try the foul brew.
8. Throw the cup of tea down the sink and enjoy a glass of council pop (water) instead.
Cheers!

General incompetence or the erosion of our language?

I eagerly scour WHSmith every month for Writers' Forum, which is a challenge as they move the writing magazines pretty much every week. I've found them near the grocery/smallholding mags, the craft/sewing mags, the teaching schoolchildren mags, and this month, they were by the art section, which makes a bit more sense to me.I got the magazine home, and was dismayed. I turned to page 5 where John Jenkins, the editor, has his page. I found two sentences on the page which had missing full stops, which really annoys me, and there were two areas of huge white space, gaps in the middle of sentences. 'Okay,' I think, 'everyone makes mistakes.' Then, on page 15, I found 'was n't' and a bracket with a full stop inside and outside, thus.). page 17 those huge gaps between words again, page 19 another missing full stop, page 21 another huge gap in the middle of a sentence, page 22 speech starting without a capital letter, page 27 those pesky gaps again, page 51 more missing full stops, and those are just errors that I noticed, and I'm not the most efficient proof-reader in the world. Yet this magazine has an editor, an assistant to the editor, a consultant editor, and two editorial assistants. Surely, between them, they could have proof-read the copy so that there weren't so many basic errors? This is a magazine that is 'dedicated to providing encouragement and inspiration to those who want to write and see their work published.' Maybe they should use the grammar check function on their computer?
I got over it, just about, and was happily watching The Apprentice earlier on BBC1, when an advert flashed up for the following programme on BBC2 - 'The Apprentice [b]Your[/b] Fired'. After much gnashing of teeth and screaming at the TV I turned over to watch the opening credits of this programme, just to check the spelling of the title. Thankfullly, It was 'The Apprentice You're Fired' so it was only spelt incorrectly on the trailer.
Writers' Forum and the BBC, shame on you!

Hurrah!!

I am just printing out the full first draft of my novel, I wrote the ending last night. I'm so excited! I'm going to do what Stephen King suggests in On Writing, and put the manuscript away in a drawer for a while, and do something else. I have the deep joy of a tax return to occupy me, and then I can get cracking with the research for my next novel. I never thought I would be able to write one novel, let alone finish one and be prepared to write the next almost immediately. I've spent all my life not finishing things, flitting from one thing to another, and now look at me! My therapist will be so proud.

:) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)

Love Clare xxx

Do these things come in threes?

I've just been for my hair appointment, which was lovely as there is a play area right outside for the kids. After being pampered I decided to treat the kids (and myself!) to McDonalds. In the interest of being healthy I opted for water instead of fizzy pop. Now, there were no seats downstairs, so the kids carried the shopping bags up while I followed with the tray of food. I got to the top, turned the corner, and the bottle of mineral water made a break for it. I automatically tried to catch it and dropped the tray, cascading fries and chicken selects onto the couple having their tea in front of me. I didn't say 'sugar.' I salvaged the food that was still in boxes, but one lot of chicken had fallen on the floor, so I split one box between the kids, and sent my son down to get some more fries - which they very kindly gave him for free when he told them I'd dropped them. It's a good job the lids stayed on the McFlurrys, because I don't think the diners would have appreciated being showered in creme egg and ice cream.
Then, I got home and went to put my new shrink appointment on my big wall calendar. I have calendars and dry-wipe boards everywhere because my memory is spectacularly bad. My next appointment is in June, and as I wrote it down I noticed there were two Junes, so I ripped one of them off. Flipping through the rest of the year, I then saw that there was no September. Quite possibly the worst calendar in the world.
I wonder what I'll do for an encore?
Clare

Is There Life on Mars?

I've been quiet for a few days, because I managed to get depressed by the ending of Life On Mars. In it, Sam Tyler realised that he felt more alive when he was in the coma in 1973 with Gene Hunt, so he threw himself off a roof to get back there. The thing that disturbed me was that I was rooting for him to go back into that world. It freaked me out a bit afterwards, as I realised that I was actually supporting his decision to kill himself. I know it's not real, but it's had a huge impact on me. First was guilt; how can I be happy that Sam threw himself off the roof but still feel angry with my mom for killing herself? Second was a biggy; is my mom out there, somewhere, still? Is there life after death? I managed to give myself a panic attack at the thought that this life, now, may be all there is. I don't want to die and be nothing, otherwise what's the point? On the other hand, what if there is an afterlife, but it's worse? Everything got very confused in my head for a while, and I needed time to straighten myself out a bit.

