‘I am not at all in a humour for writing; I must write on till I am.’ Jane Austen
2025 – and I’m frozen!! Oh, my goodness, this isn’t fun. I used to think I would always prefer to be too cold rather than too hot, be that it’s all in the layers, but I retract that. This is in my bones! My fingers, my toes, my nose. Help! Wasabi … Electric blanket, save me! Don’t worry, only another six months of this until summer, and the rain sets in. Positivity, don’t you just love it! Seeps from every pore. The answer/cure? I should have married a vet! Now, that would be a good title for a book …
Coming soon, I promise! Have I finished it? Not quite but almost. However, all the necessary bits are ready to go out to carefully selected, prospective agents. It is scary, though, setting oneself up for, potentially – very likely? – a fall; criticism, at the very least, of something so personal. Memoir. The genre which spills one’s heart. Nothing, if not personal. However, one’s voice is key; to write with a voice which connects … What do I know? Only that, when I pick up a book, I can hear the author’s voice – or not – within the first three lines. It’s immediate. Does make something of a mockery of ghost writers. A personal bugbear of mine as the market for ‘celebrity’ books grows ever greater. I don’t agree with it. If a book is going to take your name, write it yourself! Granted, there are those who, happily, hold their hand up. The others? How often I wish Graham Norton, or whoever, would ask him/her about the process. All these actors or presenters who, suddenly – supposedly – find their muse, churning out novel after novel, or the inevitable series of children’s books. Was it Rylan who, candidly, said he hadn’t read his book yet? Does Anton Du Beke actually write his novels? Michael Ball, his? Actually, sit down at a computer and write? David Walliams and his prolific children’s books which have made him millions?! Just jealous. It seems all one needs is a name – for anything – in this material world. Talent is obsolete. Books are an odd one, though. Let’s face it, the majority never lift their gaze from their phones. Read? They can’t write, let alone read. Maybe they just look at the pictures … Then, what do they do with said book? In all these zoom calls from home during Covid, how many bookcases did you see? No pictures, either. Who lives in a house like this? No idea. Cloned, could be anyone. Am I missing something? If I said sedation – courtesy of the dentist! – never worked on me, either …
I Should Have Married a Vet! So many times, I have thought about changing the title of my book but, for some reason, it never fails to make people smile. Suppose it is comic. Borne of a flippant aside to a friend, only the other day did I realise the merit of my words when I learned that a local vet charged £400 for a consultation on New Year’s Day! Four hundred pounds! What? Your beloved dog is sick or injured and the caring vet charges you that? I thought vets liked animals? Mere cash cows. That’s jealousy and now cynicism. Should I/could I have married a vet? For the beautiful old house in the country, filled with books and adorned with photographs and paintings, the tree-lined driveway awash with daffodils in the spring – Oh, and my Wrangler at the front door – I could be persuaded to zip it! Does everyone have a price?
Changing the subject completely, for years – as a vegetarian – I have mourned the demise of scampi and chips as a meal of choice in a pub. What happened? Scampi in a basket? Imagine my joy, then – just before Christmas – to see it being served in the Greyfriars Inn. Not a natural haunt for me, ever, I admit to being pleasantly surprised and that was before the discovery of scampi! Cut to the chase, back we went the other day and it was gone from the menu. Seriously? Of course, I questioned the bar staff, who seemed flustered for some reason. How could anybody care so much about scampi? How could anyone engage in so many words on the subject? Hello! I could. The explanation given? There has been an overhaul of the menu in a bid (not verbatim) to make it more classy! Of course. We’re talking about scampi. Seventies. Old hat. Most wouldn’t know what it is, now, let alone spell it! Perhaps the sooner I accept that the world, as I once knew it, has been turned totally upside down, the better. Class now comes in a chicken korma or a sausage roll from Greggs. Apparently, Alexa says so, therefore it must be true …
So far, so good. Nothing too controversial. Nothing too miserable. Bit of humour thrown in for good measure. Positively tame. Continuing, I have written down, here: what advice would you give to your eighteen-year-old self? One of the topics for discussion on Jeremy Vine recently, it did make me think – a lot. People were phoning in with all sorts of answers, some funny. One woman suggested she would say to her younger self, “When you see that altar, run!’. Ah, pertaining to a common affliction! Me? Where to start? I would tell my eighteen-year-old self that I had incredible foresight: staying forever young would definitely be preferable for it’s going to be a bumpy ride! Bottle that happy childhood and that innocence, for life can be cruel; people can be cruel. Whatever happens, stay strong. Be honest, be yourself and always treat others the way you, yourself, wish to be treated. Never follow the crowd! Believe in yourself. Be someone you like, your armour against the rest of the world … Don’t covet money – and stay clear of the shallow who do. Instead, do something you love. Don’t worry about the future. Life is fragile. Time is short. It cannot be rewound. Spend it with those you love. Live each day as it comes and make memories to store. The most important piece of advice, though? Never, ever lose your sense of humour! Search for laughter, even in the darkest of moments, for it is the greatest medicine of all. Pop taught me that. He also led me to believe that it would all fall into place!
There you have it. To be honest, it’s nothing I didn’t already know at eighteen. I think I’ve always known what’s important. I think I’ve been here before, quite frankly! Furthermore, I think, also – reading back over my advice – that my future lies in country music; writing good, wholesome, country songs embedded in misery … and, once again, all things lead me back to Montana, cowboys, mountains, horses and baked beans! Pop also told me, there is a plan for every man …
Apologies. I have not read over this – scared to, understandably!
‘Be yourself; everyone else is taken.’ Oscar Wilde
This is Trish, signing off.
