Mother of the Bride (3)

I have my fascinator. It looks like a mid-air collision between a blackbird and an Asian Paradise-flycatcher. We went out early, The Bride and me and after breakfast at Mbriki, we wandered along the Leicester Lanes in early spring sunshine and found Impeys, an MotB shop that really belongs in a 'heritage' theme park. There, a very elderly assistant sold me a very expensive fascinator, writing out a paper 'chit' as the receipt.
I haven't heard much about the Hen Night but I understand there was a moment involving masks of Kate and Wills, a toilet and a camera, which was probably treasonous.
My friend and I stayed on in the restaurant, drinking more wine and coffee and having refused a pudding, eating the chocolate hearts I had brought for the table. Despite my fears, the staff were relaxed and good-humoured and the food was brilliant.
The 'old' for The Bride was a white heather favour from my own wedding, the 'new' some wedding tights (yes, such things do exist), the 'blue' a new pair of knickers and the 'borrowed' my diamond earrings made from a ring that originally belonged to my grandmother. When my grandparents lived in India before partition, the myth is that my grandfather bought the diamond one night from a merchant who appeared at the back door with several uncut diamonds wrapped in a dirty rag.
For the two of us left behind, it was a new experience to wander through the town late at night, looking for a taxi. It was so busy, so loud, so crowded and everyone was SO drunk. We decided to do it again; maybe find a champagne bar playing good jazz and pass the whole evening watching. Beats Saturday night TV any day.
I didn't hear The Bride come in but the next day the house was Very Quiet. The words 'never again' were overheard.

This Writing Thing (4): The Cuckoo

The editing has begun and I'm already into avoidance. Maybe this is how I behave in all relationships, enjoying the early thrill but not willing to put in the slog to shape something lasting. Now, there's a thought!
I have a day off and so far I've put my car in for a service, had coffee and read the Times in Cafe Mbriki, sorted the laundry and had a conversation with the Inland Revenue. I've also had a lie down, when the editing seemed too taxing.
It isn't pleasant re-visiting these early chapters. A big hurdle is that they seem only half written. Essentially, they are too short. So I'm having to do a fair bit of new writing. The next problem is character drift. By the end of the novel, the characters have changed (well they've been through such a lot) but in the early chapters I don't recognise them. They don't sound the same or behave as they should.
Another problem, caused by plot development as the novel progressed, is in the early chapters the characters appear strangely innocent of essential knowledge. I believe this novel was improved by the plot change that occurred half way through but I'm suffering for it now.
I may get three chapters off to an agent by next weekend but it's looking less likely.

Stroke Diary (13): Almost There

Monday 30th. August:
Are you sure you're ready to go back to work? I'm often asked this question but it's a hard one to answer. How would I know? Some days this week, my last week of sick leave before my planned return to work, I'm almost 'back to normal' on the outside. Inside, I still have a 'thick head', an experience I was frequently promised by my teachers in Scotland but until now I've been lucky enough to avoid.
On Wednesday morning I go to two libraries, searching unsuccessfully for the books I need for the next book group meeting. I visit Costa for a coffee and then a friend calls in for lunch.
On Friday morning I manage the city centre for the first time since the stroke. I park in John Lewis, walk to an appointment in Hotel Street, have a coffee and finish with a small wander in the Highcross shopping centre. And another friend comes for lunch.
I reason that if my mornings can be as busy as this, then I can manage a morning at work. But other days are different. I now seem to have a built-in monitor for 'over-doing it' when tiredness and headache get the better of me. On Saturday, I do almost nothing and it feels like one of the first days after my discharge from hospital. At night I'm still troubled by pains in the back of my head and I'm still munching paracetemol through the day. I do want to go back to work. The longer I'm away the more daunting it seems and I need several weeks to prepare a handover before I leave. I'll let the G.P have the final say next Monday.
I love Autumn. I like the clothes and the weather is often calm and mellow with just a small bite in the early mornings to let you know that winter's on its way. We have a beautiful early autumn week and teacher friends are beside themselves with rage at being back at work after the unfairness of our dark, sodden August. I take walks along the towpath, each time venturing further out past the mellow red brick of the Victorian canal bridges, noticing spiders' webs caught in the low sunshine and the leaves just turning into their ancient tapestry colours. Twice this week I walk with a friend to the Kings Lock Tea Room, only accessible from the towpath and have coffee in the garden that overlooks the water meadows. The wasps are a problem but we let them have some jam and they leave us alone. Somehow, the distant view of the sheds of Fosse Park, an out of town shopping centre and the dominance of the pylons shouldering Leicester's power into the city, makes this unexpected oasis seem even more remote.
In town I revel in the quiet of Leicester's back lanes, bathed in early morning sunshine, the children back at school and their parents still too exhausted to venture out. I'm the only customer in Cafe Mbriki and spend a relaxed forty five minutes with my coffee and a newspaper. Since the stroke, I've been reading a daily newspaper and many magazines and I've become aware of how many articles in the review sections are about the same people or event, with almost the same content. These are always linked to a book or a television programme. Clearly, publicists are doing a good job.
I manage to get a copy of J.G Ballards's Empire of the Sun, which we're reading for book group along with his second novel, The Drowned World. I find that one of the best things about being in a book group is having to read novels outside my circle of preferred authors. I'm only on page 77 but I'm not keen on his style. Because it's his own story, it has the reported feel of a diary with too much detail that would be of interest to a small boy but with an overlay of adult interpretation and awareness. I will persist, however as I'm forming ideas about the impact of war on the next generation, with reference to my own peer group, the much-criticised 'having it all' Baby Boomers.
So far I've made a good recovery due to normal healing processes but now I need to work specifically on my balance. It is much better, but I still have 'whoops' moments when I stand up suddenly or stop in mid-track. Thanks to a friend's generosity, I now have a gym ball to balance on while watching T.V. I'll report on progress.
I haven't managed to make a start back with my own novel and I wonder what that's about? Maybe next week, when I'm at work, motivation will kick back in. It's ridiculous but I feel too busy. My days are taken up with walks and visits, a sleep in the afternoon, some cooking and any old rubbish on T.V. (usually involving reconstruction of some sort: houses, faces, bodies). And this blog! Something will have to go.

Coffee Shop Etiquette (2)

To continue the theme...what's the correct way to ask for the coffee? Do you pronounce the words like macchiato, talle or massimo correctly to show off that you're a well-travelled and educated person or do you act like a little Englander and huffily ask for 'small, medium, large.' Or here in Leicester, should we ask for our coffee in a 'Lestah' accent... 'that's a grandeh for me' ... even if we're in Costa or Starbucks. In Marks and Spencer they helpfully line up the cup sizes for those of us who can't read the menus on the wall, so pointing is quite acceptable (well done to M&S for the little biscuits and sensible cup sizes).
Coffee in buckets is definitely not European. In Spain and Italy cappuccino is served in an ordinary cup and always with chilled water. The first coffee shop in Leicester to serve real European coffee will become a regular with me. So far, Cafe Mbriki makes the best coffee. In too many places the coffee is burnt.When did sixth formers become 'baristas'?
Here's a tip for Starbucks. You can ask for a spoon. Those wooden sticks bring back memories of 1950's ice lollies. It's horrible the way your tongue sticks to the wood. As an experience it's up there with scraping nails down a (1950's) blackboard.Why would anyone subject their customers to this?