LAST WEEK:

“And what, Mrs Anderson, do you do as a job?”

The doctor addressed his question to my crumpled, yellowing (and greening)  hand.

“Oh, nothing”.

What???? Well, it’s complicated and embarrassing and I don’t know where to start or finish, so…..EPIC FAIL.

“That’s a good job”. He was definitely using a figure of speech.Sarcasm, even.

But it IS a LOVELY job (mostly) so why am I so pathetic about talking about it?  It’s partly about not wanting to seem pretentious – more about the fear of being unmasked in the middle of Trauma Outpatients as a despicable IMPOSTER, given that I do not (yet) have a ten-book deal with Penguin.

THIS WEEK:

The optician seemed satisfied with the thickness of my cornea. Next, came the test I had dreaded.

“And you say on your form, Mrs Anderson, that you are a ‘writer'”.

I am almost sure I didn’t imagine the inverted commas and the questioning upward inflection of his ‘statement’, although I was rather distracted by the proximity of his nose (hair) to mine.

“Yes.”

I stared at him defiantly, aided by the dilating drops he had thoughtfully squirted onto my eyeballs to prevent  me from blinking incredulously when he revealed the price of sharpening my fuzzy edges.

Afterwards, as I made my way into Costa Coffee to consider how many family heirlooms to flog, I may have felt confused about why they were selling pastel  raincoats and outsize control pants,  but I could hold my head up high(for as long as I could tolerate the triple halo-effect strip lighting).

I had owned up. Things were becoming clearer already.

I have regained my focus. I am totally focused on the pain emanating from my fractured left second metacarpal and associated soft tissue injuries. Boo hoo. Poor me. Just thought I’d get that out of my system (for the next ten minutes at least – then a sympathy top-up may be required).

It was all going so well. I’d booked a remote cottage in N Yorks for five days of inspired, uninterrupted writing with inspiring, uninterrupted – if snowy-sea views. Oh, the things I was going to achieve in a mere 120 hours. After a stern word with myself about the inevitable  creaks of an old cottage and not reading too much into the dog’s random growling (sometimes, my imagination is not helpful),  I settled in front of the woodburner and forged ahead with my Work In Progress, Blues. In time, I even managed to light the woodburner, albeit briefly, which was just as well (electric storage heaters do not count as “central heating” in my (still unfinished) book ). All, however, was cosy and productive.

But, alas (does anyone still say “alack”, too?), dusk of day 3 brought me crashing back to reality. I really shouldn’t blame dusk, as you can’t go round just casting such aspersions, even in our  virtual world. It was more the fault of the sheet ice (so sue me) on the steeply inclined farm track as I returned from checking on my snowbound car, parked on hardstanding, half a mile away. Country people can indeed be very casual about our townie concerns, so there were no yellow cones to tell me snow is slippery and I took a banana skin-style tumble onto my bum (thankfully well padded) and my outstretched hands. Oh, how I laughed as I limped back to my creative base and turned the doorkey with my teeth..

And, oh, how I smiled to myself and the dog as I realised that the agony in my left mitt was not abating and I was snowed in in the dark up a hill and I couldn’t strike a match , even if I could  build a kindling wigwam one-handed. How chipper and up-beat I sounded when my daughter answered the phone (thank heavens for the O2 mast on the hill)and asked how the writing was going. Never mind the flipping writing, just GET YOUR DAD! I may not have said “flipping”. Finally, how I congratulated myself on the pessimistic streak which compelled me to pack painkillers and assorted pharmaceutical panacea which got me through the night with only mild whimpering into the bay below.

Such was my joy when my dear husband reached me the following afternoon with his sledge and nordic pole and snow socks for the car tyres (don’t knock ’em if you haven’t tried ’em), I hereby declare that I haven’t been so happy to see him since he went off to make a few calls and the midwife left me alone (allegedly)and my body decided to bleed to near-death faster than she could could say “hysterical hypochondriac”.

But I digress. My ten minutes must be up, as I feel that familiar yearning for a dose of sympathy, preferably served up with a sad  but admiring shake of the head. And a nice cup of tea. And could you pass my book(open at the right page) and straighten my blanket and cut up my cake for me, please, while you’re on. Much writerly appreciation.

I am lacking focus.

