They are put here for a purpose. We English are, to borrow from Poo Bah in The Mikado, ‘born sneering’. Especially members of our Establishment. They can burn the paint off a door with a haughty look. I once saw an English DSS Inspector halt a furious, out of control complainee in Bromley dole office with a withering, raised eyebrow.

I have worked with lots of Aussies. Newspaper offices are full of them. Have you ever tried English pomposity with an Australian? Just as your high horse is pawing the sky on hind legs, reaching its zenith they laugh. Or worse, blow a raspberry or fart Waltzing Matilda.

Most deflating.

Their purpose here is to be a drag anchor when the English get all hoity toity. (I love that. Always wanted to use it. I mean..where on earth did it come from? Hoity toity?)

This role of English pomp pricking should be for Americans. The original 'money alone is status' race. But Yanks are so in awe of our class system. They can’t do it.

So we have Australians. And not just Rupert Murdoch, the Aussie ubermeister of them all. I mean the line Aussies you meet in a pub. When you start in with your top line, “of course, my aunt Emilia knew Queen Victoria,” little marsupial flaps come down over their ears. They drift off-message with chants about Ricky Ponting, whoever he is.

(I know who he is..I’m trying to be pompous.)

Except when it comes to cricket.

One mention of the ashes and they turn all English. Have you noticed? They actually get pompous. They are so sure of themselves they lord it over us like English aristocrats.

And that’s the problem. When it comes to cricket they ARE aristocrats.

Ps. You think you can swim until you swim with an Australian. They are like dolphins.

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This Lilly is a long-boned woman with legs like skewers and empty breasts lying on the furrows of ribs. Her smile comes from an old heart, strong beyond reason. She smiles at laughing visitors who kiss, kiss, kiss, planting babies in her lap and presents on the bed. She tells them that she’s had lunch, but the menu escapes her; food appears like magic - chicken is fish, porridge is soup and everything is beautiful.

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a few pics...

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All in all, I am feeling a whole lot better about a whole lot of things. The second book is almost ready, the local interest book is coming together and the poetry is slowly but surely making a come-back.

Amazing the effect a bit of decent weather has on one's libido. 10CC were right when they sang about Mr Blue Sky - Hey there, Mr Blue, we're so pleased to be with you, look around see what you do, everybody smiles at you.


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A novel way of delivering a few writing pointers.....

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Ooooh, it’s great to get back to normal; I’ve had visitors for the weekend so that means no TV and not much of the horizontal on my sofa – quite the opposite in fact. There were FOUR days of walking, tramping around and now I’m knackered. How lovely is today? Today has been all horizontal in front of the goggle-box; it was raining all morning anyway so not the kind of day to stretch legs or anything physical.



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I must say it was sometimes touch and go whether I made it on time to my Frith Street Chinese class in the past if I forgot to allow for queueing time at the check-out. Then, after a very short period of closure the branch re-opened complete with three excellent self-service machines.


They're a lot more efficient than the supermarket ones, where you have to call an assistant every time you scan a bottle of alcohol or try to remove a full plastic bag from the dispenser or do any one of a dozen actions they don't like. At the library you simply place your pile of books inside a box-shaped space, push a button, put your library card into a slot and get a receipt for whatever you've returned or borrowed. Magic!

At least, I now suspect a supernatural agency is involved.


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Obsessive Compulsive

Alcoholic

Exercise-obsessed

Neat/Clean Freak

Gambler

Nicotine/Caffeine addict

Workaholic

Bulimic/Anorexic

Shopoholic

Do you recognize yourself from this list? Don’t be shy, as a writer you are in good company. Tennesse Williams, Dylan Thomas, Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Capote were all alcoholics. Honore de Balza drank up to fifty coffees a day and poet Vachel Lindsay was obsessed with cleanliness. Dostoevsky at one time gambled badly and Syliva Plath had an eating disorder. And when I first surfed writing forums on the internet, it tickled me how many authors were fellow obsessive compulsives.


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After breakfast this morning, which was, for me, terribly early, (8.30... please don't laugh) I went for a wander at the bottom of the garden, asking my main character what she might do next. I've written two and a bit short stories about her, but if this is going to be something more - a linked collection? - I enjoy following her around but don't really know what the "bigger picture" is..............

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I am going to be on the radio this evening. I’m on WriteOn, a chatshow hosted by Rob Richardson on Express FM. The programme starts at 7pm and you can listen online by going to their website.

Unfortunately they don’t have a ‘listen again’ option so if you miss it, well… I expect you’ll survive.

What is really brilliant is that I am not nervous about it, because it was pre-recorded. I did the interview last Wednesday, while in the early stages of something that might yet prove to be swine flu, so although I have subsequently been feeling rather ill, there is at least the possibility that I sound more Mariella-like than usual.

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