I've come to no conclusions, unfortunately. No blinding flash of light accompanied by a realisation that death is not the end. I desperately want to believe in an afterlife, and I hope that, when the time comes, that is good enough for whoever or whatever is out there, and that my doubts are forgiven. Of course, if there's nothing, then there's no point worrying, but I can't help it. The thought of death makes me dizzy.

Anyway, I'm off on a much-needed holiday tomorrow. It's a bit of a busman's holiday for me, as I've got writing to do, but a change of scenery will probably do me good.
TTFN,
Clare xxx

An even bigger ego boost

I've just found out that I am one of the 100 winners of the Writers' & Artists' Yearbook Novel Writing Competition. Have jumped around my bedroom A LOT. This couldn't have come at a better time -69 thousand words in and trying not to edit earlier chapters while I write the final three, and battling with the conviction that the whole thing should just go through the shredder. I know I'm showing off, but I can't help it!
Love Clare xxx

An ego boost

I have been struggling recently with writing - in fact, I haven't written anything for about a week now. It's partly because I've been having trouble sleeping, and partly because I don't seem to have time to do anything other than housework - and the place still looks like a pig sty. But, checking on Whsmith - look, if you're a writer, you type your name into any search box you can in the hope you'll be there - I found that both of my books are available from Whsmith. How cool is that? I would love to one day go into a book shop and see my books on the shelves. I have thought of sneaking a few onto a shelf while no-one is looking, and then taking a photo, but I think that smacks a little of desperation.
Mentally, I've been ok-ish, I've been having some really bad nightmares, screaming and waking myself up. Not the most restful of experiences. So, here I am, it's twenty past eight and I'm yawning already.
I've just started reading The Devil Wears Prada by Lauren Weisberger. It's not my usual sort of thing, but it's a good read. I think the reason it is so readable is that the main character Andrea is so out of the loop as far as the whole fashion magazine culture is concerned, which makes the reader sympathetic towards her. I'm only 114 pages in, but I'm quietly impressed. And depressed that my novel is never going to be finished - or good enough. I'm going on holiday soon, so I should be able to get some writing done while I'm away. Hopefully I'll get some sleep, too.
Clare

Oh, joy

I've got to go to the dentist today. It's bad enough having to go outside at all, and then I have to sit in a horrible waiting room, but eventually I have to endure the dentist poking around in my mouth, asking me questions I can't possibly answer with my mouth full of hands and a suction thingy. Going to the dentist is always crappy, but throw in some anxiety and fibromyalgia - which basically means I have a drastically low pain threshold - and it's no walk in the park, I can tell you. Not that I often go for walks in the park, there might be people there, and I know there will definitely be sky.
You know, if I was the family dog I would just be put down.

Scarily good books I've read recently

I thought it was about time I started a book list, of those books I've read over the past few months that were so good they made me jealous of the author.
First is We Need To Talk About Kevin by Lionel Shriver. I've read this five times now, and it just keeps on getting better. A true masterpiece of an insight into the world of killer kids, this book is enough to give any parent nightmares for a long time to come.
Next on my list would be Lisey's Story by Stephen King. I'm a fan of his anyway, but this book is easily the best thing he has ever written. It's moving, has depth, and will be coming down off my bookshelf to be reread quite often, I suspect.
In no particular order now are some others that have greatly affected me.
The Boy In Striped Pyjamas by John Boyne is written from the perspective of a nine-year old boy. The back cover says that too much plot info would spoil the story, so I will content myself with saying this is a book that will come back to haunt your thoughts in quieter moments.
Love and Other Near-Death Experiences by Mil Millington was so funny that I almost gave up writing comedy after reading it. I think the author had a great time writing this, it sparkles and shines like rhinestones on an evening dress.

GHB ABH GBH

No counselling,
doctor,
please sew up
the fleshy lips,
ensure nothing
can penetrate.
No IUD fitted, thanks,
just make me as
anatomically correct
as a Barbie doll,
I will swallow
the post coital pill.
Seal the portal,
pour concrete,
leave me to set.
Prick me,
test for HIV,
then cauterize,
scab and heal
leaving a smooth
blankness
instead of a gaping hole.


