Brackets just don't hack it (except with me!)

I might as well admit it. I've got an addiction to brackets. Not in my every day writing, you understand (no, that could be regarded as lazy) just in my social networking. (Don't you just hate that phrase - I wonder who invented it?)  Anyway, as I was saying, I've been told that I tell stories just like Ronnie Corbett used to do on TV, sitting in front of the camera to make his point and digressing so many times that even he forgot the story he was supposed to be telling. Now where was I? Oh yes, brackets. They can be very useful (especially when you don't want to confuse the reader) and similarly very helpful when you do.  And you'd be surpised how often you see brackets in official notices as in: 'We'll all meet at noon outside the Post Office in Grasmere (weather permitting)' or 'The pony trek will go ahead as planned (all ponies must be accompanied by their owners)'  Anyway you get the gist. And at least I don't have a problem with apostrophes. Now that really is irritating. (You know the sort of thing:  Apple's - 96 pence a pound -  Get your tomato's cheap here.)  But then apostrophes are another thing altogether. And mis-placed apostrophes are written about so often it's almost a national pastime, so they're really not worth mentioning (ok -I just have.) Now,before you ask if I'm going to do something about my addiction (to brackets, that is)   the answer (quite clearly) is No. And yes, maybe my time would have been better spent out in the sunshine than writing this post, but then it's raining. (Very hard, actually.) Anyway, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

( Ps - the Collins English Dictionary definition of brackets is as follows: a pair of characters used to enclose a section of writing.)  A right pair of characters they've turned out to be!

Wine patch, anyone?

Today I'm going to talk about wine. Or should I say the lack of it.  For some reason I have always been able to write more effectively, vibrantly even, after a couple of glasses of red wine; my characters start to do things that are, well, out of character.  This is great because it enables me to decide whether the plot needs to go in another direction, or if the character  has a devious side that even I didn't know about. The problem is that I'm on medication  the moment, in the form strange plaster-like things that deliver a powerful drug that  finds its way to my spine without directions.  Under these circumstances, alcohol is banned, and I wouldn't dream of breaking the rules.  (Oh, well maybe I have the odd dream on the subject, but that's another story.)  I've been wondering lately whether it might be possible to have alcohol patches in the future - the kind that give you a psychological lift without the headache, so to speak, which could even lead to the offer of a three book deal...(just joking.) Some of my writer friends have admitted to getting inspiration from the odd gin and tonic, as if  their imaginations are heightened by the experience, their  writers' block a thing of the past...

When my father was in hospital many years ago, after a serious operation which left him unable to eat or speak, the nurses asked if we could think of anything that might cheer him up.
'Well,' I said, 'he obviously hates not  being able to work, and I' sure he'll be missing his regular pint.'
The following day when I arrived at visiting time, the senior nurse was beaming. 'We've given your dad half a pint of Guinness, straight through the tube in his arm, she said triumphantly. 'It certainly seems to have done the trick.' She was right, it did.
 .
Looking back, this  genuine act of kindness must have broken every rule in the hospital manual and a few more besides.  And it still makes me feel humble, even after all these years, to think of how a simple gesture caused so much pleasure. So, cheers, Dad, wherever you are.   Glass of lucozade anyone??

Why is my nickname 'Froggy...?'

Spot the frog

Yes, I'm always being asked why my nickname is Froggy. (No it's nothing to do with the bulging eyes or the fact that I' m hard to get hold of.)  I could tell you the story but then you may fall asleep and then you would never get to see the strange collection of frogs that I keep hidden (or not so hidden) round the house and garden.( Mr GG is kindly taking the photos for me at the moment, so that's a bottle of his favourite red I owe him) . Please do concentrate, fellow bloggers,  I said favourite red, not off his head, though the latter is probably more accurate after looking after  me  for what seems like months now.

Anyway, it's not as if I'm any trouble to look after.  Once up in the morning (it only takes a couple of hours) and happily settled on the sofa (sitting not permitted, on doctor's orders, this is my spine we're talking about) I then compile a list of things for my wonderful partner to do for the day. I won't enlighten you on this, either, as it's almost as long as the frog story) and then we discuss in which order I, sorry,  we, think the things should be done.

