18 Jun 2023 · 4:15 pm

Let’s talk about pigeons …

This week, my school friend texted me to say she’d had a successful cancer op. There’s none left and she will do radio therapy.

‘Woot! Fantastic news!’ I started to type.

‘Woot! Bacteria!’ wrote my phone.

Fuckinell what is it on? I stopped and tried again. Nope. I have to laboriously type it in, one letter at a time, very slowly in order for it to understand because nothing will persuade it that someone writing in english is more likely to write Woot! Fantastic news! then Woot! Bacteria. Seriously, what the fuck has Google’s machine learning been smoking?

Welcome to my world. It’s been a bit like that this last couple of weeks. OK then. Onwards and upwards.

Where to?

I know! Let’s start by talking about pigeons.

Recent events got me wondering how much of the average pidgeon is bowel? Seriously, if there are any nature experts out there reading this I’d really like to know. It might be that birds, generally, have a very high large intestine too … um … rest of them ratio. After all Canada geese poo every 90 seconds (my poor bottom is wilting at the thought of going through life doing that. Sudocreme anyone? Five tonnes over here please, that might stretch to three days … etc).

Also, I remember how, once, I inadvertently sat in a seagull shit on a day out in Southwold. Bloody hell! Never again. It was the size of a labrador turd. Likewise … this last week, although not this LAST week as I come to finish this post, but the one before, it was half term. McOther went to check up on his folks and Mc(NotSo)Mini and I went to see my bother in Shrewsbury. As well as being a target-rich environment for eyebombing, Shrewsbury is a lovely market town. Much like Bury St Edmunds only rather inconveniently far away.

Cousin of Mc(not so)Mini/nephew-of-me had a minor op, poor lad, so we didn’t do much, which, as you know, I always regard as an absolute bonus. What I love to do, when I see friends or family, is talk. OK so I tend to talk the hind legs of any donkeys within several hundred miles but I enjoy myself. I’m not quite so certain they do but they’re all very tactful about it anyway.

We had a fantastic time, or at least I did, just sitting about drinking rather too much alcohol or sitting in the sun while the youngsters binge watched the Harry Potter films. We threw in a couple of forays out to meet up with family friends whom I haven’t seen in ages.

But I digress. Extensively. (Quelle suprise.) I was on about pigeon shit, wasn’t I?

So my bother and his Mrs live in her mother’s house, now. They also have a large and really rather lovely static caravan in the garden which Bro’s mum in-law and husband are using as a granny annex. Having sold their original house, Bro and wife have put the proceeds into a buy-to-let property for the time being. They’d owned it for about two days by the time I got there so Sis-in-law needed to measure up the kitchen with a view to giving it a bit of a refresh. I suggested I tagged along as it’s so much quicker and easier with someone else there to hold the other end of the tape measure. It’s a really nice house, no garden but that’s perfect for a rental and it has a terrace so the people can still sit out.

You’re wondering how the pigeon bowels come in by now, aren’t you? I know, but stay with me, I’m getting there, which, by the way, is kind of how it happened.

Sis-in-law works for a homeless centre. If you see anything about Shrewsbury Arc in the media you can pretty much guarantee she’ll be the spokesperson. They have a rented storage property which they’re giving up and some of the furniture there has been deemed too knackered to move or too complicated for many folks to fit so they are leaving it. This includes a couple of counter tops so Sis-in-law reckoned it might be worth going to have a look to see if any of it would could be recycled into the kitchen of the new house to give it a bit of a refresh. Otherwise it was going to be skipped.

Kitchen measured, off we went to the storage property. On the way, we had to drive under a railway bridge. There were traffic lights before hand, red, naturally, but as they went green Sis-in-law blanched and explained that there were more traffic lights under the bridge, that they would probably be red and that there were pigeons. We got the giggles about the odds of being shat on; about 100:1 for normal people but, since we had the lid off, I reckoned the odds of us actually escaping a shite dousing were the remote ones and the chances of being comprehensively crapped on from a great height pretty much odds on.

Sure enough the light went red and as we stopped, third in the queue and right under some convenient girders, I could hear the pigeons above. One, in particular, sounded as if it was heaving and straining, as if to lay an egg, or give birth … or possibly even scream for an epidural. Having commuted regularly on a line that involved changing trains at Earl’s Court I know what that means. It was about to lay a gargantuan cable.

‘Yikes!’ I said. ‘One of them’s got us in its sights. I can hear it gearing up.’ At which point there was a sound like a loud hand clap.

‘Bollocks! Was that the sound of shit landing on us?’ I asked her.

‘Yes. Although mostly on me,’ was Sis-in-law’s approximate reply as the lights went green. I looked over and her window was covered in what looked like the contents of a newborn’s nappy; yellow, quite runny and a bit granular, like mustard.

Except that to call it the contents of A newborn’s nappy was doing the pigeon an injustice. The roto-virus-yellow excrement on the windows was there in the kind of abundance that was more befitting a sizeable ruminant like … I dunno … a cow, a water buffalo, or possibly a large elephant. Definitely something bigger than a pigeon. Seriously, I’ve done smaller poos than that and I’m chuffing enormous next to a pigeon.

Luckily the homeless centre at which Sis-in-law works was about 100 yards away, so we pulled over and parked there to clean the car. When she stood up and climbed out I could see that she hadn’t been so much shat on as hosed down. Seriously there was a LOT of poo. She ran in and got a bucket of water and a sponge for me to clean the shite off the seat, floorpan, sill, seatbelt and window. I think I may have mentioned that there was a lot of shit but trust me, because I really cannot stress this enough, there was.

Sis-in-law went back inside to change into some clean clothes from the stash they keep there for folks who only have one set, so they can use the shower and the washing machine without doing their own impression of that 1980s Levi jeans advert.

So. Much. Shit. There was double that inside the car and on Sis-in-law

While Sis-in-law was absent I surveyed the damage. I found myself marvelling at how one pigeon could do that much excrement. Seriously, there were gallons of it. OK so I know that when they’re spread out liquids look more voluminous but even so. There was an absolute fucking crap tonne of … well … you know … crap. We must be talking a 33cl coffee cup, minimum, of shite down the window, inside and on the floor and seat of my car … not to mention the extensive splatterage down Sis-in-law. I found myself marvelling at the wonders of nature present in the amount of liquid that came out of a living vessel that really shouldn’t have been large enough to contain it.

And what did the pigeon look like afterwards? You know … minus what appeared to be most of it’s bodymass? What happened to it? Did the sudden release of that much fluid kill it? Was it lying on the ground, little more than a flaccid skin with nothing inside it, you know like one of those plastic chickens? Would it shrivel to nothing, when touched, like an ancient balloon that’s lost its air? How could a living creature contain so much … liquid … without being double the size it actually is. I mean seriously just … how? It seems that the humble pigeon is nature’s TARDIS; soooo much bigger on the inside.

If anyone can tell me what the maximum capacity of a pigeon is, I’d be most interested to know. Both of us were giggling about what had happened despite the horrific stench but at the same time, I am genuinely agog to find the answer to this question.

As I washed the copious amounts of stinking guano off the car I noticed that the back tyre was looking a bit low profile. Less low profile, to be frank, and more flat.

Bollocks.

Sis-in-law returned, having had a quick wash and brush up, resplendent in a strangely baggy pair of grey tracksuit bottoms and carrying her reeking shorts in a sealed plastic bag. I briefly outlined the a new chapter that had arisen in our Series of Unfortunate Events and showed her the tyre.

OK first things first, or do I mean second things second by this time? God knows. Anyway. Step one in this phase. We needed to fill the tyre with air becasue otherwise I’d break it by driving on it. Needless to say, it’s a Lotus tyre and it is therefore a tyre that tends to have to be ordered in and take a day or two to arrive. Mc(not so)Mini had a gig coming up so that was two days we didn’t have, so if I buggered it up it was tow truck time when we came to go home. Step two, we then needed to see if the air leaked out very quickly or if it just went down slowly. If it didn’t leak fast we could drive to a garage to get it fixed the following morning and all would be fine. But it was now 7.00pm and the KwikFits of this world were closed for the day. On the upside, it was a Thursday night so they’d be awake the following morning.

But air was the first stop anyway.

Off we went to the nearest source—Morrison’s petrol station—to pump up the tyre. Then, since we were there and I was going home the following day, I decided to use the five minutes we were going to wait to see if it started to go down to fill up with petrol. I had a debit card in my phone case with over £100 on it but no other money with me, so we headed on over to pay at the pump. I swiped it and it was refused.

Ah yes, of course. I realised it was refused because the pump tried to take £100 off it and there was only £90 there because 48 hours previously I filled up with petrol at Tesco and paid at the pump with that card. No worries, if I stuck £10 on it the funds would go over the magic £100 level with a bit to spare, and all would be well.

Except no, it wasn’t. Even though I had £100 in there, and I’d only spent £20 on petrol at Tesco’s. No worries. I used my banking app to transfer another twenty quid to the account. It still didn’t work. I tried another tenner. Still no. Then I looked at the banking app for the account that was linked to this particular card. Well that explained it. The bank in question believed that I’d spent £100 on petrol at Tesco’s and that my coffers were empty. Thinking about it, I realised that Tesco’s hadn’t worked out how much I’d actually spent on petrol yet, so they’d just taken £100 off me for now, and were sitting on it while their accounting computers worked out how much I’d actually spent at which point they put the rest back. This had taken it 24 hours so far.

Fucking what? I knew you had to have £100 in there to buy petrol but I hadn’t realised the bastards actually hang onto it. Presumably, in a couple of day’s time … when Tesco’s accounting software had got its finger out of it’s arse, they were going to give me the other £80 back.

It was the end of the month, but luckily I did have another £90 I could put in, just, to convince the Morrisons pump that I had enough money to buy £45 worth of petrol.

Luckily, by the end of the day, Tesco’s had ‘realised’ that I only did a £20 splash and dash the previous day and Morrisons had already changed the £100 to the correct amount. Suddenly I now had £150 in my slush account and absolutely jack shit in the account all the direct debits were about to come out from. Cue some hurried transferring back.

I wonder how much interest Tesco’s makes from sitting on £100 of people’s cash for a day or two each time they buy petrol at the pump. Lots, I should imagine. Every little helps themselves eh? Bastards. No wonder every man jack of those gits buying petrol alonside me at Tesco’s clogs up the pumps for ten minutes a pop while they queue for fucking ever to pay in the guichet. Note to self, only use the Lloyds mothership account for this, not the Chase spending account, because with Lloyds mothership Tesco do not hang onto £100 of my money for 48 fucking hours!

Tyre pumped up, we decided the warehouse was probably a bridge too far and went home. Upon examination I found a nail in the tyre. It’s weird how these things come in patches as I haven’t had a puncture for ages but had a nail through my front tyre a couple of weeks ago.

Then of course, the next morning, I had to find someone to mend the tyre. That was alright, although it took a bit of doing and it wasn’t ready until 12.45. That was fine but not what I was expecting. We got away by 1.00 and even though the traffic was a bit shit we got home by 5.00. Poor McOther coming home from Scotland had it far worse, his five hour jouney was seven, whereas our two and a half hour journey was three, which doesn’t feel so bad. And we had each other to talk to. McMini is still as amusing as ever, except now he’s just incredibly sarcastic. We have in jokes about neck rolls, people with square jaws and apparently any bald person with very short or no hair is referred to as a ‘thumb’ these days which I find unaccountably hilarious. It probably makes me a four star bitch.

Other news, briefly: on the Mum front, the application for continuing healthcare continues on. I have been required to gather together an absolute fucktonne of documents, have them certified by a solicitor (but not my husband) and then send them off to the people who are going to attempt to apply. Continuing care is a bit like farming subsidies, applying is so complicated and fraught with difficulties that a whole industry has sprung up around applying for it. I am quite nervous because it’ll cost us £5k to do the application, another £2.5 if we want an advocate to speak for us and then, if we have to appeal, it’s the same again. I’m definitely nervous, but doing this could be the difference between her being able to stay where she is and having to move her early next year.

As you can see it’s all go, hence my doing fewer blog posts.

Writing news.

On writing, big news this week, I have now finished the insides of the eyebombing book … I think. I may have to redo all the images to CMYK but that isn’t so bad, it was choosing them that took the time. There’s just the cover to do … and it appears it has to have a dust jacket so it looks like I’ll have to do one of those as well but that’s just, kind of, the cover twice, with a little bit of blurb on the flaps on the inside. Although I might make it a poster or something. So that’s grand.

Picture of lap top with last page of photo book in D T P software loaded.

If you are interested and would like to know when the eyebombing book drops you are welcome to sign up for my all things eyebombing newsletter. To do that click the link just here:

https://www.hamgee.co.uk/ebl

I am appearing at the Bury Cathedral Summer Fair with some other author friends on 8th July. Which reminds me, they don’t know about that, and I should probably tell them. I am hoping I can have the Eyebombing, Therefore I Am book finished, ordered in and ready to sell for then. It’ll be touch and go I’m going to try and pull out the stops to get it done. I am so, so close. It might be possible, if I pay extra for a quick turnaround. Hope springs eternal!

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Tagged as Eyebombing, eyebombthereforeiam, eyebombtheschoolrun, I fucked this up so you don't have to, istuffedthisupsoyoudon’thaveto, living dangerously, M T M Makes a complete tit of herself, M T McGuire, M T McGuire new releases, new book releases, whyarepigeonssofullofshit

21 May 2023 · 6:47 pm

We’re not at home to Mr Cockup. Oh no, no, no, no.

Except we so smecking are. Mwahahargh!

Picture of an amber warning light for an automatic gate with plastic googly eyes on it to make it look like an irritated face.

Yes he’s a bit fucked off.

I was going to do a post about writing this week—and accompanying things—but the accompanying things got a bit out of hand and so I’ve gone off on a completely non-writing related tangent.

Do you remember a refrain from the Blackadder II episode where he’s made Lord High Executioner?

‘We’re not at home to Mr Cockup!’ he tells his team. And they fuck it up, of course, and Baldrick says, ‘Shall I prepare the guest room for Mr Cockup, my lord?’

Yeh, well … Mr Cock-up seems to have taken up permanent residence in the spare room and his omnipresence has affected most events this week. Sadly this time, my inefficiency has impacted on my ‘work’. I put ‘work’ in quotes because we all know that I don’t have time for a real job, since what I do is look after Mum and be a mum. My writing ‘career’ is the thing I pursue in the few minutes a week that I laughingly call, ‘my spare time’.

Here’s the thing.  For the last, I dunno how long, the cunningist of my most cunning marketing strategies has revolved around the crack dealer’s school of marketing. Give them books, get them hooked and then make them pay. To whit, I have been handing out cards … these cards … (see pic).

picture of two business card-sized flyers advertising free books.

The QR codes send people to a page where they can download The Last Word (top card shown) or join my mailing list (other card shown) and grab a copy of Nothing to See Here… In case, like me, readers can’t get the QR code reader on their electronic thingy of choice to work, there’s a link written out longhand as well.

When I changed ISPs a few months ago, I lost my website. I’d run out of space and there wasn’t enough room on the server to back it up properly … except that I didn’t realise that and so when I got the new site up and running and tried to upload the backed up file it told me to piss off.

On the face of it, this wasn’t so bad. I have an earlier back up which contains most of the material I’d want to keep. Also, I used a lot of orphan pages; that is blanks with information about my books etc but without the menu and distractions that might make people browse away before they’ve properly assimilated how fantastically brilliant my books are and ponied up for one. Phnark.

Those were stored on my computer. I composed and edited them in a very ancient copy of Dreamweaver … 2004 ancient, to be precise … and put them backwards and forwards using the ancient Dreamweaver’s integrated ftp. As a result I was able to upload those to the new site and so most of the stuff in my automations should be working as usual. But things with Dreamwever are getting a bit shonky—it being nearly 20 years old and that—so I’ve been attempting to use an alternative.

Anyway, because I’m so organised and efficient (oh ho ho) I made a list and started downloading the code for all the pages I wanted to use … except that then, I suspect, I saw a shiny thing, or something happened with Mum, or McMini needed a lift somewhere and I got called away, and when I returned, I thought I’d finished. What distracted me is immaterial, the point is I hadn’t finished the job that I thought I’d done.

Yes, it turns out I’ve been handing out these cards like confetti and sending people to my site to download a free book to read and all they get is a 404 error.

Mmm, well done MTM. Bellend of the week award anyone? Ah yes, that would be me.

Balls up discovered, I have now put it right and the page for people to go to when they click the QR code is back in position. However, my gargantuan cockwomblery does not end there. Oh, no, no, no …

It now transpires that the QR code on my mailing list sign up cards points people to a sign up page with my list provider rather than on my site. I did these cards when I had artwork but in advance of publishing the book so I had to guess what I’d call the landing page with a view to making it later—when there was a book there for people to download and I’d written an onboarding sequence. I duly made up a name for the landing page, which involved the working title of the novella rather than the one it actually has…

Can you guess what happened next?

That’s right. I forgot to make that page. I forgot I’d made the link. I forgot that was where the QR code pointed but I had the cards printed anyway. Once again, the helpful QR code was taking them to a page that said oops but this time, rather than an oops page hosted by me, it was hosted by Mailerlite.

Mmm. My professionalism knows no bounds.

Bollocks.

In order to have a neat link, I used a link shortener.  Needless to say, in the interim, the link shortener in question, Bit.ly, has drastically reduced the facilities of its free account so I can’t just make a new one for bit.ly/hupbook or whatever because I’m only allowed to use the ones bit.ly gives me, you know; bit.ly/1f*5hio;avew or something equally catchy and easy to print correctly and remember. So what did I do? Well, I just duplicated the signup page I have, and renamed it with the name I used when I made the original link. Simple! But also. Ugh. Head desk.

As you can see, my marketing’s been just peachy this week, say I with such leaden irony that if I decide to move this sentence I’ll need a special, heavy-duty winch. Then again, perhaps my … er hem … marketing prowess has been kind of OK because I can tell myself that I’ve fixed a long-term problem that’s been extant since mid January.  Which makes this a win. Obviously. Snortle.

How did I not spot this problem earlier? I hear you ask, except I probably don’t because I expect you’ve nodded off by this time, but as usual I’m going to pretend, for comic effect, that I did. Er … hang on … oh yes. How did I fail to spot this? Well the QR code isn’t the only thing on there, I have also written out the link … except … it’s a different link which goes to a real page which does exist and will allow them to sign up and download the book. Not a total disaster then but kind of weird, all the same. I’ve left it like that for now because an alternative means changing the artwork.

Going forward (not a phrase I like but probably the best one to use here) people can at least sign up to my mailing list or download a free book with those cards, now. They probably won’t but that’s not the point is it? The point is that they can.

It’s been one of those weeks this week.

Similarly, I ordered a new case for my phone. I needed a wallet case because I like to have a single card in there and be able to go out with just my phone without being caught short of cash. Also, if my wallet’s nicked and I have to stop everything else I can still pay for things in a shop and get cash while I’m waiting for them all to arrive AND I can still buy stuff if I go out and forget my wallet.

However, I couldn’t find any companies that made them for my phone initially and had to buy a normal case—this is me, it has to have a protective case of some sort because otherwise, I’ll smash it. Although even with the protective case I smashed the phone-before-last on day two.