Possibly, I should man-up and  make an appointment to assess whether I am suitable for having my eyeballs sliced open or singed. This is something I have been promising myself since it became clear that my specs needed to become a full-time fixture, rather than just a temporary tool for avoiding driverly devastation, or attempting to follow the ‘plot’ of  high concept, sub-titled films on any screen smaller than the Metro Arena’s.

Well, when I say that it ‘became clear’, it was more of a swirly, misty thing, but there was definitely something there. I think.

Thankfully, my near-sight remains perfect. If that sounds boastful, I (kind of) apologise, but I am scraping the bottom of my positivity barrel, this fine January. Accordingly, I am able to make beautifully illustrated (ok – ‘doodled’) lists of outstanding writerly and Helenly projects and marvel and panic at their outstandingness without squinting.

That is not a squint. There is a distinct difference between a squint and a scowl.

I have shot myself in the foot. Ow.

I have handed out so many writerly business cards to friends and extended family unfortunate enough to find themselves captive in my lounge – feeling beholden to me because they have consumed yet another of my delicious home-heated pizza and pitta buffets – that I am now in fear that my friends and family might actually read this at some point.

This post was going to be a light-hearted but maybe slightly satirical round-up of festivities spent at close quarters with my loved ones. Or, rather, spent with usually-not-so-geographically-close loved ones in my quarters. Or, rather, with grown-up loved ones in my undecorated spare ‘bedroom’ (it IS a bedroom if you put two single mattresses on the floor, so there) and mini loved ones camping out in my ‘writing room’ (which cannot claim to be a ‘writing room’ if the measure is ‘words actually generated recently,’ but which did not exactly qualify even for ‘spare bedroom 2 ‘ status, even with two lilos on the tiled floor). Which reminds me…. bah….children nowadays are so soft, expecting carpet or heating  in December. On the plus side, they make their own entertainment when they step out of ‘bed’/lilo in bare feet. Ho ho ho. Let’s dance.

But now I’m scared that pals and rellies may get mad and ex-communicate me if I have a little laugh at their expense or mock them ruthlessly on these pages. Some people- especially those who have migrated South- can be soooo sensitive about even the gentlest of personal attacks.

Hopefully, my fear may be irrational, if they are anything like my Mum who “keeps forgetting.” about my “blog whatsit” but will “probably” look at it soon. (Not exactly bursting with maternal pride, dear Mama?)

But, for now, just in case anyone did not turn my business card into an aeroplane (yes, I saw you, dear nephew, but the card is such top quality that you will never get off the ground), I will defer to familial sensibilities and merely report that a Happy New Year was had by all.

Normal service will be resumed as soon as I am sure that no-one’s looking.

Phew. Finished wrapping my Christmas presents. All those weeks of agonising and having stern words with myself about being  more decisive, and blisters on my feet from traipsing around malls, and blisters on my fingers from cheese-wire carrier bag handles and exploring virtual retail opportunities long into the lonely nights with only the Pogues and Cliff and Aled for company….. IS THIS ALL I  HAVE TO SHOW FOR IT? Are these piles (“piles” is an overstatement: they are more “molehill” than “mountain”) of scrumpled packages an adequate representation of all that cheerful-but physically and mentally not insignificant- effort.

It reminds me of my writing exertions: months  of   planning  Blues,  followed by hours of scribbling  in notebooks and sweaty research sessions, and  summer reading about the art of fiction, and disciplining myself to actually write something down in some kind of order, then checking and re-checking my ideas list,then wondering whether to go with my original instincts-  all  evaporating into a stack (“stack” may also be a slight exaggeration) of paragraphs which I hope amount to something people won’t want to take back on Boxing Day.

It’s supposed to be the thought that counts. But it’s a bonus when you know you’ve nailed it,  hitting upon a present that brings a genuine smile to the recipient’s face, even if they didn’t realise it was just what they’d always wanted.

Writing can be a lonely business, even if you don’t discipline yourself to ignore the front door and phone-calls and wistful looks from a sad-eyed, smudgy-nosed labrador through the french windows to your designated writing zone.

Since my university course finished (did I mention that I recently graduated?… Oh, I did?…), I have been missing the colourful company of my student cohort. Although my family and friends try very manfully/womanfully not to glaze over like the aforementioned fenêtres at the mention of enjambement and soliloquies, it is nice to have fellow writers in your life who can even summon up a modicum of interest and, if you’re lucky, an appropriate response.