Between clearing the breakfast dishes, cleaning, ironing and collecting prescriptions, he checks that I have written the right amount of words each day and records this along with the hourly medication which I'm sure he would over-prescribe if only he had the courage. Anyway, it doesn't take him long to pick up all the things I have dropped on the floor (pens, paper, reference books, Thessoorus (never could spell that word as I thought it was a prehistoric animal till I was around 12) and then prepare my lunch.

It's annoying, isn't it, now that Spring is here that insides of the windows look smeared in the sunshine and he does so hate me looking through smeared windows. Fortunately, he's a very patient man (which reminds me - why does the recorded message at our local medical centre say "please be patient" - what else do they think we are?) so he usually gets to do his own thing round about three o'clock.

I just called out for him (I've mislaid the hand bell I used to use) and then the phone went and it was my (former) friend.  She said she'd heard he'd gone back-backing in France (in search of grenouilles probably) and had left a message that he didn't want to be disturbed... Oh well, at least I won't be lonely.... animals (unlike humans) never let you down.

And this is the one that started it all ...

N.B The above is on loan from my very special friend Lesley Davison in memory of Patricia Simister

HAPPINESS IS HEALTH SHAPED

ANDREW LANSLEY GETS IT RIGHT AT LAST

(MOTTO:WE WORK FOR YOU!)

My health worries are over - I've been allocated a new assistant on the National Health Service! The photo above shows our very  first breakfast meeting. Of course I have to train her for the next 15 years. But then isn't that's what's called taking care of the future...?????


Here's to progress, Andrew. Long may we prosper.

April Cowers....

Hello again - Guernsey Girl here - did I miss something? Oh yes. Easter. I manged to get myself an emergency admission to A & E last week when my spine went into spasm, so I wrote a little ditty' (with apologies to Robert Browning  and thanks to a large shot of morphine.)

APRIL COWERS

:

Oh to wake in hospital
When  spring has just arrived
To hear the nurses's  merry chant
'Your brew's been there since five' 


To watch the onset of the day
Through windows locked and barred
To ask when the consultant's due
(now that one's very hard)


The physio looks hopeful
His folder clutched in hand
'Now why don't you get out of bed
And lets see how things stand?'


'I've not been down for my op yet,'
I say, my heart in bits
'But  I've ticked all the boxes
So should be there by six.'


The catering lady grabs my list
'No wonder we're behind

This one right here says shredded wheat
And you've ticked fractured spine...'

Blurred photo, anyone?

One of the characters in my latest novel  is a young, ambitious photographer working on a provincial newspaper in the 1960's. My research on the subject was going  well until I met an old college friend I'll call Angela, who spent several years  as a  freelance photographer. After offering lots of useful advice on the subject, she asked what I was like as a snapper ( a cool word in the sixties.) Cringing, I handed her my mobile phone ( 5.0 megapixel autofocus and no doubt  very uncool.) I have to say her face was a picture. Below are some of Angela's  favourites from my' portfolio' which she's planning to use in her forthcoming book  'What to do when The Camera Lies.'

York Minster after three glasses of wine

My wardrobe taken without glasses

Mr Guernsey Writer driving by roadworks

And finally...My 'fairy granddaughter' flying away

Can't see what's wrong with them, myself...

Out on a limb...

Remember the name  Giles Duley. I'll come back to him later.

I've just been out in my garden for the first time today  since slipping a disc at the beginning of February. The trees were in bud, the sun was shining and it felt more like summer than spring.

 I remember my mother suffering a slipped disc when I was a young child.  She was encased in 'Plaster of Paris,' from chest to thigh which was the only cure in those days. I had no idea what was wrong with her or where the mysterious disc was supposed to have slipped to, but oh, how different things are now. The physio comes to visit regularly,  encouraging me to get up and  walk a few steps each day.

Life's quite cushy , really. I lie in bed (to keep my spine horizontal)  while 'Mr Guernsey Writer' dishes out tea, sympathy and usually a hot supper.   Best of all, I have plenty of time to catch  up on my reading.

Which brings me to the  reason for this blog post. I've just read the most amazing account of a 40-year-old photographer, Giles Duley, who had three  limbs blown off a year ago whilst working   in Afghanistan. He was out on patrol with the US Army's 1st Squadron, 75th Cavalry Regiment along with six Afghan National Army soldiers, when he stepped on a land mine. His career up to then had been spent  in the fashion and music industries and he desperately wanted to do something more worthwhile. 