The case it has is great but I have to take it off to plug in a USB stick to download my photos, and as I’m doing the eyebombing book at the moment, I need to keep moving eyebomb pictures from my phone to my computer so, as you can imagine, this has become a sizeable point of pain. I have google drive but anyone who’s ever tried to download anything more than one photo at a time from Google Drive will know a) what a palaver it is and b) that when it compresses the photos into a zip file it leaves three quarters of them out. Massive, MASSIVE ball ache. The USB storage stick is way easier, even if you have to keep taking the phone out of its ruddy bastard case each time. That’s how eager Google is to ensure you don’t bother and pay for extra storage. Money grubbing bastards.

Sorry, where was I? Ah yes.

Having ordered the case, it arrived two weeks later from China and I discovered I’d inadvertently ordered one to fit a Pixel PRO rather than a plain pixel. When I put ‘custom wallet case for google pixel 6’ into a search engine, I have to be very careful that I check the results are not for a Pixel 6 Pro, which is bigger, because no matter what I do, it lumps them all together. I also get annoyingly irrelevant ‘sponsored’ results from companies who don’t make a custom wallet case for a pixel at all. I know I had the right one initially but the internet dropped, I had to reload the page and I didn’t realise it had defaulted back to pixel 6 PRO again. Bastards. That said, it was so rubbish that when it arrived I was almost glad it didn’t fit.

Needless to say, only one other site offering a Pixel 6 (not pro) wallet case popped up on my search results, but apparently they’d changed some vital parameter to ‘custom’ that made BT parental controls ban them. Or perhaps it was because they’re called hairy worm, phnark. Uh yeh … I guess it could be that. Sometime, long ago, in the dim, dark, distant past, we put parental controls on our BT internet access because … you know … McMini.

However, that was eight years ago. We are out of contract and neither of us knows our BT password so we can’t change it. I tried to get this back off BT but was unable to because it was confidential information. So confidential that once it’s been lost, they can’t even tell the actual account holder what their own password is. Likewise, if they spell your name wrong, they can’t change it. I might be able to tone down parental controls via the wi-fi router and I will probably try at some point in the far future, when I’ve nothing better to do.

Alternatively, it might be that only McOther can do it because he’s the account holder and being his mere wife means I’m not secure enough. I did have a secondary account and password which I could do this stuff with but those no longer work, probably because I haven’t used my BT email address, ever.

As far as the account goes, I think there has to be one default email address but we can’t get in because … password … and they can’t send it to us because we can’t get in to read the email. Anyway, they’ve spelled our surname Maguire, the ignorant tossers, so they can fuck off.

Hmm. Sorry. Not ranty or anything today am I? I’m just in a grump because my son has very generously shared his cold with me. Back to my long and rambling story. I just know you’re on the edge of your seat. Mwahahargh!

Luckily, I have data on my phone so I just used that to bypass BT’s draconian system by using my data and my phone, instead. I did try to report it as an error but obviously I needed to know my account name and password for that. Considering I uploaded the artwork, positioned it and chose the text colour using my phone I am actually quite chuffed. See picture attached.

Mmm … K’Barthan swag.

Nothing much else has happened this week other than my opening what, I suspect, is going to be the most gargantuan can of worms. I asked about getting Mum a care assessment for a continuing care grant; mainly because one of her carers’ grandfather had been given it and she told me that, in her professional opinion, he was no more in need of help than Mum. Her mother, who is also on the care team, agreed. I asked what they did, and apparently another family member had contacted an agency who’d done it for them.

Armed with this information, I rang the agency in question but they told me that if Mum is able to speak she isn’t bad enough. The chap there seemed to think that non-verbal was a key factor and told me to come back when she reaches the pureed food stage. I’m a bit confused by that because if she needs help to stand, go to the loo, wash, dress, cook, clean and can’t even use the phone or turn the telly on by herself then surely that’s 24 hour care.  To be doubly sure, I rang the Admiral nurses helpline. Sadly they don’t cover where Mum lives so they won’t be able to help with the process but they were able to advise me and said that yes, Mum definitely had needs that made her eligible for Continuing Care.  Next, I got through to social care at the council who thought I should contact her Doctor. I guess what I really need to find is the local social services number for her and get a social worker on her case. I’m not 100% sure how that’s done, as with Dad I seem to remember it happening automatically. I’ll have to look up his notes and see if I have a number for them from then.

Essentially, Mum needs a care assessment first from the right team. Apparently you can call and ask for one of those any time. Then the results of that are scrutinised closely and financial help awarded … or not. The trouble is, nothing says who you call to get this initial care assessment sorted.  There are parameters and a procedure, but to the outsider looking in the vaguaries of the system are very difficult to understand, at best and at worst, it comes over as deliberately opaque, whimsical and arcane … Mum ticks most things on the list but, as yet, I’ve found no concrete information as to where the starting point of the system is. As a result, I’m not sure who to contact to have the care assessment done. It’s a NHS team, who does the assessment for the actual application, but I have no clue if we need a ‘normal’ assessment first from social services. I’m guessing we do, although I’ve found a thing that says a district nurse can arrange this, too so I might see if I can get the carers to liaise with them.

There are two agencies who will apply for NHS continuing care on behalf of people, and a law firm with the most ridiculous name on earth—they’re probably really good but the name screams cold-calling ambulance chasers. The only one of these august bodies that quoted a price for their work charged £2,500 and some suggest as much as £6,500 depending on what they have to do. I will have to think about whether it’s worth that. No, it’s definitely worth it, for my sanity, to pay someone else to do it for me because this will be a grim project to try and undertake on my own and, like all the Mum stuff, is a perfect storm of everything at which I am shit.

In the meantime, I’ve started filling out the form on the website of the other agency. I’ve already stalled at how much Mum has spent on her care … well … you know … apart from, ‘everything’ but some of that was the day-to-day costs of running the house. She has a state pension so there’s that on top, as well, though so theory, it’s actually a bit more than everything.  Everything with brass knobs on? I dunno.

What I don’t understand is this; while I appreciate that they aim to make it hard for people gaming the system, it would be quite nice to set it up so the people who needed this particular part of the system would have some blind clue as to what, exactly makes them eligible and how it works. There are lots of really clear accounts that explain what will happen when you are already in the system and what the steps of the evaluation are. But how to start the process? Absolutely fuck all.

Carers looking after a sick relative who are seeking continuing care for them, or people who are sick themselves and need continuing care … they’re not exactly endowed with an abundance of energy for administriviatitive shit because they have a craptonne on their plate and are already nearly broken. I should imagine many of them will never get money to help with care, money to which they are entitled, because they are too fucking ill and their relatives too fucking frazzled and burned out to even begin to work out how to fucking apply.

Fuckity fucking fuck! Preparing the guest room for Mr Cockup then, even, also as we speak.

Ho hum. Onwards and upwards.

Astonishingly cheap ebook and audiobook alert …

Yes. Spoil yourself with your good taste (Ambassador) and a wonderful free book. Mmm hmm. If you are looking for a fun novella—to relieve the considerable tedium you may be experiencing after reading this blog post, for example—or if you’d like to listen to an audio book in the car, or at work, or on the commute and you are just fresh out of ideas for fabulous newness … well, you can fix all those things by grabbing a free book.

This book.

Small Beginnings, K’Barthan Extras, Hamgeean Misfit: No 1.

It’s free to download in ebook format from most of the major retailers (except when Amazon is dicking with me) while two and a half hours of glorious K’Barthan audiobook deliciousness is a mere 99p or c from Kobo, Barnes & Noble, Spotify, Apple and Chirp (if you’re in the States). It’s also free to download from my web store.

If you think that sounds interesting and would like to take a look, just go here.

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Tagged as an author with children, author blog, dementia, full time mum writing, I fucked this up so you don't have to, istuffedthisupsoyoudon’thaveto, M T M Makes a complete tit of herself, M T McGuire, off topic, trying to be a writer, women in sci-fi, women writers, writers

7 May 2023 · 10:04 pm

Coronated … and some

Not, entirely what you think it is, this one …

OK, so it’s been a long time, there’s been a fabulous holiday, an equally fabulous author event—the Indie Author Book Fair in St Ives—which genuinely was wonderful by the way. There’s been rather a lot to do in the garden and for Mum. As a result, I’ve walked a little closer to burn-out than I’ve wanted to, hence, no blog. But this week I’ve done a little writing, I’ve had a lie in and I have another one on Monday and things have been a bit more relaxing and quite … interesting so I thought I’d share them with you.

McOther and I have decided to have a new floor in our kitchen. See picture. This involved having it re-tiled, which, in turn, involved removing everything in it. I had no idea how much stuff we had in the kitchen and conservatory until it was strewn liberally about the house. Yeh. Now I know. Another factor was that there were times when we couldn’t walk on the tiles, and that involved one rather hairy evening when we couldn’t access the oven. Take away pizzas for us that night.

Then there’s the weather. The kitchen table, the island from the middle of the room, the dishwasher and the fridge were outside on the patio. Entirely fortuitously, I’d been buying a plastic greenhouse from Wilco last week (£40 and they last about 7 years) and I noticed they were also selling plastic sheeting. Wrap this round fruit trees over winter and they escape the dreaded leaf curl. With that in mind, I’d bought some. Seven metres to be precise. We opened it up, draped it over the white goods and table, and hoped it wouldn’t rain.

Speaking of rain, the forecast was good but only for a short while and of course, there was a bank holiday, so in order to ensure they got the full amount of work required done in the day, the tilers arrived at 7.30 am sharp on Tuesday. I had to forego parents’ swim, which I was a bit nettled about, so McOther could go to his bought-and-paid-for French class but actually it was lucky I did as they needed various cupboards emptied, the larder being one of them. It took a while but I managed to remove it all in time for them to put the first layer of gloop down for the tiles to go onto.

Over the three days they did sterling work and did different bits at different times so that, after the first night, we could walk into the kitchen etc. However, the weather was beginning to look a bit ominous. On the second night, half of it was grouted and could be walked on, the other half was glued but not grouted so if we went on there we had to step in the middle of the tiles only ~~–yes, because otherwise the bears would get us! No! Not because of the stupid effing bears you daft fucking tart~~ where was I? Oh yeh, because otherwise, the tiles might move.

McOther went to collect McMini from school and looking outside at the ominously gathering clouds I realised it might be going to rain. The white goods and the island were back indoors by this time, not where they should be but on a part of the floor which was now set and solid. The table was nestling happily under the (now) folded-in-half polythene sheet but there was a bamboo chair sitting out there, with a foam cushion. It’s more of a cat hammock to be honest, one of those round bamboo cup and saucer ones, I think the technical term is a pappadum chair. It was open to the elements but I realised I could put the bamboo bits of the chair on top of the fridge and dishwasher and the cushion on top of those. It was tricky because there was only one tile in the ‘walkable’ half next to the double doors but I managed it and got the two bamboo bits in. Brilliant, now for the cushion.

As I brought the cushion in, I passed an old plant pot which was on the windowsill. The pot contained a dead plant and a lot of very dry earth …

Can you guess what happened next kids?

That’s right. I caught it with the cushion and it fell down. The saucer in which it was standing smashed and the horrible dried out compost went all over the fucking floor.

Which bit of the floor d’you think it spattered over? The bit that was already grouted and dry or the bit that was only glued? That’s right, kids. The bit that was only glued. And where d’you think the earth went? Where would it go?

That’s right, into all the cracks of, fucking, course!

For a moment, I stood there motionless. Had that actually just happened?

Of course it sodding well had.

Fuckorama.

On the upside, to my left, on the windowsill, I spied the hoover.

On the downside, it’s a handheld jobbie and works for 10 minutes on a charge … how much was left? I glanced at my watch trying desperately to work out how long it had been since McOther departed to collect McMini and if I had enough time to clear up the mess before he came home, saw it and went into orbit.

I started with the dustpan and brush, sweeping up the bits from the middles of the tiles because lord knew I didn’t want any more of it going down the chuffing cracks. Then I got hoovering carefully sucking the crap out from between the tiles without pressing down on them. The clock was ticking but I was making excellent progress, indeed, I was nearly there. Would I manage to disappear all this shit before McOther returned …?

Of course I fucking wouldn’t.

I was down to the last three tiles when I was suddenly conscious of a wave of extreme disapproval so solid I could almost feel it as a physical pressure. Yep. McOther was home and yes, predictably, he was absolutely incandescent. To give him his due, he understood what I’d been trying to do and realised I’d the best of intentions so he didn’t shout at me and he wasn’t angry with me per se. He was just a very silent, tight-lipped, angry man about the whole situation for a considerable time afterwards.

My mistake was to try and make each bit perfect before moving onto the next one. I should have just bodged it all, and then kept primping at it until the whole thing was perfect. That way, it would have looked clean enough for him not to notice and I could have just hoovered up the bits he didn’t see after he’d gone to bed.

He is aware that a lot of this kind of stuff happens which he never knows about. Because he doesn’t need to be distressed unnecessarily … although I often tell him about it afterwards. Beiong caught in the act, or telling him, at the time, as events unfold is never a good idea. Unless something’s gone wrong that transpires to be unfixable.

The floor is fine by the way. I got every last scrap of that bastard compost out of the cracks. I’m just grateful it was dry.

Other crowning glories …

Yeh, in case you didn’t notice there was a coronation in my country this week. Anyone who has read my books will know I have a bit of a thing for arcane ritual. When my brother and I were small we used to draw the curtains to make some proper dark, light candles which we’d stolen from the cupboard downstairs (our poor parents) and then parade around, dressed in sheets, singing ‘plain chant’. Mostly a limerick about beans done in thirds. Yeh, this is why McMini’s eccentricities don’t faze me as much as they might.

Anyway, what I’m saying here is that I do love a bit of arcane ritual and a coronation promises to be as bizarre and arcane as it gets so I was agog …

It didn’t disappoint.

Oh and I absolutely loved it by the way, I thought it was really good, but a) I’m a very high church Anglican so I love all that wandering around in cloaks with people holding bits of them out of the way for you so they don’t flap your frilly bits into the holy stuff and knock it flying, or, heaven forfend, spill the consecrated bits so you have to spend the next ten minutes licking any and every piece of consecrated material off the floor. It’s a bit like James Brown being ‘helped’ onto the stage for an encore in his purple cloak; glorious, glorious theatre.

Yes, a coronation costs a lot of money, but it also keeps thousands of people in jobs, god knows how many crafts people working, a whole shit load of heritage crafts alive plus, farming, animals, plants etc are preserved. Remember everyone taking the piss out of Charles for talking to the trees and banging on about conservation and global warming. Yeh who’s laughing now? And considering the other shit the State funds and how much that costs, whinging about the cost of this is like ignoring a suitcase of money behind you and instead, choosing to chisel at the 50p piece someone’s stuck onto the pavement with superglue as a joke. I’ve used that metaphor about going after ‘benefit fraud’ instead of making corporate monoliths who run the world (and government) pay more tax but it’s a good metaphor for this, too, so it’s staying.

While we’re here, the people who run this world are the super-rich and giant companies, who through the sheer weight of their riches and ‘regulatory capture’ (or mates in high places, as the rest of us call it) get round the rules do what they like. They do what they do to earn more money and nothing gets in the way of that. Even though they are richer than three quarters of the actual nations on this planet people like Bezos, Musk, Trump et all (I’ve chosen these three at random) appear to have no notion of anything but swelling their coffers and little regard for the people whose work feeds their greed.

Politicians are supposed to care for their people but very few of them do. At the moment, we have a man among those glitterati who does genuinely appear to want to help people. OK it’s a King Man, but like his mother before him, he’s one of the few in high places who come close to caring and he’s the only person among those top flight glitterati who has anything like the power and newsworthiness required to make other people think. Or at least, one of only a handful who can who appears to actually want to. And it’s a shit job. I’ve done the whole goldfish life and it’s not easy if you aren’t cut out for it and he had no choice whereas I did. So yes, while I am mostly socialist, I don’t buy the non-monarchy line. I don’t vote for any political party regularly as I vote for my principles, and the party that gets my vote is whichever party is the nearest fit with those principles at the time.

MTM steps off soap box. Right. So I watched the coronation. And I enjoyed it.

Highlights …? First, the way the King and Queen were smiling at people as they processed, in slow state, up the aisle, it looked like the odd grin at people they knew or recognised and it immediately gave the whole thing, ridiculously formal as it was, an upbeat informality. Yeh. I know, but that’s how it came over. It was a bit like attending the wedding of a couple who, you just know in your heart, are going to be very happily married. It’s formal, there’s ritual and you want the theatre to go right for them but they are clearly very comfortable with each other and the machinery around them. That kind of thing.

Then there’s Penny Mordant parading around with the Sword of State like some avenging Valkyrie … but she’s fresh from day release to Olympus for work experience and still wearing the uniform. She had to do a lot of gym work to hold it up for that long, apparently. That was a belter of an outfit too. I think Penny silently stole a big part of the show, but not too much, merely … enough.

The blessing of the crown, watching the Archbishop hold a 2kg lump of jewel-encrusted metal aloft in front of him for what was, quite clearly, a lot longer than he found comfortable.

The anointing? Woah. He takes off his clothes, goes behind a screen and actually strips off … in church? That’s … a hell of a thing. He gets dabbed in various places with holy oil, including his chest, so you can stop snickering at the back because it’s only his top he takes off. It’s church though so he must get fucking cold. I was particularly intrigued to see that medieval style clothing is very similar from East to West.

See what I mean?

I couldn’t find a social media post to share of him wearing it and the belt, and I daren’t share anything else, so this will have to do. But once he had the belt on then, stick the right kind of Saracen helmet on him, and he could have stepped out of Saladin’s court from a Ladybird book about the Crusades in these duds. Or an illustration of medieval Chinese noblemen.

So … what do we learn from this? That, if we go far enough back everyone wore a dressing gown.

Three changes of costume though! THREE! He swapped the very lovely red Nehru jacket, which I rather coveted in a closet New Romantic kind of way, for something very, very gold. And reminiscent of something you might see worn by a Mongol lord in a medieval illustration, or a full-length figure off a medieval coin.

And did I mention it was very gold. And very heavy, presumably. If it had been lead then, come the apocalypse, I reckon it could have been used to shelter several people from radiation. And it was very medieval but at the same time, because it was so spangly, there was also that dash of 1960s Klingon about the glitteryness of the fabric which merely added to the mystique.

And also Dr Who. As they cleared the screens away, for a few minutes, there, I wondered if our new King is also a Timelord.

Although Timelords are based on historical costumes from the medieval era, principally Venice (the 1970s and 80s ones at any rate, lean heavily on that portrait of Doge Lorenzo Loredan which is from the 1400s but it’s as near as dammit).

Sorry, gone off on a tangent there.

The throne (snortle) … the revered 700 year old—or is it 800 years old—throne which has been defaced by generations of school boys at Westminster School.

Also gold. Of a different kind. Comedy gold. Because … really?