This week, I was fortunate to be introduced to a group of lively ladies in Saltburn who have been meeting up to share their writing and reading and general thoughts-on-the-Universe for a while now. I know that the arrival of any ‘outsider’ – never mind a great cuckoo such as myself- can upset the balance of an established group, so I was grateful to them for being so welcoming to me to their Christmas meeting and allowing me to have Stollen slices and Iceland own-brand mint-choc ‘Matchmaker’-type sticks. I’m looking forward to returning to their perfect writers’ den with a frontline view of the wild North Sea waves, next month.

This weekend, I was also back in Saltburn (because I have not yet located a writerly ‘scene’ in Marske) to attend The Second Breakfast Club, hosted by the equally hospitable Carmen. Here, we ‘pitched’ our favourite books and analysed Hemingway and sketched out the future direction of the group, aided by slices of an indecently delicious chocolate log and a self-replenishing cafetiere. This group has already hatched some great ideas for future creative projects, and I am looking forward to playing my part in the up-and-coming literary life of Saltburn, if I can keep up with Carmen, who seems to have discovered boundless energy and a magic time-stretcher.

There was also a reassuring sense of community at Ek Zuban’s Christmas Cabaret of music and spoken word in Middlesbrough on  Wednesday. Held in the traditional, surprisingly atmospheric Westgarth Social Club, the evening showcased the talents of emerging Teesside performance poets. I can now count myself among their number, having resisted the temptation to do a runner during the interval, thanks to words of encouragement from friends and wordsmiths Julie and Chris, to my husband refusing to drive me home, and to restorative sips/glugs of Chardonnay. The alliteration in the second poem didn’t seem like a such a clever idea after my third glass (“shlipper shocks shlip down shteep shtairs”, etc) but overall, the evening was heart-warming.A triumph. The Social Club did what it says on the sign.

Maybe I need to get out more.

This week, as a prize for my writerly jiggerypokery in Talk of the Town‘s ‘Saltburn Memories’ poetry competition, I was presented with  an impressive black and white photo of Huntcliffe, taken by documentary photographer Ian Forsyth. It is a beautiful, brooding photo of storm clouds gathering over the clay cliffs and grey waters of the bay that provided a backdrop to childhood Sunday afternoon intakes of ‘fresh air’, and – a few years later, but not so many as to make it entirely legal- to queues for admittance to the shrine of sophistication that was Philmores Nightclub (formerly the Spa Ballroom, where my parents “got together”. Somehow not so cool). Plus, it was the scene of subsequent, cider ‘n’ black-fuelled weeping sessions by the burger van (“What’s yours, love? Onions and sauce?”) to the strains of Nilsson’s (admittedly eye-wateringly high) Without You.

*Sighs nostalgically.

I am going all gooey at the olfactory memory of mechanically recovered cow patties, even though I have recently entered into my twenty-third year of ovo-lacto vegetarianism (I know, I hardly look old enough for this possibly to be true). My winning poem, Clear Days, is also based on recollections of the smells of Saltburn. I mean this entirely in a complimentary way.

For me, Saltburn woods were about an odour vaguely reminiscent of the aforementioned charred onions, but with mental links to our semi-adventurous, wholly shoestring-budget, family camping holidays to the various shores of la Belle France: an aroma which today’s underage revellers would instantly identify as the deadly white garlic gloop which gives a vaguely Continental European edge to their ethnically-confused snacks( à la  London Pizza).

Also fighting for dominance of my Top Local Historical Whiffs list was the  Cup-a-Soup dispensed – somewhat perfunctorily- by the Saltburn Leisure Centre vending machine, melting the not-quite-fit-for-purpose plastic cups and scalding your fingers and throat in a powdery, salty assault, mixed with grass cuttings my Mum assured me were a wonderful new invention called “herbs”. I wonder if the liquid had ever actually been in contact with a broiler. In those days, I didn’t devote so much time and energy to distinguishing between “chicken flavour” and “chicken flavoured”. Everything was just chicken-y. And simple.

*Shakes head wistfully, knowing it was not really that simple and it was not a nice time for the poor birdies in question.

Earlier this year, I was compared to the scintillating, cheery comedian, Mr Jack Dee, by a fellow writer who had witnessed my debut performance of poetry on subjects as uplifting as maternal bonding problems, dementia and joy (which turned out to be about my inability to get in touch with my joyous side). At the same event, I was told by a respected poet/mentor “You are funnier than you realise”. I think it was a compliment, as in funny- ha-ha,rather than funny-peculiar. I am choosing to believe this interpretation. Please do not disabuse me.