 He was left with only his right arm intact
.
Is he miserable? No, actually, he's very glad to be alive and determined to walk again.  His girlfriend, whom he had known for just a short time before the tragedy, has stayed by his side throughout.  The thought of her, he says,  kept him going when life seemed impossible  And now, back home and still adjusting to his new circumstances, he appreciates the small things  he once took for granted. Like Spring, and the wonder of nature as every day new shoots push their way through the earth towards the sun.

Giles Duley  has strength, willpower, compassion, forgiveness and love -all of it in bucket-loads. I wish him all the happiness he deserves
.

Ps - Did someone mention a slipped disc??

Jane - Where are you now?

Jane as a four-year-old child when she overcame
paralysis and walked for the first time

Memories of a pretty little girl whose mother I interviewed  many years ago came flooding back recently  as I wrote on this blog about  about my early life as a trainee reporter. The four-year-old girl, called Jane, who lived on the Fylde Coast, was born with Spina Bifida, a condition which causes part of the spine to be exposed at birth. For the first eight months of her life Jane was paralysed from the waist down.

'We, like so many other parents, were told that our child would probably never walk, but we always had great faith in her,' her mother explained. 'One day, knowing full well the problem I was presenting, I said Come to Mummy. And she did.'

Over the years, I've often wondered what happened to that little girl. So, being a hoarder  as well as a lover of all things vintage, I  searched the attic for the elusive cutting, written  when I was still in my teens! To my amazement I found  an ancient scrapbook with the article intact.

Deciding not to put it through the scanner,  I reproduce the cutting here, (scrapbook and all) because I'd like to share the story with you. It begins: The day four-year-old Jane walked across the room into her mother's arms, she brightened the future of more than 8,000 children.


We've reached that future, Jane. I wonder-  where you are now?

***

Jane's mother was an member of ASBAH - the Association for Spina Bifida and Hydrocephalus which is still active today. If you need advice about the illness you can contact www.asbah.org

The Guernsey boy who never grew up...

DAVID RICHARD BROWN

Born Guernsey 1929

Died Oldham, Lancashire 1942

 Aged 13

A collage entitled 'From Our Garden, L'ancresse Bay

and Guernsey Harbour'

The mail boat 'Isle of Guernsey'

My uncle might have grown up to be an artist. My uncle should have grown up, of course, but the sad truth is that he never got the chance. He died in the second world war when he was just thirteen years old; not from a bomb or a bullet, but  from a knock on the head by a football.

David Richard Brown died in 1942  during soccer practice for his school  team in Oldham, Lancashire. He  had been evacuated to Oldham Hulme Grammar School, England, from Amherst School, Guernsey, along with many others,  when  Hitler's troops occupied the Channel Islands. David, it seems, was a quietly spoken boy with a love of  sport, but  the only time he was truly happy was when his thoughts turned to home. He would sit in his bedroom for hours at a time staring out at the unfamiliar streets, with their terraced houses and soot-clad chimneys, whilst sketching  the sea and sunshine of his beloved island.

One of my most treasured possessions   is the quaintly-titled 'Brush-Drawing Book' (above)  issued  from the County Borough of Oldham Education Committee for the use of local schoolchildren. Poignantly,  David's   homesickness was reflected in  his sketches.

My favourite  is a 'collage' ( though I doubt if he knew what the word meant at the time) of three sketches entitled 'From our Garden,' Lancresse Bay' and 'Guernsey Harbour. '  Other pages depict the Isle of Guernsey, the mail boat, as it was affectionately called by islanders, that regularly travelled from Guernsey to Southampton or Weymouth before the war. Then there is the touchingly titled  'A corner of our bungalow' and a  'A goal' , a more upbeat sketch depicting a triumphant Guernsey footballer hitting the back of the net.

My late father Harry Brown,  a freelance journalist, wrote prolifically throughout his life,  yet   never  himself  recorded the impact on the family of his brother's tragic death.
My grandmother, very occasionally, would  reminisce about her younger son, but then her face would cloud over and the words,all too soon, would die on her lips.