In my Dad’s house, at Lancing College (Gibbs) the very junior boys didn’t have an individual study, there was, basically, a cube farm, which was called a houseroom and everyone in their first two years had a cubicle in there. Except that in the second year some of them moved up to ‘the settle’ which was this ancient wooden bench in front of the fire. After that they then went on to ‘a pit’ which was an individual study. There was a kitchenette off to one side of the houseroom with a grill and a hot plate, which enjoyed a regular supply of milk, butter and sliced bread but if you were a member of ‘the settle’ you could toast that bread over the gas fire. The room perennially smelled of beeswax polish and toast with a hint of gas (from the pipes not the boys although there probably was a bit of both).

‘The settle’ was covered in graffiti. Every boy who’d been through that house had gouged his name deeply into the wood until the whole thing was knobbly with graffiti and there were names, on the names, on the names and very little plain wood anywhere. I’ve no clue if it’s there now. I hope it is. Likewise, I’ve no clue if everyone carved their names in it but one of them was singing in the choir at the coronation yesterday. My dad would have been so proud.

Thing is, The Settle … that’s at Lancing College. It wasn’t founded until 1848 and I think the present site was built in the 1860s (but don’t quote me on that). My point is it’s not that old, so it’s not quite such heights of vandalism to gouge your name into the settle as it is to gouge it into the throne upon which Henry VIII was crowned.

Word up, I did not expect the actual Fucking Throne of Fucking England (Yes that’s its full title. You didn’t know that did you?) to be the Westminster School equivalent of ‘the settle’ in Victorian times. Mainly because as stated, the Fucking Throne was over 700 years old before the little bastards even got carving. Except that, clearly the Westminister School equivalent of ‘The Settle’ is exactly what it was.

Holy. Fucking. Fuck! There is something joyously ironic about this. If I’d written that into a book, it would be dismissed as a bit over-the-top. Mwahahargh. Not. So. It was also, clearly, horrifically uncomfortable, especially to a man with an arthritic back who suffers from sciatica. You could see him shift position and wince every now and again.

Then there was ‘the giving of the presents’ I dunno what this bit was really called but … the special attributes. No, not eyes in the back of the head, a thimble, box and ring of state but … WAIT! Hang on! There WAS a ring of state. Mwahahahrgh! But I don’t think it was shrink-to-fit. And a bible, and some spurs, a sword, The Orb (no relation to the 1990s popular music combo) a sword and a couple of rod things which he has to hold in each hand so he’s got nothing to save himself with if he falls. Yep, if he trips over a dog or something with that lot on, he’s going to go flat on his face. And there’s the whole discombobulating effect of having one hand gloved and one hand … not.

Which reminds me … One glove!? One giant, beautifully embroidered, 1950’s-style-motorcycle-gauntlet-type glove. All this phaff and he only gets one? Where’s the other fucking glove? Did they drop it? Imagine being the bloke with the cushion. Shit I’ve dropped one somewhere. Fuck! Where is it? I’ll have to go back. Shit! No time. Oh no! Wait! There it is! Bollocks that security bloke’s just tripped over it and kicked it under the organ. We’ll never get it out in time. Shit and there’s my cue. What do I do? What do I do? Fuckity fuck! I’ll just have to blag it with one for now, go back and find the other and hand it to him in a quiet bit later on.

Imagine him riding his Norton in full regalia, the golden cloak ~~dragging along behind him~~ billowing out behind him in the wind but miraculously, without taking his head off, because this image is for cinematic effect, rather than real, with only one fucking glove on? What the …?

What happened? Were the glove makers like me at school? Was it this kind of conversation?

‘He wants two. You know that right?’
‘Shit! No! I didn’t see that part of the brief.’
‘It was over the page.’
‘What?!!! Noooo! I didn’t see that …’
‘Bummer mate.’
‘But now what do I do? He’s supposed to wear them to-actual-morrow! I can’t make another one in time. What do I doooo?’
‘Search me mate.’
‘OK, calm. Breathe … there’s nothing I can do, there’s no time to make another one now, I’ll just have to face the music; give him the one you have made and explain … Maybe he’ll understand.’**

So there’s the poor guy with one glove, and one not-glove, and rod, and staff and clothes that are made of solid gold and weigh approximately one metric tonne*.

*OK probably not but you get the gist and it sounds funnier.
** I know it’s a hawking glove but admitting that ruins the comic effect, such as it is.

Putting the crowns on. Again, I was completely riveted by this bit. First trying to get it on to the King’s head. ‘Careful! You’re going to crick the poor man’s neck. He’ll have neuralgia for weeks!’

Also enjoyed that Queen Camilla, who always strikes me as a down-to-earth, hands-on, practical kind of person, had to pretty much sit on her hands, they kept coming into shot as she instinctively went to put her crown on, herself.

At some point, I’m not sure when because I went to the loo, the King seemed to have changed clothes again and put on a purple silk jacket which I would have coveted even more greatly than the red one as a New Romantic/Goth-in-colour teenager.

A thought about crowns … I can’t work out if Crowns look quite cool or absolutely fucking ridiculous. I noticed the King was wearing a different one when he came out onto the balcony, I’m thinking, his mother’s. But it wasn’t gold, presumably it was lighter, because the gold one weighs a fucking tonne and he’d have ended up with a stiff neck for the next ten weeks***. Poor man, he probably has anyway. But … they do make your head look really big. Or maybe I’m just not used to such tall hats. I dunno.

Crowns … to make your head look REALLY big.

***OK 2kg/5lbs but you get the picture

The coach. Yeh. That looked horrendous too. There were all the others moving smoothly along, meanwhile you can see the finials on the four corners of the coronation coach bobbing up and down as it crested the tiniest bump. They must have been about ready to hurl when they reached the palace. No wonder they arrived in a different one. Graffitied the Throne may be may be, but it’s not the great-white-telephone kind of throne, after all.

No wonder the poor man asked for quiche for Coronation lunch. Comfort food. That’s what he wanted. And after all that malarkey I would too. Jeez. I suspect all they felt like doing was to go to bed early and sit there in their PJs, with the telly on, eating a cheese omelette each off a tray. I sincerely hope they got to do that … you know … if they wanted to.

For many reasons, I think the best photo of the whole day has to be this one.

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Tagged as author blog, ChazIII, Coronation, humour … probably, M T McGuire

12 Mar 2023 · 12:44 pm

Come with me on a journey through my exciting life!

Obviously, I use the word, ‘exciting’ advisedly, the ironic implication being somewhat the reverse.

This week, I have mostly been … running around like a blue-arsed fly! As previously implied, it’s not exciting and sadly it’s not even that funny either. But this is my blog, so I can do what I sodding well like, which means I’m going to tell you about it anyway.

On the Mum front … more admin popped up, just for a change. There is so. much. admin. Ugh. Never mind, it is what it is. I can’t fix that. It’s dealing with it in the most effective way possible that counts.

A few years ago, Mum very wisely decided that she would put all the bills with one provider. At the time this wasn’t the cheapest way but from the point of view of suddenly having to take care of Dad’s side of the admin for the first time in about 50 years while, at the same time looking after someone with dementia (Dad at that point) it was worth paying a little extra for the reduction in hassle. From the point of view of someone who takes to this sort of stuff like a duck to quantum physics and is now looking after a mother with dementia, I regularly give quiet thanks for this decision.

However … the company that looks after her electricity, gas and phone had been taken over by something called Ovo, yes that’s OvO people not OvUM. Needless to say, I can’t remember their bloody name because all I can think of is ovum. Yes well … moving on. We’ve been waiting to have our account ‘switched to Ovo’ for some time, inhabiting an uneasy limbo between the two which made it tricky to do anything. However, I reckoned we’d finally achieved splash down because something had happened to the direct debit so Mum suddenly owed them money. When I checked Mum’s post on Wednesday I discovered a welcome to Ovo letter with a phone number to ring to sort it out.

On, on… probably …

On the up side, despite the fact that all the operators were busy helping other customers, I only had to listen to a hilariously 1920s version of the Blue Danube before someone answered. I got someone nice, as well, which always helps. Her english had a slight midwestern twang and she kept calling me ‘ma’am’ so I suspect she was in India, or possibly Singapore or Thailand? It was all very straightforward though. Mum needs a smart meter but one of the carer’s partners, who fits them, had recommended waiting as long as possible … except that then the whole takeover thing began and we got stuck in the twilight zone between belonging to the old company and being absorbed into ~~Ovum~~ Ovum. Shit! I’ve just typed Ovum twice. Bloody Hell! OVO chuffing buggering OVO. Er … yeh. Sorry about that, where was I?

Right yes, ringing Ovo. I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to speak to them about Mum. I had special dispensation from the old lot but as we had a bill and I suspected this was because the Direct Debit hadn’t transferred over from the old supplier to the new one, I wasn’t certain the special dispensation would have transferred either. As a result, I saw no point in making things complicated so I did the usual trick of fraudulently pretending to be Mum so I could circumvent the security protocol without having to wait however many days it was for them to process a copy of Mum’s power of attorney or speak to her so she could give them permission to talk to me (which would have been difficult with her in Sussex and me in Suffolk). While I was on the line, I managed to book the installation of a smart meter on Tuesday, even better they have sensible slots so instead of 8-12 and 12-6 which involve a large gap when staff levels are thinner and I have to get an extra person in to make doubly sure that there’s someone available to deal with the engineer, they had a slot from 10.00 until 1.00 and from 12.00 until 2.00, which fitted into the right time frame for us and was surprisingly sensible and accommodating of them.

A quick message to the carers’ chat while I was on the phone and the engineer is now coming to fit a new electricity smart meter between 12.00 and 2.00 which is the time when there is absolutely guaranteed to be enough folks about for someone to take care of the meter ~~man~~ person. Even better, if Ovo turn up before 12.00 or after 2.00, Mum gets £30. Jolly dee … probably. So much could go wrong but … I’ve done my best.

I have also managed to end up running the bank account for McMini’s band, because I’m a special kind of stupid. That shouldn’t involve much, but this week I was busy sorting out T shirts to sell at their next gig. I managed to get more money, and therefore more shirts, by having the band member friends and family put our orders in up front. So that’s grand. I’ve also managed to set up a paypal account for the band with a Gmail address. Next step, when the money pours in after the gig, if it does, get an iZettle so we can take card payments.

Other news, this week, I went to a gin tasting with a group of ladies from Parents’ Swim, at McMini’s school, along with a wider group of folks, who I tend to run into when they’re walking their dogs on the school site and I’m going for a walk if the swim is cancelled, or I’m looking for mushrooms, or if I’m simply passing the time before the traffic dies down a bit and I can get home quickly (I see zero point sitting in traffic for 40 minutes when I can go for a 40 minute walk, get all my exercise in for the day and then drive home in ten minutes).

The tasting was in the bar part of the concert venue in my home town and was billed as being gin and ‘nibbles’. Naturally, all of us being either menopausal or a little older, we knew what our priorities were and a lengthy discussion ensued as to what ‘nibbles’ comprised. Would it be enough to absorb a substantial amount of gin? In the end, we decided it was probably canapes and as a result we all ‘lined our stomachs’ before we went with the kind of hearty fare designed to absorb large quantities of alcohol. The event started at 6.30 so the McOthers and I had supper early; spag bol.

It was absolutely lashing it down with rain, the kind of rain that would look far too unconvincingly heavy if you saw it in a film. I had to do that thing where you need to hold your coat out in front of you or the water runs off and soaks your trousers, leaving you with cold damp thighs all evening. I still got a bit damp but on the whole, it worked. I took photo of the town in the rain which I was quite pleased with, and also a picture of water running down the street because I thought it looked abstract. It does.

Rain soaked town … I think this would be a new Grongolian development if it were situated in Ning Dang Po.

Squigly lines and dots or running water?

Imagine our surprise, and possibly a little consternation, when we arrived to discover that it was a seated event and there were tables set for a three course meal. We started off with a cocktail that contained a lof of gin and an even greater quantity of Campari and probably some more stuff as well. On repairing to the furthest table from the others, so my laugh wouldn’t deafen people (I have had people on adjacent tables ask to be moved in restaurants before now) we then proceeded to get the giggles repeatedly about the fact we were going to have to do a Vicar of Dibbley and ~~three Christmas dinners~~ two suppers each.

We were immeidately identified as the Naughty Table so when two members of another party couldn’t make it, we were given their cocktails which we shared amongst ourselves.

The gin was fab by the way, the company is called the Heart of Suffolk Distillery and they have three gins out at the moment, the first was called Betty’s Gin, the second Rosie’s Gin and the third Ivy’s Gin. All were a bit of an eye opener as they were so much tastier and more aromatic than just … gin, but I liked Rosie’s Gin best, with Betty’s a very close run second and Ivy’s third. All of them were head and shoulders above what you’d normally expect in way of flavour, aromatics and general deliciousness. I bought a bittle of the Rosie’s becuase it had really lovely coriander kind of undertones and was delicious served with tonic and a strawberry floating in it.

The dinner was, indeed, three courses and was very good and luckily not too huge, although it would have been plenty on it’s own, without the large helping of spag bol I’d imbibed first. There were three little eats for starters; avocado mouse with a delicious home-made taco, a sort of salsa thing and a parsnip puree washed down with a lovely herby aromatic gin called ‘Betty’s gin’. It was followed by a kofta with some really good home made slaw and some ham croquette things, couscous with pomigranite seeds and a bit of curried parsnip soup on the side. This was served with Rosie’s Gin which was equally herbal and aromatic but where Betty’s was rosemary, this was definitely coriander, it would have been fab with a light thai curry. Pudding was a lemon tart with rasperry coulis served up with Ivy’s gin, which was more gluveinish in aroma, I could definitely smell cloves, and taste them too. McOther wouldn’t have liked it.

It seemed a waste not to finish everything so we drank all of the gin and I cleaned all three of my plates and the others did pretty well on theirs, too. Nom. But also sort of bleargh. Even now, two days later, I’m slightly feeling it … says the woman who bought a massive cake in the market this morning and snarfed it with lunch but … you know.

Next up we thought we might try doing pottery.

The following morning, in a somewhat debilitated state, hangover-wise (it took me until this morning—Sunday—to recover fully) I had to go for a blood test at the hospital. I didn’t get up in time to drive, it takes about 40 minutes that time in the morning, especially when some of the roads were flooded. I also left it too late to walk which meant the electric bike. It was still throwing it down so I put on my waterproofs and set off, aware that I’d only really left fifteen minutes for a twenty minute journey.

Unfortunately, I discovered that my usual route was blocked with an enormous puddle, however, there was no time to go round so I just had to plough on through and hope it wasn’t too deep. Needless to say it came up to the bike’s axles but somehow even though, when the pedal was at it’s lowest point, the tops of my boots were well below the surface of the water, none got through my waterproofs. I did pedal as fast as I could of course which may have created some kind of vacuum induced waterproofness … (is that a word?) I dunno. I arrived in time for the blood test. The check-in thing didn’t work but I managed to sort that anyway and apart from misreading someone else’s name and blundering into one of the bays while some poor chap was having a blood test it was more or less OK. Then I came out.

It was snowing.

A lot.

Never mind, I thought, it’ll stop in a minute. So I started off home. Pumped by my success on the way, I took the quick route which entailed going back through the enormous puddle. Once again, the feet stayed dry but the waterproof trousers caught on my pump, ripping it out of its holster. It disappeared into the murky depths with a plop. Since the water level would have been just below my knees if I’d put my foot down, I had to leave it and chalk the loss up to experience. If I go back in drier weather I might possibly find it … who knows … mind you, it’ll probably have tadpoles in by that time. As I exited the enormous puddle it began to dawn on me that snow is fucking painful when it hits your eyeballs at high speed. It was blowing a hoolie and I was riding into it as fast as I could, which was about 15mph with maximum electronic assist. The journey sounded like this.

‘Ouch!’ pedal pedal, ‘Fuck off!’ pedal pedal, ‘Ow that fucking smarts you fucking fuck!’ pedal pedal, ‘Fucking snow! Fuck! Owwww! Fuck!’

It only took me 10 (very unpleasant) minutes to ride home, but because snow on the eyeballs is so painful I was riding squinting out of one eye for most of it. By the time I arrived, I looked like this.

Lovely.

With all this extra eating, how is the eating thing going? Well … my weight this morning is 11 stone 8lbs and on Tuesday it was 11 stones 4lbs. Then again, it’s fairly arbitrary at the moment because two days before that 11.4 weigh in, I was clocking in at 11 stones and 7lbs. I have concluded that water retention affects this and some of it’s also about how much food there is in the system. For the most part, if I eat 1600 calories a day or more, the weight loss stops. If I hit my protein targets, it slows down. If I aim to hit my calorie target I get nowhere near my protein target.

At this point, I’m more concerned with which clothes I fit into and since there hasn’t been much change on that score I’ll not worry. I probably ate about 1750 calories yesterday and I was absolutely stuffed.

Other news this week. I am moving to a new ISP which means I’ve kind of broken my hamgee.co.uk website, on a temporary basis, though, I assure you. I need to do a couple of final steps in set up this morning and then, when the name servers are pointing to the right place, I need to reinstall the SSL certificate. After that, hopefully, everything should work again. Next steps after that will be to slowly rebuild it. I’m afraid it will probably be glitchy for a while.

And finally … once again, the chance to grab 12 hours of fabulous audiophonic joy for 99p (or 99c) continues … if the link works.

Yes. If you like cheap audio books, Few Are Chosen is on sale for all of March 2023. After that the price goes up again. As always, I’m cutting my own throat here. It’s 99c on Apple, Kobo and my own website. For anyone in the States, it’s also 99c on Barnes & Noble and Chirp (which is USA and Canada). I’m trying to walk the line here between offering a bargain from time to time and turning into a kind of audio DFS where there are only five days or so in a year when there isn’t a sale.

If you want to grab it while it’s mega cheap, though. You can find store links and a bit more info below …

Grab it direct from the author for 99c:

MTM’s Store

Or get it from one of these retailers:

Apple
Kobo
Chirp
Barnes & Noble
Spotify

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Tagged as author blog, author blogs, author parent, I fucked this up so you don't have to, istuffedthisupsoyoudon’thaveto, K'Barthan Series, K’barthan audio, M T M Makes a complete tit of herself, M T McGuire

5 Mar 2023 · 6:02 pm

The chaos fairies … just for a smecking change

Holy shizz, this has been a hell of a week. But there have been successes among the rampant chaos. As you know, if you read this regularly, the chaos fairies frequently play havoc with my life. They’re dogged little bastards and their latest escapades have been more than a little annoying. Yes, it’s time for the Insurance Story.

OK, so I insure my car because if I don’t then, in this country, it’s illegal. I am under no illusions that it will be easy wresting any cash from the most compliant and efficient insurance company should anything happen. I drive a completely stupid car. I admit it. It’s this car.

The thing about this car is that it has a tiny, teeny little 1.6 toyota yaris engine. It does 40mpg. But it goes from 0-60 in an excitingly short length of time, even if it’s 6 seconds rather than 4. It also goes from 60 to quite a lot more in a similarly short, blink-of-an-eye type of time. That makes it fun to drive but reasonably straightforward to insure. Cos … small engine. You know …

Another one of its advantages is that it’s mostly made of aluminium, carbon fibre and fibreglass. This is great from the point of view of it not rusting and many bits of it degrading more slowly than normal cars. On the downside, if you prang the fibreglass it is an absolute bastard to fix. That means that, ideally, you need a fibreglass specialist rather than the lowest bidding contractor.