© Clare Hill 2006

Cookie Cutter People

I’m a star-shaped building block
but you try to force me
through the triangular hole
in your shape-sorter.
You give me tablets
to knock off my pointy bits,
the voices-in-my-head bits,
to make me ordinary.
So I revel in talking about
my constipated side-effects
in polite company
- like a madwoman.
I wear insanity like a cloak
to hide the me I don’t want seen,
the do-I-look-fat-in-this banality
that mortifies me, but you welcome
because it shows I’ve Taken My Meds.
Be good, girl, swallow your pride,
knock off those pesky edges
so we can squeeze you
into your pigeonhole.
You are busy gluing feathers to me -
you don’t hear my pleas,
I don’t want to be a normal bird,
I quite like being batty.
The voice in my head laughs
because you have a weird-shaped nose.
Maybe you should have surgery
to make it look more like mine?
© Clare Hill 2006

Solitude

In my room
I am safe
with curtains drawn.
I hear traffic,
voices, the babble
of life outside.
I am hidden
from the view
and minds of strangers.
I eavesdrop
on the world,
but not too intently.
I read books
by lamplight,
rather than sun or moon.
One reckless day,
I opened my room
to an outsider.
Now, beaten,
I vow
never again.
With curtains drawn,
I am safe…
in my room.
© Clare Hill 2007

Crazy Writer Says Hello

Eyebrows can be very good indicators of a person’s emotions. Raising them can signal surprise, lowering them when frowning can show irritation or anger.
You can quite clearly see how happy I am from the state of my eyebrows, lately. They are bushy, straggly, and perhaps slightly resembling those of Groucho Marx or Dennis Healey. I haven't felt the need to inflict the torture of plucking them lately, that exquisite agony being my new technique for dealing with urges to self-harm. Women will know what I mean, so I'll explain to the males out there who are fortunate enough not to be pressured to have the perfect arches - plucking your hairs out by the root bloody hurts. And I do mean bloody, sometimes, which is why it is not advisable to pluck just before you go out, because people may ask what has happened to your face as blood runs down from your massacred brows. Hey, they may be glowing red and slightly puffy, giving you the look of an exotic creature from Star Trek, but at least there are no straggly bits.
I digress. As usual. What I wanted to talk about was my book, 'Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)'. And talking about my eyebrows is so not going to sell any books. I have a mind that goes off on mad tangents, though, so you'll have to bear with me. There is a point, I promise, it just takes a few twists and turns to reach it while you are in my mind maze - hey, that's a good term! I'd better write that down.
I'm twenty-eight years old, a mother, and a mental patient -God, that sounds horrible! I've been on medication for a couple of years now. What was I talking about? The book, yes, that was it. I started writing when I stopped drinking - unusual, I know - and found out that sometimes, I was still behaving like I was when drunk. Taking my top off in public, having blackouts, you know, the usual Friday night sort of thing. But now it was Tuesday afternoon, and I hadn't drunk myself silly. With some persuasion I went to see my doctor, who told my I had a mental illness; I needed medication and a shrink. Scary stuff, nearly scary enough to turn me back to drink. I didn't, I took my medication and waited on the waiting list, like a good girl. And waited. And waited.
Pretty soon I got fed up with waiting to find out what the hell was wrong with me, so I started doing my own research. I joined a support group on the Internet, and began writing poetry and keeping diaries of how I felt - which was like shit, most of the time. These insane ramblings turned into a book, 'Living Without Marbles', which deals with the early stages of being diagnosed, and finding out my mother had killed herself. I had to sort myself out, and I included the resources that I used, in the hope other people could sort themselves out, too.
'Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)', yes, I'm getting to that. The mix of poetry, stories, narrative and mental health information proved popular, so I thought 'Why not do it again?' This time I wanted to concentrate on more long-term mental conditions, as by now I'd been through several diagnoses and was no more enlightened. The book gives mental health service users and the wider public an insight into various mental health issues, covering subjects as diverse as self-harm and my self-confessed three pants mood swing. I take the reader on a journey into my mind as well as my knicker drawer. I found that my style was helpful to people, they felt less alone, and some felt inspired by me. Their words, not mine. I'm a pain, as I refuse to fit into any one particular niche, and I write in lots of forms. My work has been described as sublime. By my friends. When I make them say it.
With the help of an editor-friend of mine, I turned a sow’s ear into a silk purse. I decided to self-publish, although Chipmunka had very kindly offered me a contract. It turns out I’m a bit of a control freak. I really enjoyed putting the book together, picking my own front cover, and, yes, even the endless editorial arguments, I mean discussions. I published with Lulu, an American print on demand (POD) company, who charge nothing up front, and just take their cut from the sales. I found the whole process easy; once I’d stopped screaming at the computer and realised the problems were down to human, rather than mechanical, incompetence. I’m very pleased with the paperback; it has a lovely, glossy cover and good quality paper, exceeding my expectations quality-wise. Still, I have to admit that my proudest accomplishment to date still is, when I was around six years old, and a poem I wrote about a flower was picked out in foot-high letters around the gym for parents' evening.