This week,  I was thrilled to forge through floods in my trusty Micra to view Mr Dee performing on the very same Middlesbrough Town Hall stage on which I had graduated only three days previously. How spooky is that? Okay, so not very. However, it does give Jack (first-name terms, now) and me yet another thing in common, in addition to our dead pan delivery and somewhat underwhelmed observations on life’s many ironies.

I have never been one for gushing and enthusing, I am definitely a ‘wry internal chuckle’ gal, and not an ‘explosion of canned hilarity’ merchant. (Woman on the right-hand side of the balcony please take note: you are a raving exhibitionist and hooting louder than the rest of us does not mean you are getting better value-for-money. Also, laughing at a joke ten minutes later than everyone else interrupts the evening’s flow and makes you seem simple or drunk).

In my novel-in-progress, Blues, I am channeling dark, dry humour which punctuates the seriousness of the storyline and prevents the reader from being plunged into a  depressive chasm (there isn’t room down here for many more of us). But without turning my hard-hitting, hyper-realistic drama into The Suite Life of Zak and Cody, which, to be fair, seemed funny when you watched an episode for the tenth time (my toddler liked it, alright?) because it failed so spectacularly to be funny, whilst trying so valiantly to be funny.

This humour lark is a tricky, slippery customer. But I am determined to pin him down (50 Shades – ooh-err). As Jack so wisely pointed out in gale-lashed Middlesbrough on Monday , it is our duty to carry the Jubilee/Olympic spirit bravely into 2013 and beyond. But don’t make us laugh. Without our misery, Jack doesn’t have an act and I will never have my book.

This week, I am experimenting with ‘organic’ writing. I have, as usual, lots to say for myself, but it all wants to come out at once in an alarming hiccup-fit.So, I am abandoning my normal (cunningly subtly) structured approach and playing with the ‘dribble-of-semi-consciousness’ technique.

Admittedly, my focus is not helped by the fact that my daughter is in her second week of learning the guitar (Wonderwall and Let Me Entertain You) but I am pleased she is applying herself so am grimacing and bearing it.Also, we have been minding my Mum’s dog, who has been a bad influence on our dog, inciting running away on the beach and barking the street down in a  grating doggy duet if so much as a leaf falls onto our block-paving.

Last week was a Busy Week. Well, it’s all relative, but it was action-packed by my standards. And I am highly aware that I am not as young as I used to be, having spent much of my twenty-second wedding anniversary gazing at the photo of my husband with a woman in a wedding dress and trying to recall where I had seen her before. Maybe she just reminded me of someone.

Highlights included a trip to the hospital(still waiting for the results: that’s got to be a good sign, hasn’t it?), going to college (determined to stick it out until Christmas because we are not a family of quitters), attending a ‘gig’ (daughter’s friend singing in a pub- that counts, right?), completing Chapter 13 of Blues (at a rate of half a  paragraph per millennium),  said wedding anniversary (bouquet and whiteboard pens, ta very much), and going out for a meal with friends we lost touch with ten years ago (more gazing at myself, wistfully pondering the passage of time and its physical ravages, but at least they didn’t walk past me).

This doesn’t seem like all that much, when I put it like this, but I am hyper-sensitive to activity.

And this week may be an Even Busier Week. This week promises being presented with a poetry competition prize (how do I make that sound like a stress, rather than a pleasure?), doing my micro-teach session at college (on the subject of limericks, currently over-running by two minutes),getting my nails professionally done ready for graduation (yeay, but what if I fall over on the stage?), trying a new writing group (what if they do not ‘get’ my work or me?),getting the carpet and suite cleaned (now that we are no longer a boarding kennels, plus it’s that time of year when we start caring what  festive guests might think of us if they saw how we really lived), a pitching workshop (not very good at ‘selling’ myself- can you tell?),moving my daughter into the spare room once it has been painted in her preferred shade of white (it is bigger than her current pink and turquoise box but near the top of the stairs and I had a fear of dropping her down the stairs in the night when she was a baby),starting Chapter 14 of Blues (resisting urge to micro-edit/delete Chapters 1-13 and hoping that my punctuation is better than this),more guitar practice (just be thankful she didn’t want a bass and remember the problems your parents had with your sax).

Someone please stand me on my head and pass me a glass of water and give me a big fright (not now – I’m expecting it now). Failing that, a whack over the head. Aaah, the relief. That’s better.