A few weeks ago, somebody backed into me at Tesco’s filling station (it’s always bloody Tesco’s filling station). I’m pretty sure this is not news to anyone, I think I mentioned it. The result is a couple of cracks in the wheel arch. The chap wanted to pay for it himself but I explained that it would be expensive and when I showed him the quote he did, indeed, have conniptions so I contacted my insurance company.

The insurers are a bunch called Geoffrey. The main call centre I am dealing with there is the most lovely bunch of folks up in the North East somewhere. So far I’ve spoken mostly to people with Geordie, Middlesbrough, County Durham or Northumberland accents and one Scottish lady. They are uber helpful and respond magnificently to humour, which is fairly essential when someone’s backed into your car. I cannot praise them highly enough. I always try to be decent to call centre staff, even if I’ve been waiting a while, because they’re just people and often, if you’re even remotely decent to them, they will respond warmly and make that extra effort to help you.

OK, so, like most companies these days, Geoffrey, itself, is really a sales and marketing company, they contract out the hire car side to Enterprise Rental Car, the nitty gritty of organising the work to be done is contracted out to a bunch called Incident Management Solutions, and the policy is underwritten by a company called Markerstudy. This is how capitalism works. Indeed, having worked for National Express, which contracts the nitty gritty of running many, many routes to other operators, this sort of thing is pretty standard. I understand that.

Fibreglass is an absolute bastard to repair.

I think I mentioned that.

This being the case, I usually ask if I can use my own repairer. I did have to use the insurance company’s repair service once. They were a decent lot. They did the bodywork on some of the vehicles at the coach company I worked for at the time. However, they didn’t get the paint curing right on the fibreglass and the first time I passed a gritter the newly re sprayed front of my previous car ended up pitted with white holes.

Most insurers are more than happy for me to use a local Lotus specialist. Geoffrey, and then Enterprise, said they were fine with it. They just had to agree terms with the mechanic. The guy who fixes my car is extremely competitively priced. Furthermore, he knew he could fix this without replacing the whole front of the car. He also knows that many companies will automatically say they’re going to replace the entire front, but often end up not doing so. The difference being a quote for the work without changing the front is about £800 and it’s about £1,500 for the parts from anyone else.

Gerald, that’s his name, is the most honest person you could happen to meet, likewise his colleague Neil. These guys are not ones to charge more than the price of gold for the oil used in an oil change. Small bolts and washers do not miraculously become £10 on their bills unless they’ve had to buy them for that from Lotus. They are also really, and I mean really good at fixing weird niggles. It’s a Lotus and it gets lots of weird niggles. And if there are two options and one is cheaper, they will advise you to take the cheaper one if it’ll work just as well.

As a result, GST, that’s the company name, is well in demand so I rang them and provisionally booked a slot for the work while I was on holiday. Then I broke the back of my car, which I am not claiming for because the work would cost about the same as my excess and we agreed they’d fix that at the same time.

Someone rang GST to negotiate but they couldn’t get hold of them. When they called back it rang out or a message said the call handlers were all busy. GST have better things to do with their time so I rang Geoffrey, who put me through to Incident Management Solutions. I waited for … quite a long time … and got hold of someone who was able to give me a direct line for GST to call which I passed on and all was well …

Except it wasn’t. Because GST’s hourly labour rates were too high. I’m not sure how because their labour rates are, quite frankly, lower than pretty much anyone’s. Also, the time they were doing the work meant that there was no need for a hire car, so no cost there, and of course, they hadn’t said it would need a new nose cone so that was a few grand off the ticket right there, too.

Yes, but the labour rates were too high. They needed to reduce another 8% before VAT and pay a £20 admin fee to be in with a shout …

So basically, as I understood it, if GST had committed fraud, by quoting for a new nose cone to up the price, but not fitting one, so they could then reduce their labour rates to £25 an hour, or whatever it was that was stipulated in the rules, they’d have got the job even though it would have cost the insurance company more money.

That’s fucking bats. This might be the world of capitalism but that’s Nationalised Industry levels of mental, pointless, hoops, rules and inefficiency right there.

Yes I was fucked off.

Anyway, I rang Incident Management Solutions and asked what I could do to get GST in with a shout and they explained that basically, nothing. I’d have to go with their approved repairer. I knew from the bumpf I’d received that Markerstudy, who underwrote my policy, were prepared to allow me to use my own repairer. I was advised that I should go back to the insurer, which I did and they, in turn, advised me that now I would have to go direct to the underwriter.

My first call to Markerstudy, I was put through directly from Geoffrey (the insurers) to the new claims department, because they weren’t sure Markerstudy would have all the paperwork yet. I spoke to a lady who had an accent like Gina Ahluwalia when she’s doing an impression of her mum. She explained that they had the paperwork and that she’d put me onto the existing claims department. Markerstudy don’t tell you where you are in the queue so after 45 minutes I reckoned something must have gone wrong and hung up.

I tried again but this time I got a menu and chose existing claims, I then got another menu of items, none of which applied to my situation, so I chose 7 ‘anything else’. I’m not sure if it was a bad line or the guy at the other end didn’t seem to speak much English and certainly couldn’t understand mine. I explained what had happened.

‘So you had an accident that was your fault?’

‘No, it was the other guy’s fault.’

‘So you want to use our approved repairers?’

‘No. I don’t. I want to use my own.’

‘I will put you through to the existing claims department.’

‘Hang on, you are the existing claims department. I chose existing claims from the menu.’

‘No this is not existing claims.’

‘It should be. Honest. I picked existing claims. Then I got a menu of seven options, none of which applied to me so I chose number 7 for “anything else”. Please can you tell me what item on the menu I should choose to get put through to the existing claims department straight away.’

‘What were the menu options?’

‘I can’t remember them all but there definitely wasn’t one for using my own repairer.’

‘Then ma’am may I suggest that next time you listen to the menu carefully, then you can select the right department.’

‘Why thank you for your advice, which wasn’t condescending at all,’ I told him sweetly.

‘No problem ma’am,’ oh. I made a mental note that, clearly he’s immune to sarcasm. ‘I will put you through to the existing claims department now, yes? I am putting you through now?’

‘Yes, you may as well.’

Another heaven knows how long on hold. I started this at 10.00 am and it was getting on for 12.00 now. I was due out to lunch with a friend in 20 minutes. I decided I’d try again because no-one’s answering and knowing my luck it’d go back to the beginning and I’d end up talking to this bloke again. This time I wrote down all the menu options and chose number 3, ‘I wish to use our approved repairer.’

I got through to another man with an equally strong Nigerian accent.

‘I will put you through to the right department,’ he said after I’d explained my predicament.

‘But … I chose “existing claims” and then “I wish to use our approved repairer” how can I be at the wrong department?’

After a long conversation like those ones you have on holiday when they only speak a few words of English and you only speak a few words of their language, except I didn’t speak any of his language at all, he basically told me that he was in a kind of triage area where they answered the phone and then put people into the queue for the relevant department. In short the menu was an irrelevant and pointless waste of time. So that was grand.

I thanked him, and as it was 12.20, and I was due to meet my friend at half past, I told him I’d ring back later.

Later that day at 4.30, I arrived home. I googled Markerstudy reviews. I invite you to do the same. There are some 5 star ones, from people who are chuffed their insurance is so cheap and there are the others, which are all 1 star, from people trying to make a claim. A big red flag for me was how many people in non-fault accidents had ended up paying their excess anyway and how many people had to involve the ombudsmen, or lawyers, to get the faintest sniff of their money. Others; more people than I was comfortable with, ranted at what a shower the approved repairers were and how comprehensively they cocked it up.

Shit. I needed something between these people and me. Also, my excess is just shy of £300. It was definitely worth paying the difference.

I rang Geoffrey Insurance and explained that I really didn’t want to go direct to Markerstudy. They spoke to Enterprise and managed to get them to agree to reopen my case if I promised to go with their own insurers. Then I rang Gerald at GST and told him to agree to whatever they asked and that I’d pay the difference. Then it was supper time.

The next morning, bright and early, I rang Geoffrey and asked for advice. Had anyone ever paid part of the claim? The lovely geordie I spoke to said I could but ask although he’d never heard of it happening and that I’d been very lucky that they’d agreed to take my claim back after closing the file.

Back to Incident Management Solutions. Number 9 in the queue this time and only fifteen minutes or so on hold. I got a lady who sounded really bored and pissed off, but she thawed considerably over our conversation and turned out to have a wonderful droll sense of humour and the bored sounding delivery transpired to be mis diagnosed laconic. She was great. I explained that I was going to pay the difference. She said that was unfair because the accident wasn’t my fault. I explained about the reviews of Markerstudy online and that I thought it was probably cheaper in the long run. She therefore made it all official by ringing GST while I was on the phone, and then confirmed that yes, they would be doing the work. Halle-fucking-luja!

This also means that they can fix some other niggles on my car for that tiny bit less because they already have it for the insurance claim, and since I’ll be on holiday at the time they’ll have it for two weeks so there won’t be the same time constraint.

I can’t help thinking that this experience represents a kind of Livy’s circle of capitalism. These days, the customer is no longer king, it’s the shareholder. Doubtless Markersure is worth billions and doing really well on the stock market because they are buying everything that moves. At ground level, that rapid expansion, which, most likely means buying a company, firing the staff routing the calls to their own call centre and piling the load for their sales advisors, rather than employing any more, results in absolutely shit customer service, but that doesn’t matter, because it’s expanding, so the shareholders still get a bonus, and it’s still a ‘successful’ company even if it’s running at a loss. (Did you know that Spotify has never made a profit?)

The cumbersome nature of behemoths, generally, coupled with all the petty, box-ticking dos and don’ts by which decisions are made within them is so very similar to the aspects of nationalised industries in the 1970s that were crap. It’s all about box ticking, rather than any form of logic or business acumen at ground level. Stuff I read about British Leyland in the 1970s and 80s and other examples of the worst inefficiencies of Britain’s nationalised industries in the that period echoes through all my experiences with modern help desks and call centres. Not to mention our government bodies now.

Take the NHS, everything contracted out, nobody has agency … remember the problem I had getting them to deliver Mum home? The transport people box ticking, no tick, no delivery; Mum is taken home to her house and then back to hospital again. The ward administrator is livid but can do nothing because the drivers don’t answer to her and in the long run, neither does the transport company. They’re the lowest bidder so however shit the service, they’ll always get the job. All those double journeys and mistakes … is it any cheaper than organising it in house? Probably not.

So we have this weird situation where, as far as the customer is concerned, the down-to-earth, nitty-gritty of dealing with capitalism is exactly the same as dealing with a government department or everything that was shit about nationalised companies. Because it turns out that one behemoth—be it the passport office, the NHS, Google, Audible or Markersure—is very like another. Just as governments are often, flabby, inflexible and inefficient because they’re massive and complicated; so companies, when they reach the same size as a small country, seem to become the same. Full of illogical conflicting rules and guidelines that hinder rather than help. A culture of box ticking and back covering rather than actual action or customer service. But what do they care? They own their markets andtheir consumers have no choice, right? Except no. We do. It’s more difficult sometimes but we have to think about it.

There we go then.

Caveat emptor.

Check who underwrites your insurance. If it’s Markersure steer well clear.

Which leads me onto this … A few days ago someone on Facebook shared this quote from Ursula LeGuin.

‘We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. So did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art – the art of words.’

What interested me was people’s reactions. They got all democrat and republican about it. The internet is rather Little America, after all. Lots of people saying yah boo you leftie twat! You think communism (that’s what the Americans call socialism) is better do you? You think shitty inefficient communism crushing our freedoms is better do you? etc.

But it strikes me that shitty inefficient communism was exactly like the events I’ve just described. I have Mondays and Fridays, along with some Thursdays to write. The simple job of getting my insurance claim sorted out took me all my spare time on all three of those days. Obviously, the post of Ursula LeGuin’s words being on Facebook, and having seen it once, I’ll never find it again. Facebook doesn’t want you thinking about stuff before going back to make a measured response. But that’s the whole point isn’t it? Keep the customers busy doing pointless shit and they won’t notice how shit you are. They’ll be too busy concentrating on the pebbles on the path to look up and see just how shit the view has become.

Except some of us do look up. We see their shite. We so, so do.

Everything right now, at every level of life, is about box ticking, arse-covering, bureaucratic pissyness. Nothing is about what might work, what is logical, what is sensible and certainly, never, never, ever about about what is right. That’s why my parents have paid three quarters of a million quid in care fees and we will be pursued to the ends of the earth if Mum is deemed to have tried to give anything away to us—you know, so we have something to inherit the way she and Dad would have wanted, for example—rather than paying it all on care fees the government promised them it would pay, before pulling the rug from under them and a whole generation of people when it was too late for them to act.

I don’t know what the answer is but it might be in here. If you haven’t read this book, read it right now. It makes so much sense of the way modern business and modern life runs.

Is religion such a bad thing done the right way, you know, so it gives people principles? If today’s help-yourself-and-bollocks-to-the-rest-of-them society is anything to go by, some kind of belief system — other than ‘I want it all’ might be worth having.

And finally … once again, here’s a chance to grab 12 hours of fabulous audiophonic joy for 99p (or 99c)

Yes. If you like cheap audio books, Few Are Chosen is on sale for all of March. After that the price goes up again. As always, I’m cutting my own throat here. It’s 99c on Apple, Kobo and my own website. For anyone in the States, it’s also 99c on Barnes & Noble and Chirp (which is USA and Canada). If you want to grab it while it’s mega cheap you can find store links and a bit more info here

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Tagged as I fucked this up so you don't have to, istuffedthisupsoyoudon’thaveto, M T M Makes a complete tit of herself, M T McGuire, markerstudy, Mary Fails at Modern Life, massive rant, MTM gets stroppy, rant, writers

26 Feb 2023 · 7:45 pm

Discombobulation … is the name of the game

Yes, you find me all arse-about-face this week. Well that’s the default state, I grant you, but in this particular instance I’m probably a bit more arse-about-face than usual. Yeh. I know. Impressive. Even for me.

One of the difficulties I’ve experienced recently with my blog is that there’s been so much to write about I haven’t really known where to start, so then I’ve just gone a bit droopy and given up on it.

The past few weeks have been rough.

On the Mum front, nothing much seems to be happening about getting her an official diagnosis for dementia and we are reaching the stage where she does need one. It’s a pain to have to keep chasing her doctor and getting absolutely nothing back. He’s normally excellent so I don’t know what’s happened but I think I’ll have to book a call next week and get to the bottom of what’s going on. If he can’t refer her to the NHS memory people for some reason then presumably I’ll have to try and get a diagnosis done privately. It will cost money but the expensive bit is the brain scan which has already been done in hospital and should be with her NHS record.

On the upside, having done my tax return which showed I owed tax, and having paid said tax, it now turns out I don’t so they’re going to give it back to me. On the downside, some numb nuts reversed into me at bloody Tesco’s filling station … why is that place always trouble? Turned out he wasn’t insured because he was driving his friend’s car and didn’t want his friend to know. I explained about fibreglass and the cost of repairs and he looked at the bill and decided he couldn’t pay so I reported it to my insurance company. Apparently they’ve agreed that the repair can be done by the bunch who always look after my car. Unfortunately they’ve told Enterprise rent a car that, and they’ve rung the fellow who will be fixing the damage and have left a message that he must call but when he does all they get is a message telling them that all their operators are busy and to ~~piss off~~ call back at another time.

Incidentally, since every single call centre has been experiencing ‘an unusually high demand’ since covid, I’d be tempted to say that the level of demand has been like this for three years and therefore it isn’t unusually high; it’s simply a case that they sacked everyone after covid and have decided they’ll make more money if they sacrifice any customer service principles they had and run on a shoe-string staff. But I digress.

As the mechanic apologetically explained to me, after making five attempts, there are only so many times you can call. So now I have to ring my insurers between 10.30 and 4.30 (nice hours if you can get them) and they’ll put me through ‘because they’re more likely to answer’ and get the bloody job number myself. FFS.

The next week, going to Mum’s because I’m so fucking intelligent, I was a bit upset by seeing a rolled horse box and car on the motorway and the green we’ve-just-shot-this-horse screens. Late for Mum’s and in a dither I reversed my car into a flint wall, fucking the other end of it although—thank the lord for small mercies—the wall was unscathed. Since it was the random wall of someone else’s drive that is a Good Thing. Why? Because I can’t claim on my insurance or I’ll lose my no claims bonus and my excess is just shy of £300 so unfortunately the £800 for this one is on me because if I lose the no claims I’ll only be getting about £100 for a claim in real terms and paying the rest in increased premiums and excess. It’s tough being this much of a twat but someone’s got to do it.

Another up and down one, I had planned to see Abba Voyage with a friend this week. She’s one half of a lovely couple who absolutely get me. They also like me as much as I like them and there is a huge amount of mutual respect and ditto with McOther too. McMini also loves them. The chap has had cancer on and off since just before lock down. It’s been a virulent bastard. He’s been playing bash-the-rat with it and we’ve been seeing them in the gaps between bouts of chemo. He’s not had much respite between ending one lot of chemo and it popping up again which is highly unfair.

He faced it with a great deal of courage and liberal dashings of his habitual droll humour. Last time we saw them, at the back end of last year, he was unable to eat all of his dinner round ours and suspected he had another tumour somewhere causing a blockage which would mean more chemo.

Knowing this, we sort of left them to it. McOther and I tend to take a, ‘you know where we are if you need us’ approach to this kind of thing and then give people space. We have a kid and if someone’s immune system is compromised with chemo we’re probably more likely to bring pathogens than most people—although McMini doesn’t get all the colds like some kids, it’s probably me that will bring the bugs in. Typhoid Mary anyone? Oh yes.

Long and the short, friend messaged me on Tuesday to say that he was in the hospice. I was particularly amused that, as a keen Viz reader, he should have ended up in the J Arthur Rank … which is ryhming slang for a wank, snortle. But it is a fab hospice and the original J Arthur left a lot of money for cancer care (I’m not sure if he died of it or someone close to him did, I should probably check). She explained that her other half had talked to her about Saturday and told her she had to go, whatever stage he was at. However, she felt her attendance still might depend slightly on him. I totally got that if he was dying, she would probably want to be holding his hand rather than watching Abba Voyage with me and I assumed, from this, that the odds were, he might be. I said that whatever she needed was fine.

Looking at the map, I realised that the hospice was only about 10 minutes out of my way on the way home from Mum’s so I arranged to pop in and see her the following day, and him if he was up to it. You know how with some people you can be really quite rude and abusive to one another and know it’s a joke. If you don’t you should as it’s an incredibly joyous and liberating thing to be able to insult people ironically because you love them.

These two were like this, with one another but also with us so I also told her that if his sense of humour was still in evidence to tell him that all she and I wanted was to nip down to London for a day to watch Abba and he had to make it all about him!

The next morning she contacted me to say that he had died very peacefully in the early hours of that morning. She must have told him I was coming to see him. I mentioned that to her, but obviously I offered condolences first. Then I cried a great deal, most of the way to Mum’s.