Members of a writing course that I attend have bought copies, even insisting I sign them -blush - and I’ve given a few copies to the social services centre where I go for counselling, so people can use the resources that I have put together. I wrote the book to try and help other people like me, and also the people who have to live with them. Sometimes, I don't want to get out of bed, but I've found writing gives me hope and a sense of purpose. I want to encourage others in emotional distress to write, share their feelings, and smash the stigma associated with mental health problems. I also want people to realise, that they can lead a fulfilling life, even if they feel like crap sometimes.
I’m not going to have tax problems any time soon, that wasn’t the point. I hope to have some financial success with my fiction efforts, though. I’m currently halfway through a novel, but I’m not expecting riches from my mental health books. 'Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)' isn’t really likely to ever become a bestseller. It has, however, affected people who have read it, changed their perceptions a little, and in one case that I know of, swayed someone’s mind against suicide. That’s worth more to me than money.
That’s not to say I’d turn my nose up at a few quid, so for those with more than just a hand in their pocket, you can buy 'Living Without Marbles' in e-book format from www.chipmunkapublishing.com and 'Crazy Lady (Without The Cats)' in e-book or paperback format from www.lulu.com/clarehill
Here’s a little extract:
Maybe I’m a bit pathetic really. I have this obsessive need to
be liked and loved, and to be special to people.
I guess it comes from feeling rejected by my mom. And
therapists are so wrong! Knowing why you do or feel
something, does not really make you better. But, I guess, you
knew that anyway.
I’ve been bad today. Moped around eating chocolate and
reading magazines and sleeping, of course. I’ve been seeing
things and was convinced that there was someone in the room
with me, when quite clearly there wasn’t anybody there.
Having to take medication every day and even extra on some
days, makes me feel so useless. I feel like a failure and it
scares me, because sometimes it is hard to know what is real.
The colours look wrong, lights get too bright, noises too loud
and it seems as if things are moving by themselves.
Sometimes even my taste buds mess up. I’m eating
chocolate and it tastes like potato. And I smell weird things,
like Advocaat, you know, the Christmas eggnog drink, or
oranges. I can’t trust my senses, they all go wrong. I hate
being like this. Mind you, at least now I know, that it does go
away again. Sometimes, I feel that the tablets are causing
some of the problems that I’m experiencing, but I won’t get
started on drug company conspiracy theories. Suffice to say,
that without people like me in the world, there wouldn’t be
much call for shrinks, and lots of people would be out of jobs.
Keep the mad drug dependent!
I’m rambling now, aren’t I? Sorry, just feeling a bit like my
personality has been judged and found wanting. So, I have
been given these drugs to suppress me, keep me down, make
sure I don’t cause any trouble. Be a good little girl and take
your pills and don’t bother the normal folk, because they don’t
want to deal with the likes of you. Keep the bitch quiet!
You’d have laughed at me last night, as I was trying to close
the curtains in the living room. They don't quite meet in the
middle and it didn't matter how much I moved them, or fiddled
with the curtain pole, they just didn't fit. As befuddled as I was,
I spent a long time trying to make them fit anyhow and if I had
found the staple gun I would have stapled them shut!
Oh, and earlier this morning, that severed finger wrapped in a
clear plastic bag on top of the tumble drier, turned out to be a
small carrot. Still, I poked at it a few times with a wooden
spoon before getting up the nerve to unwrap it.

My mother never existed, not in any real sense, for me. Now she’s dead, and she’ll never have the chance to change, to become the sort of mom I fantasised about, the apple pie baking, homework-helping paragon of virtue I always imagined other kids having. So now I’ve replaced my dream mom, with a dream that someday, somewhere, some little girl will still have a mom, because what I have written, what she has read, will have touched her mom, and stilled her hand as she reached for the tablet bottle, the noose or the knife.
As for the future, I’m in the middle of writing a novel, a romantic comedy, which is a huge relief to my family as they want me to write something happy for a change! I’ve already got an idea for a follow-up to it, so as soon as I’ve finished the first one, I can -hopefully - start the next. I’m taking part in the New Writers Development Course in Birmingham, which I’m finding hugely helpful, and I’m working on putting together an anthology for a support group I’m a member of. These eyebrows have got to be done before I can be seen in public. You’ll recognise me, I’ll be looking tidy but sore.
© Clare Hill 2006
(previously published in Twisted Tongue Magazine)