JD, the chap in question, was the absolute best of people. Much like my friend Duncan, he was into cars and was not remotely phased about speaking his mind—well, he was a Yorkshireman—or pricking the bubble of the pompous. He saw the humour in everything, but not to the point of offence, or at the expense of the humanity or pathos. Both he and his Mrs coped with the world using gallows humour, and wit, the way McOther and I do. Presumably that’s why we all got on so well.

He was very intense—but not in a way that was at all wearing—very intelligent and well informed about many things. He had an enquiring mind, so I guess if he was interested in something he needed to know about it. Properly. Among the things were music and cars to name two but history and wine, F1 … he was also a fabulous cook. Oh and he was endurance fit, one of these people who gets up at 6 am and goes for a 50 mile bike ride before breakfast. He was also highly amusing. He had a way of calling everyone by their surnames but in a way that felt rather less formal than using first names would be, although he always called me Sweary, for that is my nickname with that group of friends and they all call me Sweary.

His dry wit made the world a better and kinder place and when the cancer appeared he faced his affliction with so much positivity, pragmatism and courage. It’s clear, from talking to his Mrs, that he never gave up until acceptance was the best path. I will miss him dreadfully but, I’m very aware as I say this, that his wife and his mother (God love her, poor woman) have this way, way worse.

His Mrs is being as brilliant as I’d expect her to be. They were great friends, anyway, and clearly grew together rather than apart as his illness progressed. It can’t be easy though. They’re in their mid 50s. And I mean, as it is, I feel as if someone has turned a light out. There is so little humour in the world right now, so few people with a light touch. So few people who will catch my eye, in a situation where everyone is taking something far too seriously, and I will know they’re laughing inside as well. It feels like the world is being run by clones of Biff from Back To The Future. The Biffs are on the ascendant and those of us who understand the importance of humour to civilised living and discourse are fewer and further between than ever. And lightness and humour are so important. If you can be funny about stuff, you can explore some really scary shit in comparative safety, or at least, in a way you can’t if you are a humourless automaton.

The day after breaking the news, my friend contacted me to say she wanted to go to Abba because he would have wanted that and also that he had left instructions that his life should be celebrated. I said that was OK and did she want me to come and pick her up and drive us down there. She said that yes, if I could, that would be great.

I took a half bottle of champagne and on arrival we drank a toast to him. I think it made us both feel better. Then we had lunch and went to watch Abba Voyage which was very impressive and which I can recommend. It did strike me that some of the words were a bit close to the bone but it was only the second to last song where I thought she looked a bit wobbly and gave her a hug. She hugged me back so I think she may have needed it.

The audience was dancing but I was amused to see that, while they clearly wanted to dance the way they had as teenagers and kids, they were nursing the kind of backs, knees, ankles and collapsed arches that meant the couldn’t quite do it the way the used to. The intent was there though. There was a woman about our age near us who stripped down to her bra like it was some kind of 1990s Ibizan foam party, which we thought was hilarious, if a trifle weird. She came over as insecure and wanting to impress, like a teenager, rather than just being overheated, menopausal and giving no fucks. But what do I know?

When we came to leave we had to walk miles round the houses because West Ham were playing at home and turning out at the same time as us. All the streets had been barricaded so you simply could not leave them. I stopped to take a few photos, including a rainbow. A promise? Maybe.

The shopping centre we’d walked through to get to the Abba Arena was closed off with massive metal shutters like the blast doors out of a nuclear shelter and the streets lined with unhelpful stewards who said we had to go round.

We’re not football folks though, we’re here for Abba and we want to get a coffee. Never mind, that. You have to walk round the outside in the pissing rain with the West Ham peps.

Is the car park open? Are we allowed to go into the car park to get our car?

You have to go round. That way.

Yes. We have twigged. But are we going to be allowed into the car park to get our car?

You must go round.

Yeh, right. Thanks that’s been a great help.

On the upside, they demonstrated, clearly, that Westfield shopping centre could survive the Zombie Apocalypse, which is useful to know.

It was bizarre though.

Luckily, we were able to get into the car park, although not into the shopping centre from street level. But by climbing to the next floor we were able to walk into the shopping centre from there and go with our original plan to grab a cappuccino and an arancini.

When it was time to leave we found that the pay machine in the car park was one of these ones where you put in your number plate and it just tells you how long you’ve been there and presents you with a bill.

Except it didn’t.

It kept presenting us with pictures of wildly inappropriate and unmatching vehicles. The more times I tried to find my car’s numberplate, the more bizarrely wrong the suggestions it offered; enormous munter trucks, saloons, and the odd van. Each time it was kind of going, ‘well, there’s an A in the numberplate on this one, is this your car?’ I’d press ‘no’ because it was a bus/estate car/motorbike etc and it would start again. Finally it suggested a massive van which shared one of the same numbers as my car’s number plate, ‘What about this one?’ it says hopefully.

‘Nah-uh.’ Say I. And so on.

After we’d done about seven of these we were both snorting with laughter because we reckoned it would be just our luck to get trapped in the car park forever, unable to leave. In my head I could just hear JD laughing at our antics. There were many jokes about how us two could get in to the most ridiculous scrapes. McOther calls me The Woman THINGS Happen To and they had a similar gag running themselves. I pressed the help button and was told that we should just drive to the exit and ring them again and they’d charge us then.

Off we went. I managed to tell two lurking motorists that I was leaving, by mistake, but my friend explained to the second one that we’d told the other we were going first and so we avoided precipitating a hand bags at sundown situation over our parking spot. Phew.

When we reached the exit, I discovered that the help button was about 3 feet above the roof of my car. I dunno, maybe there were some exits for buses or something and I’d inadvertently picked one of those, but they’d all seemed to be the same. Then again, there were about 60,000 West Ham fans making their way home and most of them seemed to be parked in that car park so maybe it was just that there were cars over the top of the writing on the ground and I’d not seen the bus label on this one.

On the up side, there was a guy there and I explained what had happened and asked him to help. He pressed the button for me, not quite what I was expecting, I’d assumed he’d be able to work the machine. Never mind, it was a start. The sound of a distant phone ringing drifted down from above me as the help button attempted to make the connection. It went on for a while. Some of the West Ham fans behind us tooted.

‘I’m going to let you go,’ said the man and proceeded to raise the barrier just as a tinny voice 3 feet above my head said, ‘Hello?’

I’m afraid I didn’t reply. Instead, I thanked the man, hoofed it out of the car park and headed for home. As I drove, my friend had to ring some folks to explain when her husband’s funeral was. I listened as she spoke a cross between Italian and dialect to a cousin in Sicily. And tried to shut up Margaret (the sat nav on my phone) who seemed to be shouting orders on full volume. (It’s called Margaret because it sounds like Mrs Thatcher.)

As we got to the bottom of the M11 she (my friend, not Margaret, the sat-nav, obviously) was saying, ‘Caio, Caio, Ciao …’ exactly the same way Brits say, ‘bye’ successive times, really quickly, when ending a call. But then the person on the other end clearly asked her something and they started talking again and went on for another ten minutes.

This got me chuckling because I could imagine her husband laughing at this so vividly it was almost like he was in the car with us and I could hear it. And I immediately remembered a conversation the four of us had had with him and McOther ripping the piss out of myself and her over our inability to say goodbye quickly. McOther complained how, when I was leaving my parents, we’d suddenly start another conversation in the doorway and talk for another twenty minutes in the cold instead of getting into the car, at which point JD had cited examples of similar behaviour from her while visiting the rellies in Italy.

Once her call was done, we put on my Abba Gold CD and did some hard core singing as we drove up the motorway. I managed to get cramp in my shin on the home straight going to her house, which was interesting and made us laugh some more. It did go the minute I got out and went inside to say a quick hello to JD’s mum and have a wee. Then it was home for a well earned spag bol. I’d done 23,000 steps and an hour and a half of dancing so I had no qualms about eating a generous portion!

So yeh … all in all … a bittersweet few weeks. I haven’t written anything, and I can’t, but that’s OK.

On a vaguely book related note …

Graphic book cover with two old ladies silhouetted against a darkened street If you have the remotest interest in any of my books, I have a page on my site where I list all the stuff that’s reduced or free so you can try it out and see if you like it. If you think that sounds interesting (oh yes you DO think it sounds interesting) then click on this link: https://www.hamgee.co.uk/cmot3

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Tagged as death, I fucked this up so you don't have to, istuffedthisupsoyoudon’thaveto, M T McGuire, M T McGuire audiobooks, Mary Fails at Modern Life, off topic, women in sci-fi

4 Feb 2023 · 5:09 pm

2022 in Focus, career version

picture of a factory with sunlight shining on it

The Bury Beet Factory in sunset hue … Less Silver Spoon and more Golden Spoon in this one …

This blog post is written over a couple of weeks but I’ve not harmonised the timeline. Instead I’ve left it in as-I-wrote it mode because it seems to read better like that …

This week I have suddenly developed sciatica, or at least a trapped nerve but same end result. It just gradually appeared over the course of Wednesday evening as McMini and I watched TV. Yesterday it wasn’t great but I exercised a lot to try and keep it all moving. This was the right thing to do on paper, but unfortunately, I woke up this morning with the most evil pain in my lower back. It got better as the day wore on with a heat pad pressed against it pretty much all the time, and concentrated itself in and just above my left bottom cheek. Lovely. Lowlights of the week, trying to get dressed yesterday, today and the day before. Friday, especially, my socks were causing too much friction for me to be able to get them into my trousers without extremem pain. When you are standing on one leg shouting, ‘fuck off you fucking bastard trousers!’ at the top of your voice to an inaminate item of clothing you know you are in trouble but when it acctually makes you feel better, rather than an idiot, you know it might be piss-poor day, painwise. Still the only way is up. Except it wasn’t. Although let’s face it, things may improve from here. A friend came round to lunch on Friday which was lovely though, and it did take my mind off the pain.

Having googled myself extensively, if you see what I mean, I’m pretty sure I have what I had last time which is a tight piriformis muscle but I may have a disc pressing on the nerve too somewhere, too. The piriformis is a pathetic little muscle in your arse which, if it gets tight, traps the sciatic nerve, which hurts, which makes your arse clench, which makes it tighter, which hurts more … you get the picture. When I do a specific stretch aimed at helping this it … well … you know … helps. However, when I do stretches to releive a blurpy disk pressing on the nerve that helps too. Knowing my luck I’ve scored a full house. So now I just have to keep doing the stretch and moving around regularly, even if that does involve walking like Clive Dunn. No sitting at my computer for more than ten minutes. Productivity levels may vary. I have some absolute horse pills that they gave me last time which do seem to help but it means no alcohol if I take more than one a day. I did virtual church this morning, which was nice, except they had a collection of some of my absolutely favourite hymns … on the other hand, communion just happened to arrive at the same time of breakfast so I communicated with a glass of water and a slice of Lorne sausage. Probably quite unholy in the grand scheme of things but it helped …

Interestingly, I have been a bit more productive like this. Sitting on the sofa in my office with the omnipresent heat pad and getting up for a little walk round for ten minutes on the hour I seeem to be getting more done. So far I’ve read quite a lot of a book on antique bottles and have been able to look up some of the ones I have and come up with an approximate date. I’ve also written the thank you/Christmas letters I do to keep elderly friends of my parents and relatives to keep them in touch with what’s happening to Mum. Once the first is done, obviously, it’s easier to do the others because I’ve already written a lot of what I want to say and kind of … you know … got it down pat.

Never mind, onwards and upwards. I was going to talk about the year in book sales, although looking at the volume of sales, I am sorely tempted to say, ‘let’s not!’ On we go then …

MTM’s Year out of in Focus 2022

Aims

Ooo! Get me, all organised with my headings and subheadings but yes, despite my efforts, and my business looking like a completely random and chaotic shit-show from the outside (and the inside if I’m honest) I did start off with some actual aims last year. Rather loose ones, to be honest, and I probably hadn’t given enough thought as to how I would achieve them but they were:

Write and publish another book … er hem. Yes. Oops.
Increase my audio sales and see if I could get some sales of soemthing other than my two first in series
See if I could do some face-to-face events and sell more paperbacks.
Attempt to grow sales at outlets other than Amazon and Audible.
Try something new in marketing, possibly a kickstarter, and be more organised with other marketing efforts (social, mailings and ads).

Let’s have a look and see how I did then shall we?

1. Publish a book

Yes, that one fell victim to pressures at home but I’m hoping I might finish one in 2023. I won’t be able to publish it because if I do finish, that’ll happen in April after which I probably won’t have time to do much else but if I fail to finish I’ll throw caution to the wind and write another novella in the interim, or extend The Last Word or … I dunno. Something.

To be honest, if I want to get anywhere I have to write some straight medieval fantasy and something about a dorky american bloke in space. I haven’t done anything straight medievel fanatasy wise but I do have a dork in space (not american because america doesn’t exist in that version of reality but a guy who lost one leg just below the knee in an accident). In the meantime, I just have to go with what’s flowing, sigh, which is more K’Barthan shizz. Oh dear.

2. Audio sales

My figures for audio are not as complete as sometimes, mainly because I haven’t got round to finishing the spreadsheet where I log them all. However, this one actually went better than I thought it was going to at the start of 22. Gareth and I share a steady £60 or so from Audible each month but obviously, I wanted to grow my sales on other retailers. I did several promos on Kobo and tied in Apple and Chirp, adding Barnes & Noble as Findaway added those retailers to the promotions section. For future promos I can now add Spotify as well. On the whole, each sale was around two weeks long.

On average, my effots (bookbub ads and the odd post on social media) garnered between 30 and 40 sales of the first book in the K’Barthan Series at 99c during each promo. These were mostly on Chirp but occasionally on my site or on Kobo too. In the first instance, there was little or no readthrough but when I ran the second sale, I noticed there were some downloads of the second K’Barthan book or the box set, although these were mainly from Libraries. Third sale, more read through and even some purchases of later books so things are looking up there. In 2020 I earned about 2/3 audible and 1/3 Findaway.

Overall, audiobook sales are climbing and to my joy the non Audible portion is growing. It is rather wearing to read my royalty statements from Audible and see sums like $395 earned with $90 going to Gareth and I to share 50:50. Worse, ACX are now reducing the prices of books so we sell more. Great on paper, I mean Audible’s book prices are fictional anyway, they are twice as much as everywhere else to make the price of a credit look good but at the same time, the books they are selling a la carte on Audible for £24.99 are piped through to Apple at £10.00 so they know how much audiobooks actually cost. However, they say that the publisher compensation is governed by the published price so if they reduce my books by 20% then presmumably my royalty goes down by 20% too. Other authors whose books have already been reduced have seen this borne out on their statements. I have had the odd very low payment but I haven’t managed to track down if it was a sale or an offer or what … So far on Audible UK they haven’t reduced my books. I am unable to see prices on any of the other audible sites, or, indeed look at them … even in ‘private’ browsing it funnels me back to the UK store. So yes, the Gorilla is still providing 2/3 of the income but only from one book and I am beginning to think seriously about pulling all the others. I just see no point exposing myself to anymore of Audible’s shit than is absolutely necessary. I’d keep one book on there and keep my account so I can claim any new books as I publish to stop other people putting them on Audible. Otherwise, I’m close to just telling them to do one with their contract that reads like an unenforcable software contract and their punishment royalty rates for putting my books in libraries.

On the upside, although the Findaway portion dropped dramatically in 2021 this last year it appears to have gone up again. It’s still only 1/3 which is annoying but at the same time, if I’m earning 1/3 of my income from 10% or less of the readers it goes to show a) how shit Audible’s royalties are and b) that I should keep promoting my wide audio. Oh and I forgot to add sales of my own books which are tiny but were definitely a thing last year (along with Kobo) both of which had very little action the year before … zero on Kobo and a few quid on my store in 21 but some earnings in 22. Gareth and my earnings in 2022 are up by about 20% overall on the year before and that’s with December’s figures missing.

Conclusion: I might be doing the right thing for audio so I’ll carry on and hope it keeps improving and that the wide/my store share keeps growing.

3. Face to face events

This one was a bit of a mixed bag. I didn’t do as well as I have at previous events before lockdown. However, at the same time, I was able to attend a lot of events in a group that wouldn’t have been commercially viable for one person alone. And I earned £349 quid that I wouldn’t have earned otherwise and yes, the others earned way more than that, indeed one earned that figure in one appearance, alone, at the Christmas Fair during which I earned £35 but I’m still pleased with the overall figure. There’s an enormous £8.00 from Ingram Spark, the people who distribute my paperbacks online, on top. I think when I add Bookvault, who are similar to Ingram but much cheaper, I may well find things easier.

Will I do more face to face stuff? Yes because it was fun. However, I may try to be a bit more smart about which events I attend. For example, Ely Cathedral Christmas Market is one I should look at and I will definitely try Bury Cathedral if they do an event for Bury’s ‘Not’ the Christmas Market next year. I must also approach some schools offering to do a library talk, although I have to find out if I need CRB checked first. That’s expensive but might still be worth doing. Overall the most important thing was that barring one bit of one event, where I was a little bit embarrassed, I had fun and that is the main point, after all.

4. Grow sales on sites that are not Amazon

I can only really go on a hunch with this but as far as I can see, the non-Amazon portion of my earnings is growing. Now, admittedly, this could be because Amazon is pay-to-play and runs the most bizarre, opaque and arcane advertising platform so my choice is to get to grips with that one thing, or do everything else. I’ve chosen everything else. I’ve been doing the standard operating procedure with the others, I have a first in series in a free box set, I have a short and a novella permanently free and I have an exclusive story that people get for signing up to my mailing list. It’s OK but not hugely successful. Having looked at other people’s success I have decided to try running a kickstarter. After Brandon Sanderson ran the highest grossing kickstarter of all time, there are a fair few fantasy and sci fi fans on there and as yet it hasn’t been swamped by romance like everywhere else. Doubtless that will come but I need to try and sort one of those out before the Romance authors pile in and fantasy becomes a sub genre of romance on there like it is on all the other sites.

Unfortunately the only thing standing in my way is that I haven’t finished a book. I need the finished article ready to go and then I use it as a pre-order system essentially.

Looking year on year, at the nice easy fix that is Scribecount sales tracking, things appear to be going in the right direction.

In 2019 28% of my sales were off Amazon.
In 2020 it was 25% and I earned three times as much. I also had orders for books from non Amazon outlets where there had been no traction beforehand. I think a lot of that was the Pandemic but also that Amazon seemed to relax some of it’s algorithmic twiddling so people could find stuff they wanted rather than the nearest fit to what they wanted from the stuff in KU or that was advertised. This has since been tightened up again as far as I can tell and my Amazon earnings have dropped accordingly.
In 2021 the percentage of non Amazon sales was up to 33.3% (woot) including 6% from my own store but that may have been skewed by the launch of Too Good To Be True which a lot of lovely people bought from my store rather than any of the retailers. If that was you, thank you another 20% of those royalties went to me instead of ‘The Man’.
In 2022 39.5% of my income was from elsewhere than Amazon. (So close to 40%!) Kobo and Google Play were 12% a pop and my own store was 4.4% although I suspect that was mostly audiobooks (I can’t separate them out at the moment).

2022

2021

2020

I hadn’t really looked at the figures until now but that’s heartening because it is going in the right direction; the non Amazon share is definitely going up. Or to put it another way, the share I rely on from the most morally shonky, high maintenance of the stores is going down. I’m not sure what’s happened to my print sales though, I used to do about £40 a year from Ingram and this year it’s £7. I’m guessing this is Amazon no longer ordering my books in batches of six, which it then bins off for less than it costs me to buy them from Ingram at cost so I always purchase those and put them into stock! Mwahahargh, not that I’m devious or anything.

On the whole that’s a pleasing result though. I’ll keep doing what I do with that one then and hope that I can keep my dependence on Amazon and Audible dropping throughout 2023 and my earnings from other less abusive stores and/or sources of income rising. Also I haven’t posted my print sales on here because I can’t add sum up to the spread sheet as yet.

5. Try something new …

I didn’t do too well on this front. I guess I could call the in person appearances as trying something new because I hadn’t attempted that sort of thing regularly. They netted me the same as I’d usually have earned from my previous single appearence at the Christmas Fair but I do think it’s worth doing more. I bought a stand-up course to help me think about how I would talk to readers in public. I also bought an epic Kickstarter course and have so far got to about step two, but I’m slowly working my way through it with a view to reaching more readers of fantasy and sci fi books. With that in mind this year, I’m definitely hoping to ditch preorders and start using Kickstarter to get sales in advance. The upside of that being that I can give people more than just the book for buying in advance in a way that I can’t with the stores.

Other stuff to try. I’d like to expand my efforts on live appearences with two biggies:

Ely Cathedral Christmas Fair
School visits – time to contact local schools and offer a library talk
Move from pre-orders to doing a kickstarter for my next book, and possibly starting with Googly Joy or Eyebomb: therefore I am, depending on what I decide to call it.
I should sign up as a speaker to the Women’s Institute. I’m not sure how many sales I’d get but I should imagine it would be similar to the library talk I did at my local library, which was great fun.

Conclusions …?

Not many really. I think I’m doing the right thing. I think it’s been good to get out more among the people so to speak. Apparently, as authors get more successful, the profitability of in person appearances drops but at the moment compared to the vaguaries of internet marketing, personal appearances are like shooting fish in a barrel. They are not easy and on a couple of occasions I have been roundly humiliated. However, they are still an absolute piece of cake compared to trying to get some jaded online reader with ten million books they will never look at already parked on their e-reader to open mine and start reading. I won’t do the routine with about the wi-fi free island, the telephone directory and the lavatory because I suspect you’ll remember that but you get where I’m going …

Plans for 2023?

Yeh, there are some …

Last year I definitely made a little bit of progress so, at the risk of sounding as if I’m repeating myself, this year’s aims are pretty much the same:

Write and publish another book.
Continue to increase my audio sales, especially away from Amazon/Audible and try to build on my print sales too.
Pick the right events to sell more paperbacks face to face.
Attempt to grow wide sales (i.e. at outlets other than Amazon and Audible).
Try something new in marketing, possibly a kickstarter, and be more organised with other marketing efforts (social, mailings and ads).
Try to visualise how I could do these things and break down what I need to do to actually get them done.

Any progress so far?

Yes. I’ve started as I mean to go on. Work out what I want and then break down what I need to do to get there so I have small, easily implemented steps to take listed out and can consult the list and just do them on brain fog days. For something big like a kickstarter this is going to be especially important. I’m listing the stuff I’ve set in motion here so I have a reference document that I can return to, in order to keep myself accountable. Whether it’ll work I don’t know but I can try right?

1. Writing another book

This is where the Eyebomb: Therefore I am, easy win comes in. There will be another book this year and it’ll be that one. Another easy win is a short book; in this case, I’m doing a talk in December about coming to terms with failure. Achieving less by doing more is what it’s called but being a failure is what it’s actually about. Being a failure and being totally OK with that. The talk is schedulued for December 2023 and will run for 30 – 40 minutes online with powerpoint slides. Clearly, by the time I’ve written that, I’ll have pretty much written the entire book anyway, so it’s a case of setting out my thoughts and doing the slides early enough for there to be time to make it into a book. I think I’m going to call it, ‘I fucked this up so you don’t have to’. No obviously not fucked, the Americans will go mad. I’l

2. Increase Audio and Print Sales

The eyebombing book would be a great fit for Christmas markets if I can do it at a stocking filler price, I’m thinking 10″x 10″ hardback for £9.99 but I can take that down to 7″x7″ if that means I can make it longer for that price. I have found a cheaper printer and set up an account with them. Their books are good and so I reckon I’m going to try printing it through them. They also distribute across the UK and in The Great British Bookshop. So I’ll be using them for UK distribution and possibly for drop shipping if I do a kickstarter, in conjunction with drop shipping from Ingram Spark for the Americas, Africa, the Far East and Oceana. Ingram are between £1 and £2 more expenisve per book, wholesale and make me add a 50% margin to distribute whereas I can do 35% with the other bunch so I will definitely be using BookVault where I can.

Another important thing to do is to link my payhip shop to bookvault. I hope to move to an integrated woocommerce store on my website eventually but until I can fix that up, it’s possible to use Payhip and connect it to bookvault for direct sales via something called Zapier, which, I think is free until I make 100 transfers a month.

Likewise, if I can finish the next misfit book I will. I think it’s possible that I could but it will be important to keep up all the other stuff alongside so I won’t feel the pressure as keenly. Yes, in a strange twist of reverse phychology, doing other stuff that brings results at the same time may take the pressure off and help me finish this one. I need to do the carer’s memoir, too, as that’s very now and again, there’s a lot of stuff on my blog and in other places that I’ve already written and can use for that. However, that particular book is probably something I should attempt through trad. Hybrid is the way to go really as a trad deal shows the bigots you are good enough to get a deal and opens doors that will be closed to me forever otherwise.

3. Pick the right events to sell more paperbacks face-to-face.

picture of two people smiling in front of a table at a sci fi convention

Yes, I’m going to flex this photograph on you yet again.

I’ve already sent in my application for the Ely Cathedral Christmas Fair. Ooo get me! Will I get in? Who knows. They wanted a web address and my HUP website had just gone down so it’s actually quite likely I will fail this year. It’s also a bit of a conundrum trying to add product photos to a pitch, when a lot of the products haven’t been made yet. However, if I get a spot I will start printing up cards and merch over the course of the year; a few things each month to defray the cost pre Christmas. If I don’t get in, I’ll probably still do that ahead of any other Christmas Markets I might do, I just won’t print as many. I’m not going to inherit any money. It’s going to go on care so I need to earn some capital of my own, fast.

4. Attempt to grow wide sales (i.e. at outlets other than Amazon and Audible)

Here’s hoping I can keep the momentum going and hit 40% of my sales being from non Bezos companies. To that end, all I can do is keep trying to find readers on other platforms and continue to advertise to them.

Other stuff, finish uploading all my books to Barnes & Noble direct. I have seven on there and five to do. Then I need to sort all the Barnes & Noble links on my site so they go to the books I’ve uploaded direct. Then I need to contact Barnes & Noble and ask them to move any reviews on other versions to the ones I’ve uploaded and then I need to cancel distribution where I’ve used an aggregator. I also need to sort out the rest of my links pages at Books2Read.com this is a brilliant thing that lets you add all the links to a book for audio, paperback and ebook format. The only trouble is, it’s immensely buggy so you can only do about two at a time, then you have to clear the cache turn the computer off and on again and do another two and so on. So I tend to do a couple here and there when I remember because otherwise it’s so frustrating that I may be forced to smash my laptop to pieces. That would be bad. But really, I have to bite the bullet and do it.

5. Try something new in marketing

Gulp. This year, I may see if I can resurrect my Facebook ads again, perhaps doing one or two aimed at readers on Apple, where I get crickets, or Kobo, which is rather good. Ideally, I’d get them going to my own store and buying stuff there. This is another thing I could use Zapier for, I think … as I can also have books for sale on my Facebook page. Nobody buys them and the store is hard to set up and edit but I’m a great believer in having things available in as many places as I can. Then … I’m going to try a kickstarter. I’m going to do it for the eyebombing book, to start with, because it’s easy to explain what it is and there’s no mashing of genres involved, it’s a humorous non fiction art book. I’ll design it and build it first, then, when it’s proofed and finished and ready to go I’ll do a kickstarter campaign to try and recoup as much of the money as possible. If that works, I’ll try a kickstarter for the next Misfit book again, waiting until all three versions are ready to go before I start … and possibly adding an under-the-table hardback.

6. Try to visualise how I’ll do this and plan it in bite sized pieces so I am able to.

That’s kind of what this post is for … The minute I start writing or explaining it I come up with a very straight forward list of stuff I need to do. But when I sit looking a blank screen or sheet of paper trying to type, or write, it up I find myself completely unable to think. Doubtless something terrible will go wrong because it usually does. Not least, if I get into the Ely Cathedral Christmas Fair you can guarantee something will happen to Mum about ten minutes into it and I’ll have to do a mercy dash to Sussex and chalk £275 for the stall (and probably a life time ban from exhibiting ever again) up to experience. If that’s the case, I’ll just have to pack up and leave the stall because I have no back up. Here’s hoping …

In theory I could update myself, and you, on where things have got to over the course of the year but you may well lose the will to live and people will be leaving in droves! So. Instead, why not lose yourself in a book?

Astonishingly cheap ebook and audiobook alert …

Yes. Spoil yourself with your good taste (Ambassador) and a wonderful free book. Mmm hmm. If you are looking for a fun novella–to relieve the considerable tedium you may be experiencing after reading this blog post, for example … or if you’d like to listen to an audio book in the car, or at work or on the commute and you are just fresh out of ideas for fabulous newness … well, you can fix all those things by grabbing a free book.

This book.

Small Beginnings, K’Barthan Extras, Hamgeean Misfit: No 1.

If you think that sounds interesting and would like to take a look, just go here.

Oh and PS … my back has recovered and my knee is getting there. Onwards and upwards eh? A bientot!

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Tagged as author blog, author blogs, book marketing, comedy fantasy fiction, I fucked this up so you don't have to, istuffedthisupsoyoudon’thaveto, K'Barth, M T McGuire, trying to be a writer, writer parent, writers, writing

7 Jan 2023 · 5:08 pm

In retrospect …

It has occurred to me that I haven’t done a blog post for a long time and when a friend noted it in my Christmas card, expressing concerns as to whether everything was OK I thought that maybe I ought to, so here I am.

Picture of coloured glass table decoration with candle inside and glasses plus another night light in the background First up. Happy New Year everyone … belatedly, I admit.

Second, just to confirm, yes, I’m still alive.

There is a lot going on and I think part of the problem with the blog is that when I come to talk about everything that’s happening … I just don’t want to give that shit any more air time. I’m exhausted, I’m spent, I’m done. I pull up the page with the best of intentions and then, suddenly, when I think about the events I have to describe, everything is grey and dull. The same thing is happening with my thank you letters and my tax return so I need to get my finger out from up my arse. On the upside, I have successfully opened a new savings account which pays a higher, and fixed, rate of interest. So there’s that …

The other thing that has curtailed the blog is that I was increasingly discovering that I only had time to write a blog post and market my books every week and so I dropped the blog in favour of using that time to inch the WIP forward, one tiny, tiny increment at a time. Yes, as usual, glaciers are leaving me standing and I am eating the dust of continental drift, so slow is my progress. On the up side. It is happening. Which is definitely a bit of a thing, woot. I’m having slight difficulty with the timeline but I think that will improve over the next couple of months … once I’ve finished my bloody bastard tax return, of course.

So there we are … what better time to jump back into my increasingly sporadic blog habit than now, with a look back over the year in a post peppered with pictures from the many and varied holidays I went on, which I almost completely fail to mention? Yes. I think it would. On we go.

Where have I been?

You may remember that last Christmas was, to put it politely, a fucking nightmare. I came out of three nights at Mum’s short of breath, sleep deprived—yet still unable to sleep when I got into bed—and with heart palpitations, which was fun. I was also fourteen and a half stones, which is well over 90 kilos and I ached pretty much everywhere.

I wore an ecg for a few days and was pronounced fit but menopausal. Yes the menopause also gives you palpitations as well as brain fog. It’s the gift that just keeps on giving.

In the New Year, I managed to get the tax return done early on in January and then do some writing January as well as February, March and April. Those three months tend to be my window of opportunity and then, by the time the April holidays are finished and we are into May and the Summer Term comes, it’s birthdays and shit, and summer bar-b-queues so peopling edges writing out of the frame until I end up finally giving up and shelving everything over the summer holidays. It tends to stay shelved until either the next year or until I do Nano in the November (more on that later). Meanwhile back to early 2022.

I had been concentrating on rehab for my replaced knee and I was aware that I had pretty much sorted it but that ideally, if I could find a gym to attend for a year, I could push it that little bit further. Strangely, an ad popped up for a local gym on my Facebook feed, but I was browsing a local community group at the time and thought it was just a post so I filled in the form and they rang me back by return. I was about to go skiing so I booked to join up on 30th April and do a try out over the month of May.

Things with Mum were tough, we were still coming out of COVID in that everything took twice as much admin conducted through call centres where management had fired half their staff and weren’t bringing them back any time soon. Worse, I still hadn’t really managed to get back on the dementia care horse after having lock down off and lovely easy runs down to Sussex in the intervening months. It’s all very well but running another house and another person’s life for seven years is actually pretty fucking tiring. I was so weary. I was done. I still am.

There are always points with dementia care when you want to give up and it feels like being dragged kicking, screaming and protesting to your doom. Oh no! No life for you this will take ALL your spoons FOREVER. Into the valley of death we go, where the gas will sit on our lungs and stifle the oxygen out of everything. Mum was getting worse, my heart was filling up, writing was getting harder and harder and I needed an easy win. Since I was getting less and less writing done in the time I had, using that time for something else, said easy win being a case in point, seemed like a plan.

sunset over mountains With the gym initiation booked for 30th April, we went skiing, I did more writing, but not as much as I’d have liked because I was sick as a dog, discovering, on my return home, that I had COVID.

Joy. The Pandemic. Another gift that keeps on giving.

View from the pilot’s seat of a fighter jet.

Yes those are my knees, sitting in a fighter jet. 2022 wasn’t all bad.

It was also Easter and by some unfortunate coincidence, we managed to arrive in pretty much every town we stopped in for the night of the week on which all the restaurants were closed. Not that I felt that well—but the McOther’s threw it off in a trice obvs. I felt post-feverish for about six weeks afterwards.

However, on the up side, when I got back, I was 14 stones 2 lbs—which is about 90kg and about 5lbs less than I had weighed before I left

The gym wanted me to ~~do a diet~~ play calorie pontoon every day by tracking what I eat. I am pathologically averse to dieting in any form but I decided that I could hack it for a month to see if it worked because otherwise, I wasn’t giving the regimen a chance. Counting calories is easier than you’d think because there are apps that help you.

However, it would be even more easy if ONE SINGLE BASTARD CALORIE COUNTING APP HAD THE COURTESY TO USE THE UNITS, MEASURES AND RETAILERS OF THE COUNTRIES IN WHICH THEY ARE SOLD. Can you imagine the uproar if the American site for MyfitnessPal was all in Metric weights and measures?

So why impose their stupid incomprehensible mentalist random bastard system of cups on us poor sods trying to use their app in Britain. How much is a cup? It varies, which is fine until the recipe suddenly demands you measure out half a pint of fluid, or do a fluid cup which is different to a solids cup, or an Australian cup which is not the same as an American cup.

Lovely though the Americans are, it never ceases to amaze me how absolutely batshit crazy they can be and how officiously difficult they like to make life for themselves … they are absolutely germanic about rules, but without the flawless logic. That’s three cups of rice, half a lb of butter, a quart of milk, what the fuck is a quart? and then suddenly, 25 grams of sugar. AAAAAARGH! (Throws recipe book across room!) MAKE UP YOUR FUCKING MIND!

Oops, sorry. Slight rant there. Where was I? Ah yes.

In the end I used the gym’s own app which was bad but gave a bit more of a nod to the UK existing. The only saving grace is that once I’d done it for a month, I had looked up all the things we usually eat, broken down the constituents I was required to track in metric and added them as my own foods. Some of the others also loaded up correctly with the app’s barcode reader, except Waitrose frozen peas which for some reason is a can of Jolly Green Giant sweetcorn from Kroger’s. We don’t even have Kroger’s in chuffing England.

Never mind, once I started eating as much protein a day as they suggested, I was absolutely stuffed well before I hit my calorie limit. At the end of the month, I’d lost weight and was doing my belt up a notch tighter. Despite the food tracking initially doing my head in. The idea of getting a bit fitter looked like it might work as Easy Win for 2022.

Trying to take an interesting view of the avenue de champagne in Epernay.

On the down side. The potential new gym cost as much, per month, as my last gym per year, even so, the easy win was clearly go! I signed up. I’m now 11 stones 12lbs or about 76 kg. I have not weighed as little as this for 25 years. My waist is 5” smaller than it was this time last year and I’m wearing clothes I haven’t been able to get into since 2005. The heart palpitations still pop up occasionally but for the most part, they’ve gone.

There were holidays too. The picture is from our summer holiday jaunting round Europe. First stop, Epernay …

The Mum Stuff.

2021 was a bad run financially for Mum. Carer after carer got sick and couldn’t work, they had been with Mum since 2012 and I felt it only right that I paid them sick pay. It wasn’t as much as they usually earned per week but it was something. But it did hammer us a bit. As a result, by the time we hit 2022 my Mum’s financial adviser got in touch with me and explained that he could no longer manage her portfolio through stocks and shares because there wasn’t enough of it. Anyway … Ukrain. Thanks Putin you absolute melt. So I agreed we should to sell them all.

Mum had enough money for one more year at the end of which she either needed to die in a timely fashion (this doesn’t happen with dementia) or we would have to put her into a home. The thing is, even if she’s living in her house, since it’s just her, she has to sell it and use the proceeds to pay for her care. This rule is the absolute zenith of bastardy but that’s the UK for you, horrid, small-minded pissy little island that we are.

There is healthcare insurance here in the UK but it’s not as plentiful or comprehensive as the US system. On the other hand, the NHS doesn’t treat dementia. It’s very expensive and as we all know, the NHS has been a) gradually run down and b) split into hundreds of private companies, each taking responsibility for one aspect of care the net result of which is that nobody seems to be accountable and a lot of money, time and effort is wasted.

Basically, the NHS palms dementia care off onto social services run by local authorities but they lack the funding to treat it properly either, although Social Services in Sussex were brilliant with Dad, truly brilliant, the parameters within which they worked still entailed taking all Dad’s pension to pay for this nursing home fees. Luckily Mum had some savings to live on, otherwise I’m not sure what we’d have done.

It is what it is.

So I’m sitting here, having spent all but £30k of my parents’ entire life savings, £750,000–yes that’s three quarter of a million quid—on care fees that they believed, for their entire lives, that they would get for free. It will be every last fucking penny and the rest before we are done. For most of the year I drifted, rudderless, towards the waterfall of disaster; glazed eyes staring into the abyss like a deer caught in the headlights. Immobilised by panic and horror, wishing my Mum dead so I didn’t have to break her heart and worsen her illness by taking her away from everything that was familiar; in this case, her home for 50 years.

Then I finally got my shit together and started negotiating an endowment mortgage. I wasn’t sure we’d go through with it but the care team reckoned that if we could keep her at home for another 18 months, she might not know where she was after that and we could move her into a home without it being cruel.

My brother had serious misgivings about keeping her where she was and wanted to whisk her off to a home near him. I think his social services are better than the ones here in Suffolk—indeed Suffolk mental health services are notorious, I think they were second from bottom in the round Britain league tables last time I looked. I had misgivings about moving her anywhere until she was ready. I was also petrified that I’d fall out with my brother—who I have always got on very well with—over this.

View of countryside from a very tall hill in the sun

It was hot … this is Italy

Finally, round about August the mortgage was ready to sign, but of course, the interest rate was rising just about weekly by this point—thanks bampot Putin. I was aware that we were going to lose a lot of the asset we were liquidating. We went on holiday and when we came home, my knee, the one that’s supposed to be fine, gave out. I suspect it’s back of the kneecap. I dunno. It might settle with a cortisone injection. I may give that a go. If it doesn’t, I guess I’ll have to see a surgeon. I think the next stage from the injection would be a MRI or whatever it is they do instead if you already have a knee full of metal the other side, and then an arthroscopy.

View looking up the side of a pillar at an ancient church painted ceiling

This is one of the churches in Alba, Italy. It was really rather lovely, as you can see

The knee was the final straw. I was well fucked off. I hadn’t written anything since March because my heart and brain were too full of Mum stuff. My book sales were tanking—in fact my whole literary career, such as it is, was dying on its arse even more spectacularly than it usually is. I remember going up the hill one day and quietly popping into church, lighting a candle and having very strong words with the Almighty about what an utter bastard he was being to me. I pointed out that seven years having to play to a perfect storm of everything at which I am shit is a sod of a long time and that I’d fucking had it. I told it that caring for Mum and Dad had taken everything from me; I’ve no job, no prospects and pea-souper brain fog. I explained, forcefully, that there was nothing left in my life but grey and also it’s hard, when you and your sibling stand to inherit about a million quid each in assets, to inherit nothing due sheer, shite luck.

It’s not like Mum and Dad spent their money, it was taken from them by a government that thinks it’s a really good idea to take a fucking horrible illness that wrecks lives and turn it from a horrific experience into something that will grind everyone involved to nothing. I was so fucking angry. I’m still fucking angry about that one.

Maybe God listened. I dunno.

A few days later bruv told me he didn’t want to do the mortgage but that he’d like to fund Mum’s care ourselves. At this point, I passed on McOther’s suggestion that we mortgage her house to us and that we should bethe lenders. If we did it all above board then then any of the asset we lost in interest would be paid to us anyway, as the lenders. We would be creditors, not family, so what we’d lent would not be included in death duties, which, if we’d just put money in and kept the house un-mortgaged, it would be.

He agreed. Then within days, Bruv was talking about it to one of Mum’s neighbours and they put me in touch with someone who was happy to buy the house and allow Mum to live there until she died. That didn’t work out, there are death duties implications around that, too, which make it tricky to sell the property for less than the market rate. But those two rays of hope were like sunlight in a darkened world where all was monotone and ash.

We have now mortgaged the house to ourselves, all done above board through a legal firm. I left the form at Mum’s for Bruv to sign after I visited, pre-Christmas. He’s signed it but needless to say there’s some giant slew of signatures from me on the end that need witnessed by someone who isn’t my husband or son. So I’ll take it to Church with me tomorrow and get some other poor sod to sign it, at which point, McOther takes it to the solicitors to date and register it.

I think we can manage 18 months between us. Then I think it will be time for Mum to go into a home anyway. Ideally the money will see her out but I doubt life will do anything that kind. It will be really tough to move her, when the time comes, but I hope she’ll be so away with the fairies by that time that she won’t really realise.

Visiting Mum is getting harder and harder because we are losing so much of her, but that permanent sense of dread in the pit of my stomach about her finances has finally gone after seven months. My resting pulse has dropped a few points, accordingly!

A morning glory (NO! Not that type) in Portugal

It was October by this time and after a nice holiday in Portugal, crap weather but lovely food although I caught some grim bug on the plane out which was a bit of a pisser. Then Mum broke her ankle and ended up in hospital. That was quite a lot more of a pisser but I did see my brother and his family which was lovely and got McMini, who is a hulking great teenager now, together with his similarly aged cousins. And we sorted that out and got her home, as you know from previous posts.

Other ‘Easy wins…’

All the same, after that lot I decided it was time to attempt another ~~easy~~ possible win; Nanowrimo.

Briefly, in case you don’t know, Nanowrimo is an initiative where you attempt to write 50,000 words over the month of November. The idea is that this is the length of a novel and you get to write yourself the first draft of your next book over that month. My novels tend to be more like 80-100k so I haven’t ever written a whole novel … although I did manage to finish one once.

For Nano 2022 I had a list of ‘scenes we’d like to see…’ for the book I’m currently writing so I thought I’d give it a go. Obviously, I can’t do anything on Wednesdays, so I always start a few days down on everyone else, the way they all fell this time; five days down. It’s a hiding to nothing a lot of the time, Nano, but it does usually result in my writing 35k. This year, amazingly, I managed the full 50.

Have I finished the story? Have I bollocks? But I am a lot clearer where it goes now which is a bonus.

Christmas was also easier. We were due to visit my lovely in laws this year and so we visited Mum earlier. She has a machine to help her stand up and the carers showed me how to use it. Mum is doing really well with her rehab and can stand on her own now, although I think the machine still gets used, too. Back then, though, it was machine only. She was way more with it, because she no longer had the UTI and chest infection they discovered when she was in hospital with her broken ankle. I couldn’t believe the huge difference that made. As a result, we had folks coming in to help her to bed and help her get up, more to keep continuity than anything.

In normal times we have a carer in at night but this time I did it. Mum was fine, she woke up early one morning (I didn’t) and McOther told her all was well, and to not worry and relax because the carer would be in soon, which she was. I even got a couple of hours out on the lawn metal detecting and found some reasonably interesting things which, I realise, I have not looked at since. Hmm… I know what I’m going to be doing when I finish writing this then.

Three pictures of a huge glass bottle with a cut glass lid from above, side and with cat for size.

The massive carboy, from different angles, with cat for size reference.

Another highlight of the stay with my in-laws was that we managed to make it to a small antiques shop up there that we always enjoy dropping into. I spent £50 (yeh, I know) on a massive jug like they use to put in the windows of chemists stores. I think the correct word is a carboy. I think it’s probably Regency to mid-Victorian but it might be later. It’s massive, and a bit mad but also awesome! I tried to photograph it just now, by draping the tablecloth from my bookstall over some things to make a neutral background. This interesting new soft thing had been on the carpet for approximately 30 seconds before McCat decided it would be a good place to sit and give his arse a really good bath. He gives you a sense of size though. It’s about two ft tall.

Brighton got drubbed but not as badly as the score looked.

By the 28th December, we’d done all the miles and were able to hunker down here. I spent New Year’s Eve sitting on the sofa watching telly with the McOthers wearing my pyjamas and the lovely fluffy new towelling bathrobe Mum and Dad in-law gave me, which made me feel as if I was in a posh hotel!

Since then things have been relaxed, the only blot being that I’ve run out of the magnesium pills I take. I had not realised what a significant difference they make to the brain fog. Oh lordy me my brain is mush right now. I have a new supply arriving on Monday though. So that’s grand.

Summary of the year then?

Hmm … interesting times. Lows and highs I guess. I’m proud of what bruv and I have achieved and Mum is doing really well with her ankle rehab, which helps. And although she’s way more nuts in some respects, she’s less nuts in others.

One of the noticeable things about dealing with the dementia this time is that I am leaning more and more heavily on escaping into my writing. The last time, with Dad, Mum and I talked. I don’t know how much I helped her or how much she couldn’t say but I just attempted to lighten the load and help her carry it, even if that just meant ringing her up with a shit joke or making her laugh.

This time, no assist of that type is required so instead, I am ~~pretending it’s not happening~~ trying not to concentrate the whole dementia mess unless I absolutely have to, and I’m sneaking off to K’Barth instead. Only for short periods of time but quite a lot more in my head. Yep. More ‘scenes we’d like to see’ there. I also have some non-fiction and other stuff to write, more on that story next time as I intend to do a look back over the year with my writing, too. It probably won’t be next week because I have a newsletter to write and the dreaded thank you letters and a fuck of a lot of peopling to do next week—plus McOther is off to Oxford on a work jolly so I have to squeeze the Mum visit in on Tuesday. But who knows, it might be. Whenever it is, I’ll try and make it a bit shorter than this one.

In truth I’d be lying if I said I’d enjoyed 2022. A lot of it was shite, except for the bit at the end and, for the most part, I’ll be glad to see the back of it. But I’d also be lying if I said it had all been awful. There was light as well as shade.

Also, another upside, I feel curiously proud to have got through it. Pats on the backs all round, I reckon. With the McOther’s and Bruv’s help we’ve sorted out epic amounts of godawful crap. That has to be a win, right?

Happy New Year lovely blog followers … Here’s hoping 2023 is a bit fucking kinder to all of us.

On a vaguely book related note …

16 Comments

Filed under General Wittering

Tagged as an author with children, author blog, dementia, M T McGuire, off topic, trying to be a writer, writer parent, writers, writing

1 Oct 2022 · 12:01 pm

Enjoy yourself …

It sounded as if the Dalek operator inside was laughing as I did this.

OK, it’s a bit of a long one this week because woah! Norcon! What a gas! And I want to give you the low down. Yes, you will remember—if you wade through my outpourings regularly—that last week, through the wonders of modern technology, I was talking to you, in my absence, from Norcon where I was flogging books. Now I’m going to tell you all about it. Oh yes I am.

Why? Because it was brilliant! That’s why, one week on, I still haven’t quite returned to earth.

During the summer, I did St Albans Comicon with some author friends and we had great fun even though it was hot enough to cook meringues by just leaving them outside, and even hotter inside.

This time it was not hot, or at least not inside. I dunno about outside because I didn’t go out there during the day. Hang on, I’ve gone off on a tangent there. Right, yes, back on track now, the same three of us were sharing two tables, plus another lovely East Anglian author who we met at St Albans Comicon: Mark (Book of Souls Saga) Ashby. So half a table each, which worked out just peachy. A few feet round the corner was A E Warren (Tomorrow’s Ancestors Series) another East Anglian author who is a member of the author zoom group of which we are all part.

Norcon bills itself as the most friendly convention and it certainly lived up to its name. The atmosphere was very relaxed which was lucky because we had to get up at insane o’clock in the morning to get there and I am not at my best before seven a.m. Not even after coffee. Julia Blake (Erinsmore, The Forest, Black Ice and many more) and I were sharing a car; her car on day one, my car—which had arrived back from lengthy and convoluted (not to mention expensive) repairs the Friday before—on day two. Because the loading doors closed at 8.30 and we weren’t sure where we were going we decided to leave at six a.m.

As you know people, I have a light dash of IBS. What this means it that certain THINGS have to happen before I leave the house. Thank the heavens above, my body was in a cooperative mood that morning and I was ready for pick up at six. But to achieve that, I still had to be up by FIVE am. Gads! We decided that we would do cosplay too so we were all going to be dressed to match the characters or genre of our books.

Having scratched my head about the number of books I should bring, I decided in the end that I should assume I’d sell double what I sold in one day at St Albans over the two days … but then I got cold feet and in an act of hopeless optimism, I packed all the books into two huge boxes.

‘Blimey! How many books have you brought with you?’ Julia asked me as I heaved them all into her car.

‘Yes!’ I replied.

Us and our stalls

There was a small hiccup was that a large part of the A11 is down to one lane and Google chose to direct us the quickest way which involved Julia navigating her brand new car down single track roads. But something else happened to Google, or maybe I touched the screen of my phone with an unwitting fingertip, but it took us to someone’s house on Church Street, in a small village about ten miles short of our expected destination; the Norfolk Showground.

Oookaaaay …

Luckily, we got there unscathed, although I felt horrendously guilty for putting my friend through the crap in her BRAND NEW CAR (yeek!) or at least, for letting my phone do it.

Paul McGahn, Nigel Planer and Chris Barrie sitting at sci fi convention signing tables

Paul McGann, Nigel Planer and Chris Barrie with members of Norcon Crew

We set out our stalls and I discovered that we were opposite the signing tables — I hadn’t realised this but the others had cunningly planned it because that way we might have a captive audience of people queuing for signings to pitch our books to. The three opposite us were Paul McGann, who was the radio and film Dr Who, Nigel Planer who is the voice of the first 24 (I think it’s 24) Terry Pratchett audiobooks but, more importantly, was Neil in a comedy show called The Young Ones which my friend Kirsty and I watched pretty much on loop as teenagers. Then there was Chris Barrie, who is Rimmer in Red Dwarf. Julian Glover was down at the end somewhere and there were two more folks, stars from StarTrek the New Generation and another from StarWars, I think, in between, but the three opposite us were the ones I genuinely admire; being, as I am, a monster fan of Dr Who, Red Dwarf and The Young Ones.

Chris (Arnold Rimmer) Barrie

The stars were sitting with a Norcon team member each and in most cases they were chatting away and it all seemed very relaxed. Meanwhile we were doing the same thing our side.

As I was banging on about something in the voice of Dr Evil to my neighbouring author—Rachel Churcher (Battleground Series)—and primping and reprimping the books on my stall, I was aware of someone tall in a dark jacket reading the blurbs I’d pinned to the front of the table cloth and taking a picture of me. I looked up and the only person in a dark jacket in our neck of the woods was Nigel Planer, who was wandering back to his table.

‘Did he just …?’ I asked Rachel.

‘Take a photo of you? Yes,’ she replied.

‘Woah. That’s cool.’

So we had a quick squee moment and told the others and then got on with selling our books, photographing each other looking excited and holding books or arsing about, flaunting our costumes—or in my case, trying to prove my books were amusing by Being Funny at people—and generally Being Authors … er hem … probably.

During the gaps in traffic we looked at people’s costumes and took photos which the organised ones shared to instagram and Facebook but I just whatsapped them to the McOthers at home, or we watched the martial arts bunch behind us doing light sabre training with legions of pint-sized Jedi and Sith or photographed passing Daleks, because who’s going to pass up an opportunity to do that?

Meanwhile the signing tables were busy but in the gaps, Mr Planer appeared to be doing exactly the same thing as we were (sensible chap) wandering about with his phone taking pictures and clearly living his best life and enjoying at all. He kept stopping to look at my stall, and me, presumably trying to work out who on God’s green earth I was supposed to be. He was wearing an affable smile or an expression of intelligent enquiry (or both) for most of the time, but above all when he wandered past us, he appeared to be genuinely intrigued by the books I was selling. Which was a bit of a thing. And which threw me completely.

As the day wore on, all the others noticed and they kept teasing me that if Nigel Planer was looking at my stuff, I should go over and sell a book to him. I was just wondering if I could swing that and deciding that no, I very much could not, when I looked up and there he was, standing in front of the stall, like an actual … um … customer.

Shit.

‘Hello,’ I said, although, to be honest, it might have come out as a bit of a squeak.

I think he asked if my books were humorous sci fi to which I said yes and then, before I could stop myself, I sort of blew it. My brain went into overdrive.

You can’t sell him a book! Some of it told me. You have to give him the book.

I know but what if he insists on paying? The rest of me asked it. I can’t take his money. It’s really bad form.

Use a short. Then he’ll only have to pay £3 if he insists and you can accept his money without looking like a charlatan taking advantage.

And so it was that before I could stop myself, while the larger part of my brain was still attempting to compute, I grabbed the nearest short, Close Enough and I blurted.

‘Can I give you a book? Seriously, I would be honoured to, if you wanted one.’

Noooo! What was I doing? Where was the calm sensible, let’s chat about the books, let’s allow the customer to ask me the questions and choose the one they want selling policy that I try, and fail, to pursue with everyone who approaches my stall? Nowhere, that’s where. There’d been some kind of brain coup and sensible, mature Mary was now gagged and tied up in the corner. Gibbering fan girl was firmly at the wheel.

Worse, that was the wrong book! I’d picked a short, which he would be least likely to enjoy, because it would drop him in the middle of everything with minimal world building. But it would have to be a short because they were the cheapest. Except that if it does have to be a short Nothing To See Here is the one to throw them in with. And I didn’t even fucking ask him which one he wanted, poor sod! And if I was going to do that why, in heaven, didn’t I just sell him Escape From B-Movie Hell at cost, since that’s the one which eases the uninitiated into my style gently and I could have charged him a fiver for that without looking like I was grovelling but it would still not be rudely expensive.

Head desk.

On the other hand, he’d seen and heard me selling books all day so he probably had some idea what he was in for. And I didn’t dribble or start quoting vast tracts of The Young Ones at him and my Traffic Warden Clemency Begging Gland didn’t pump two gallons of spit into his face while I was talking to him either, so that was a bonus. Also, it wasn’t nearly as embarrassing as the time I met Dudley Moore (I die a little inside every time I remember that) which, I suppose, was a small win. I guess I was just a bit … starstruck though.

Rolls eyes.

Encore de head desk.

And the others chimed in and I think Julia gave him a book because … share the love!

He did insist on paying and I took his three quid. I also devalued his copy by signing it for him.

Nigel, thank you for being Neil (and Nigel) all the best … I wrote, drew him a picture of a snurd and signed it. In sharpie. God in heaven.

Then he told us he’d written a book which he’s crowd funded on Unbound and that it’s humorous sci fi, a time travel story. So we chatted about that and he had a flyer so I asked if I could keep it and Rachel (Battleground Series) asked for one, too, and he went back and got one for her, as well. Then, clutching mine and Julia(Black Ice, Erinsmore, The Forest and many more …)’s books, our hapless victim returned to his station. He left us bobbing up and down like overexcited pontipines.

Hmm, maybe not so hapless, then, since I’ve bought his book; the deluxe hardback version, signed by the author with my name printed in the back so I think he might have had the last laugh. Then again, he was so friendly and generally affable that how could I not? And it’s comedic sci fi and this is me so that I’ll buy the book is pretty much a given really.

I also apologised to him for being a bit starstruck on twitter and sent him a picture of Extra Special Deadpool man (I’ll come to that) and told him I’d bought the book. He dutifully liked the picture said he hoped I enjoy it.

Back to Norcon.

A bit later on, I was suffering with raging guilt over 1, taking money off actual Nigel Planer for my crappy book and, 2, giving him a book he’d probably loathe so I thought I’d better go and buy a photo. Then Amy (AE Warren; Tomorrow’s Ancestors Series) said I should try and get a selfie except there was a sign over each person saying what they’d do and how much for and Mr P’s said no selfies. Amy reckoned he was quite louche about that though and assured me that she’d seen him doing selfies with other people.

So I took my courage in both hands, waited for a quiet moment and went over to him.

‘Since you’ve been kind enough to buy my book, the least I should do is return the compliment. How much would you charge me for a selfie?’ I asked him, pretending that I was either terribly myopic or too stupid to have read the sign. Well, I wear spectacles and he’d already spoken to my by this time so I reckoned I could swing it.

‘I’m not really supposed to do them but I doubt anyone will find out if we go over there,’ he said cheerfully, waving his hand in the general direction of my book stall opposite.

‘Oh! Thank you, very much,’ I said.

He wandered over and positioned himself in front of the banner but also a bit to the side, you know, so people looking at the photo could read it. I trotted over in his wake.

‘There we are!’ he said as I stood beside him. ‘You can just pretend you are taking a photograph of something over there,’ he told me, pointing in the general direction of Chris Barrie. There was definitely a slightly gleeful vibe coming from him at this point, as if he was feeling the joy of doing some small piece of rebellion that’s Naughty and that he Wasn’t Meant To. That, of course, is something I can always get on board with. I was just about to start a light hearted sort of, ‘Oh look at that over there!’ in a suitably wooden comedy voice and hold up my phone when, bless her, up popped Rachel.

‘Shall I take the photo?’ she asked.

Brilliant. So I handed her the phone and he put his arm round me and we grinned at the camera. Rachel wisely took two photos, both of which are fabulous; like, really decent shots both of him and me, which might be natural for him but trust me, for me, it’s something approaching a miracle.

Woah.

What was lovely was that it came over as totally genuine interest in another professional, which from one so stratospherically elevated from us made all four of us feel good. Mwahahahargh! I guess that’s the power of fame but it’s amazing how such a simple kindness from someone who has that power can make another person’s day. If I ever make it off the bottom, I hope that I, too, will show the same generosity of spirit and encouragement to the people coming up behind me.

Where could I go from there? Well, on the Sunday, things did feel a bit flat at first but then I looked at the costumes and on the up side, I did get a belly laugh out of Chris Barrie by asking him, in the voice of the Toaster from Red Dwarf whether he wanted some toast. And obviously, I went and shook hands with Paul McGann as well because … you know. He’s The Doctor. And Terry Malloy, who played Davros quite a lot in Dr Who (one of my favourite villains) at a time when I avidly watched the programme every Saturday night.

Another delight was watching the Dalek operators. There was an impressive selection of Daleks; from the 1960s and 70s ones I remembered as a kid, to the copper-coloured David Tennant era ones. They were fenced off in an area close to us. The fellow in charge had brought his parents, who were in their 80s and absolutely sweet and would sit in deck chairs each day happily watching the action, or wander the hall, hand-in-hand, looking at all the other exhibits.

And then we heard the martial arts folks giggling and saying that ‘he’ was here so we asked them who ‘he’ was and they said,

‘Oh you’ll know.’

Sure enough, when this gentleman turned up I suspect we did. Yes. Dead pool. With a euphonium. Mwahahahargh!

Awesome.

He followed the people in particularly excellent costumes about playing their themes or the theme from their film. I asked him if his instrument was heavy and he told me that yes, it’s hard on the core strength. Apparently he has to wear a back brace to help with that.

I particularly like the way he’s wearing the trumpet like a side arm. I didn’t see him play it but I should imagine it would be too difficult to get to when the euphonium is in position and you’d need some extra arms to hold the euphonium while you used your main set of arms to play the trumpet.

On a final note, it was one of the safest spaces I’ve seen for a while. There’s a whole other level to cosplay. Nobody cares if you’re 20 stones and want to dress as Wonder Woman, nobody cares if you’re a he, a she, a they or a ze. Nobody cares if you’re a biological bloke but you feel more comfortable, and more yourself, in a dress. I should imagine there are a lot of folks who might be on the end of some serious prejudice in Real Life, who can come to a con and be who they really are. Not only be who they are but be applauded for it. I’d imagine that’s pretty freeing. I loved how open and accepting it was.

Yeh.

It was golden. All of it.

How many books did I sell?

Hardly any. In fact, sales were pretty dismal. I sold exactly half the number of books I sold at St Albans in one day, over two days at Norcon.

But fuck me! I sold one of them to Nigel Planer! Mwahahahrgh!

Will he read it? Who knows, but that’s not the point. He bought one. And I hope I haven’t got him into trouble posting the selfie. Sorry, Nigel, if I have and you’re reading this*.

* Well, you never know right?

And I managed to get a guffaw out of Chris Barrie. In fact lots of people actually laughed at my crap jokes, which made my day. Both days; because the principal aim when I do these things is to meet people, be funny at them so they think my books must be funny too and buy one, oh and have a gas, because then the books sell themselves. And anyway, without laughter what do you have? Well … no fun, that’s for certain.

I came home feeling the same way I used to after a really good gig in my very, very brief flirtation with stand-up. To be honest, I was so high I still haven’t quite come down.

Not a commercial success then, but will I go back next year? You bet your arse I will.

And finally … last chance to grab 12 hours of audiophonic joy for 99p (or 99c)

Yes. If you like cheap audio books, Few Are Chosen is on sale until Monday. After that the price goes up again.

As always, I’m cutting my own throat here.

It’s 99c on Apple, Kobo and my own website. For anyone in the States, it’s also 99c on Barnes & Noble and Chirp (which is USA and Canada).

If you want to grab it while it’s mega cheap you can find store links and a bit more info here

Oh and one more thing …

Here’s a little bit of Nigel Planer in action as Neil …

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Tagged as book marketing, book sales, cheap quality books, cosplay, Events, Events and signings, humour, I fucked this up so you don't have to, istuffedthisupsoyoudon’thaveto, K’barthan audio, M T M Makes a complete tit of herself, mtmcguire, norcon, quality books cheap, The Pan of Hamgee, women in sci-fi

24 Sep 2022 · 12:12 pm

Compassion … so fucking underrated

A picture of the queen This week I was going to write about The Queen, I may not have time to do it justice because I am going to have to write today’s blog post yesterday and speak to you from the past. That means I only have half an hour or so before I’m due to take McMini off to a club. Then, since he’s already eaten I have to come home and eat, then shower and then McOther will be picking him up. Tomorrow, or at least, today as you read this—Crikey! This is complicated isn’t it?—I’m off at 6.30 am to Norcon; and on Sunday too.

The Queen was a reluctant monarch. She prayed that she’d have a brother so she didn’t have to be queen—at that time, a boy took precedence over a girl even if he was younger. She also prayed that her father wouldn’t have to be king because she understood, correctly, that it would do for him in the end. Then she went on to do this thing she didn’t want to do for 70 years. That’s … seriously impressive.

Managing my parents’ finances and watching them gradually losing their sanity is probably a perfect storm of everything at which I am shit. Seriously, if God had set out to give me everything I find difficult he couldn’t have done a better job. It’s all maths and being organised and remembering to do staff, remembering to phone at certain times, sitting for hours on hold, patience, and numbers; a side of my personality which is seriously lacking and an aspect of my intelligence that is entirely absent. If my other brain was like my numbers brain, I’d be living in sheltered accomodation for people with learning difficulties. I’m great in a crisis and so naturally I am given a long-term millstone; a grinding expanse of interminable twilight grey that stretches as far as I can see. I’m one for the sprint, so I have been given the marathon. I can’t bear watching people suffer and so I must. For years.

Thanks for that, God. Thanks a fucking bunch.

Then, of course, I look at The Queen who stuck at it for 70 years, and I’m complaining about seven. Maybe I should rethink my weapons-grade whining levels then. Although not here, because, clearly that’s what this is for. I watched all of the State Funeral, and I enjoyed it too. Oh I know all the miserable republicans will be saying that the money shouldn’t have been spent on the funeral but frankly, I would consider a national event like that more valuable than the pathetic drop in the ocean of public funds the money it cost would entail. Clearly, I lack the miserable protestant fun-sapping outlook to think The Moral Way. President Johnson? In his dreams but thankfully, not our reality. It’s worth the expense for that, alone. I believe it’s actually quite important to have someone in power who doesn’t want to be there. King George VI was a reluctant monarch, Queen Elizabeth II was a reluctant monarch and I suspect Charles III is equally reluctant.

Good.

Sorry Chas but at the same time, I feel your pain.

I suppose it’s hard to see past the luxury but to me, guilded or not, a cage is still a cage. I wouldn’t fancy it myself. Oh yeh, money makes things easier, C.F. my present predicament dealing with the whole Mum Thing, and money can contribute to happiness, but it doesn’t make you happy on its own. Something inside you has to do that.

Having lived in a very small community where everyone knew who I was, even though I didn’t know them, and where everyone felt as if they knew me, and treated me like a long lost friend (lovely in many respects but sometimes difficult) I can imagine what being Royal is like. I lived in a place where everyone expected me to know them the way they felt they knew me, even if we hadn’t actually met before (still touching but also extremely scary) I can tell you that, even from direct experience in a very, very small arena, this kind of notoriety is significantly less fun than people think. If there was no escape? Ugh.

Royals have lots of stuff but only two weeks a year in which to enjoy it. As non royals, the rest of us Brits get four. It’s easy to forget that people with money, or kept by the state, are still human beings like us at the bottom of it all.

Personally, I feel that the debate about costs is disingenuous; a blind to cover the real issue, which is that some nod to a sense of social justice among those in Parliament would be very helpful right now and seems to be distinctly lacking.

Yes. In all walks of life it seems we are still raging at the most vulnerable in pissy, small-minded anger and egging our government on to even greater heights of petty vindictiveness towards the have nots, while it does the metaphorical equivalent of trying to chisel off a fifty pence that’s been superglued to the pavement as a joke while they ignore the huge suitcase of money behind them in the form of corporate tax ~~dodging~~ efficiency. You know, the stuff over and above the 1% companies like Google and Starbucks pay that they’re supposed to be paying.

Also, excuse me but why the fuck are they using my tax money to cap fuel payments? The fuel companies are posting record profits while the vulnerable and poor are choosing between eating or heating. Who should be paying for this crisis? I’d humbly suggest the fuel and energy companies whose corporate greed caused it.

Here’s another example; supermarket petrol. Supermarkets use your loyalty card and credit card transactions as anonymous data to track which products sell best where. They give people a rating based on income, A through to C and possibly D, I don’t recall (it’s a while since I’ve done this kind of marketing). Then they split each group into numbered bands, A1 the richest, A2 less rich, A3 still loaded but not as rich, B1 well-off professionals, etc through to C3 … possibly D3 I have neither the time nor the inclination to look it up for this, a very generalist passing point.

The supermarkets use this information to look at who buys what, where and then provide more of those products in the places where they sell withdrawing unsuitable products for the market demographic in that particular place. There’s no point having shelves groaning with caviar and truffles in a place where most people take home about £20k a year. They can’t afford it.

However, they also use this information to set prices. In areas where they perceive the population as less well off, they will sell the same staple, petrol for example, at a lower price than they will in another area where the population contains a higher number of B and A level purchasers who can afford to pay more.

This is how petrol costs more at Tesco’s in Bury St Edmunds—£1.69 a litre as I write this—than BP petrol does at my Mum’s in Sussex—£1.67 a litre. It’s also why Tesco’s charges £1.59 a litre for its petrol 15 minutes down the A14 in Newmarket. More C-level purchasers in Newmarket Tesco’s, clearly, or perhaps there’s a local garage round there that they’re trying to drive out of business.

Yes, I suppose it depends how you look at this. A Bury resident, might see them as pitiless, profiteering bastards hiking up prices in specific areas, where a Newmarket resident might seen them as kindly benevolent people cutting the prices in an area where people can afford less. They might see it as folks of my ilk, in Bury, who the database classes as better off subsidising those less fortunate than ourselves. If only that’s what it was but I’m afraid it’s a simple case of their being profiteering bastards. They’re not going to sell anything for less than the biggest margin possible and where they can, they’ll carve out an even bigger one … like the energy companies and every other company that gets so big it loses sight of it’s actual customers, the point of its existance, in its bid to grow even bigger, lock people’s spending in with it and no-one else, serve shareholders a nice fat dividend etc.

Frankly, the older I get, the more of a raving pinko leftie I become. I cannot believe we are going to have a recession caused by the corporate greed of our energy providers. There might be a fuel crisis, I dunno, but they don’t seem to have had much trouble providing power and fuel so far. Any shortages have been about logistics rather than scarecity; people panic buying and the stores running out.

How I wish we could re-nationalise the whole bloody lot. Properly. Sure, keep the government at arm’s length and run it as a business but as a not-for-profit or simply a company that is accountable to it’s customers first—the nation in this case—rather than its board or its shareholders.

Maybe it’s just the way I’m feeling at the moment but I’m angry and bitter and everything feels grey.

Indeed, I had a major melt down at the boys the other morning before leaving for Sussex to see Mum in hospital. This was partly because the vertigo was truly appalling. The worst thing was that I woke up feeling fine, but then, as I raised the glass to finish the rest of a pint of water, it suddenly kicked in. The boys laughed and I just lost it completely. I nearly cried as I ranted at them. Not about the vertigo, but just about how I just couldn’t keep a lid on my grief, and how awful I felt about having to hurt my lovely Mum and make her miserable because of the institutional prejudice the State, and the NHS, displays against people with dementia. Because we are going to run out of money. And we will have to sell the house for her care. And every time I think about it my stomach ties itself into a veritable Gordian knot which no amount of breathing exercises and sundry attempts to relax will undo. I think I got so melodramatic that I actually said I wanted to die, and right there, in the moment, I probably almost did. Jeez it’s a fucking hard row looking after dementia people and the NHS and government seem to go out of their way to make it as hard as possible.

Putting the vertigo on top of that was the last straw, I guess. It was a right royal pain in the arse on a Wednesday, too. I was so giddy that accelerating was giving me the spins. I have perked up a great deal since then. But seriously, why no compassion? Why no mercy. Why make it as hard as possible for people to endure one of the most horrific illnesses out there. Oh yeh, because it takes a long time and so it’s expensive. Seriously though, dementia care in the UK needs an overhaul. Fast. And something approaching compassion or empathy in our lords and masters would be a good place to start.

So what is compassion? Well I saw some in hospital the other day; the most gloriously surreal moment but also lovely. An example of someone with dementia being treated, not as a thing, but as a debilitated human, who was worth something. Treated with understanding, compassion and kindness.

While I was sitting with Mum she told me she needed a poo, which involves several staff and a bed pan so I went and got the nurse who told me I should make a sharp exit and sit in the waiting area. There was a little old dear there, who’d been there for some time. She was very thin, with straggly hair and she was cradling a handbag in her lap. I had clocked that she might have dementia because of the handbag and the fact there was often a nurse or carer with her. I sat down and all was quiet for a while until she spoke.

‘You’d better watch your bag round here,’ she warned me.

‘Oh. Thanks. Right. Yes, I will,’ I replied, lifting my bag from the floor and putting it on my lap the same way she had hers. We sat in silence for a moment or two and then she said.

‘Has my friend gone home?’

I guessed she might be making sense of her situation by connecting it with a comparable experience from her past, which is what people with dementia are doing when they have those back-in-time moments apparently. It’s important to say the right thing so they are guided towards a make-sense-of-this memory moment where they are reassured rather than agitated so I answered with a certain amount of caution,

‘I’m very sorry but I don’t know.’

‘Oh. Only she said to wait for her but I think she’s gone without me.’

‘Oh. That’s a shame if she has,’ I said still treading water a bit, ‘I haven’t been here before, though so I wouldn’t know for certain.’

‘She was making up to some bloke, I think she’s gone home with him and left me here on my own.’

‘Oh dear. Would you like me to ask one of the others?’ I asked, looking helplessly over towards the ward desk where the nurses and clerk were in discussion about something. ‘They might know,’ I told her.

‘She said to—’ she began, at which point a nurse walked past. ‘Big boobs and a fat arse, that one,’ she said and then reverted to topic without missing a beat. ‘She said to wait for me but I haven’t seen her for some time,’ then she smiled and said. ‘I’ve not seen you here before.’

‘No, this is my first visit,’ I squeaked, trying not to laugh at her previous comment. Lucky I was wearing a mask.

At this point one of the admin or at least a plain clothes staff, she might have been a consultant I guess, came over and with a smile at me and the lady I was talking to she sat down on a chair the other side of her from me.

‘Hello Edna,’ she said.

‘Hello,’ said the little old dear, or Edna, as I now knew she was called. The newly arrived lady smiled over at me and I tried to smile back in as crinkly an eyed manner as possible so she realised that, behind the mask, I was smiling back and grateful to her for being kind to a dementia sufferer. Edna continued, ‘Has my friend gone?’

‘Yes Edna, she has,’ said the staff lady gently.

‘Oh,’ Edna’s face crumpled a bit. ‘She said she’d wait for me. What will I do now? How will I get home?’

‘Well, maybe you could go back to your room for a little while?’ asked the staff lady. She was so gentle and so sweet with the old lady that I almost wanted to cry (and I definitely wanted to hug her) because … Dad. And Mum but especially Dad because Mum isn’t as far gone as Edna was yet.

‘Should I? What if she hasn’t gone, I don’t want to miss her.’

‘No, I understand. Aren’t you tired, though, Edna?’

‘Yes, I am, very but I think I should wait for my friend.’

‘Why don’t you go back to your bed and wait there, then? You can have a little sleep.’

Clearly the idea of a sleep was very tempting but Edna’s reply sounded hesitant. ‘I don’t know if I should …’

‘Aren’t you tired?’

‘Yes I am.’

‘Why don’t you go back to your bed and have a sleep then? You won’t get lost. I’ll go with you and then, if she comes back, I can come and find you.’

And so they set off, ward lady taking Edna’s arm, shuffling slowly up the corridor, then back, into one of the ward bays and out again … at which point Mum had had her poo, the curtains round her bed were opened again and I was ushered back. I never found out if they got Edna back to bed. When I left the two of them were still shuffling slowly up and down the corridor, looking for Edna’s friend. The staff on that ward were lovely. Nothing was too much trouble and so many of the patients had dementia. Bearing in mind this was a ward to treat infections, the added load wasn’t what any of the staff would have signed up for.

We need more of this. We need compassion, and love and kindness. And I don’t know where it’s gone but we need it back. Maybe if everyone reading this tries to go out of their way to do one kind thing this week. One random act of kindness, it would be a start. Feel free to give it a try if you like. No obligation though.

And now … I must fly because tomorrow I have a six am start. Eeek!

Yep, tomorrow is Norcon. If you are interested, I will be at the Norfolk Showground which is on the outskirts of the city of Norwich, Norfolk, UK, tomorrow and the next day. I will be there, flogging my books to the unsuspecting public and devaluing them by signing them. Except it will be today and tomorrow by the time you read this because … scheduling techology. 🙂

If you want to know more or would like to come along, you can find more information here:

https://www.nor-con.co.uk/

On a completely different note …

Here’s some good news if you like cheap audio books!

Once again, I’m cutting my own throat and having a sale. Kobo is doing a buy more save more deal on audiobooks this September and the K’Barthan Series, as well as Too Good To Be True, are in it. As a result, to make it more exciting, I’ve reduced the first book in the series to 99c on Apple, Kobo (of course) and my own website. For anyone in the States, it’s also 99c on Barnes & Noble and Chirp (which is USA and Canada). So if you want to grab it while it’s mega cheap you can find store links and a bit more info here

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Tagged as author blog, author interviews, comedy fantasy fiction, dementia, Events and signings, K'Barth, M T McGuire, off topic, trying to be a writer, women in sci-fi, women writers, writers