Novel-writing and wildflowers

It’s over a month since I posted here and I wanted to explain why. You may not have noticed my absence, but I feel bad leaving without a word.

The reason I've been silent is that I've received a positive report on my novel (hooray!) with lots of helpful advice for improvements which I'm busy putting into effect.

I’ll try and keep you posted with any further progress.

In the meantime here are some photographs of wildflowers which have appeared recently – in spite of the rain, wind, frost, hail and sleet. 

First, Greater Stitchwort which I saw yesterday (Saturday). Unfortunately, it was hailing at the time, so I didn’t dare get my camera out, and these pictures are from my first sighting last year on 7 March (almost a week earlier).
I see a note in my wildflower book which says that in 2005 I saw it on 20 March, a week later than this year. 
I always rejoice to see it as it’s the first of the hedgerow plants to appear.
The flowers are about half an inch across.

 

 

Greater Stitchwort

Second, Marsh Marigold, which also goes by the lovely name Kingcup. I saw the first ones out the day before yesterday (Friday). It’s a giant fleshy buttercup that grows in boggy places like watermeadows or the edges of ponds. 

This picture is slightly lacklustre as I couldn’t get close, and only a few of the flowers were out as yet. If I get a better one, I’ll put it here instead. En masse they are a glorious sight.

Marsh Marigold (the small yellow blobs in the foreground)

The Trap, The Sewing Bee and The Novel

It’s been a long time since I blogged – for various reasons – and the longer I leave it the more difficult it becomes to start again. I have however been thinking about a brief update of some of the topics I’ve touched on in past posts, so here it is.

The Trap

The police visited the farmer and he said he wasn’t trying to catch buzzards (which is illegal) and checked the trap every day and let them out. What he was trying to catch was foxes so that he could shoot them as they were killing his chickens.

Apparently it’s legal to shoot foxes – which I didn’t know – so the police left it at that.

I shall still check the trap if I can as trapped birds beat their wings against the bars of cages and can hurt themselves.

And I’m looking into organisations that protect foxes, as I find it horrifying that they can legally be shot.

Earlier post – ‘Meltdown’

Our local fox, last seen in March. Is she still alive? (Photograph by Trish Currie)

The Sewing Bee

My 'tunic of many colours' is at last finished. It’s turned into a dress and changed its name to ‘my lockdown dress’. It doesn't look half bad on, even though I say so myself, and I might even wear it.

Earlier posts - 'Sewing Bee', 'A top of many colours', 'Circle, Triangle, Square, Star, Splat'

My lockdown dress

The Novel

I’ve received the second report and, while it’s more positive than the first one, still flags up lots of problems with The Banker’s Niece (see right). Consequently I’ve decided to leave that novel for the moment and try to start something new. I think I’ve had enough of TBN anyway and the report – though painful – has helped me make a decision about it.

I realise now however that writing TBN has kept me going for the last ten years and that without it I feel like I’m nothing. Hence the lack of blog posts, perhaps.

Fingers crossed that I can start something new.

It was a wonderful experience serialising the novel on this blog (as I wrote its final draft) and enormous thanks to all of you who followed it at the time as well as those of you who've read it since. You've made it worthwhile.

Earlier post – 'My creative life (or something like that) and a list'

My creative life (or something like that) and a list

It’s my belief that our brains don’t deteriorate as we age: they change. We move away from the factual towards the imaginative – towards stories, shapes and colours rather than words and ideas. We forget things like the days of the week or people’s names not because we’ve become forgetful but because they’re not important to us any more. Well, that’s my excuse.

And here’s the story of my brain’s development.

I went to a girls’ grammar school where the focus was firmly on the academic and passing exams. Then, after university and a lot of travelling and wrong turnings, I settled in Devon with Frog and started work as a book copy-editor and proofreader, occupations firmly rooted in the left brain*.

In my late thirties I branched into writing non-fiction books and articles. As a result of working in the publishing industry, I knew the gaps in the market, and as a result of migraines (vomiting and acute right-headed pain) that had begun in my twenties and my attempts to find a cure for them, I had become something of an expert on complementary health. These two factors combined to get me published.

In my fifties, with our financial situation easier, I didn’t have to work quite so hard at the editing and proofreading and I became interested in creative writing. It’s what I’d always wanted to do, but universities didn’t cover anything like that when I was a student so I’d not given the ambition any credence. I attended an evening class and started a novel. The process took me over however and I sat up writing for nights on end, eventually becoming ill and having to stop halfway through.

A few years later, I discovered the wonderful Roselle Angwin and followed one of her courses, meeting monthly for six months with her and a group of other would-be novel-writers. The result was a children’s novel. Or at least it was intended to be a children’s novel. It was in fact probably an adult novel with an eleven-year-old heroine. To date, it’s not found a publisher and actually I don’t think it’s very good. (It’s also hampered by the heroine and a ten-year-old friend running away on a canal-boat with two adults not related to them, which would probably not be allowed in a book these days.)

I didn’t find my editing work conducive to creativity. In fact it stifled it. So I took a part-time job in a local bookshop and at the same time signed up for another novel-writing course with Roselle, online this time. She kick-started the process by getting me to list all the mantras of my childhood, whether spoken or unspoken, and then choose one to write about. The one I chose (to disprove) was ‘Happiness is selfish’.

A few years later and a few drafts in, I sent the proto-novel to a literary consultancy** (Cornerstones) who loved it and made lots of helpful suggestions for ways it could be improved.

I then made a detour and edited a local villages magazine as I thought it was time I did something for the community. I had fun developing the magazine but after three years realised that to go any further would mean it becoming a full-time occupation and I didn’t want that. So I returned to the novel and, with the suggestions from Cornerstones in mind, started to redraft it yet again. The result was The Banker’s Niece, serialised on this blog as I rewrote it (see right).

At the beginning of this year I sent The Banker's Niece to another literary consultancy, The Literary Consultancy, whose Reader didn’t like it at all and – dare I say it – didn’t even appear to have read it properly. I slumped. I lost all belief in myself as a writer. I became depressed. Six weeks later, with the bad feelings not going away, I contacted TLC and explained what had happened, and they bless them (thank you, Joe) diagnosed a mismatch between Reader and novel and offered a second report free of charge.

I haven’t yet had that report back and I’ve no idea what it will say and I don’t even know if I want to carry on with the novel and rewrite it yet again, but my spirits have lifted. TLC’s first report is no longer the last word. There is hope. I’ve unlocked. My creative journey continues.

With the unlocking, a list of what I’ve learnt so far about creative writing, and novels in particular, has been forming in my mind. I thought I’d share it with you, not least because that way I’ll have to stick to it.

And, by the way, the migraines are getting better.

The list

If you want to start a new novel, state your intention to the universe and your subconscious and then step back and let them get on with it. Stressing and straining are counter-productive, and willpower is not what’s needed at this stage. Instead listen to the whispers in the corners of your mind and catch the images that flash across your mind’s eye. Soon they will gather momentum.

Remember to rest. Time spent not writing is as important as time spent writing. A wander round the garden, or in my case ten minutes flat on my back on the bed with my eyes closed, can be more productive than hours staring at a computer screen. Take days off, of course.

Have a routine for writing but don’t be too rigid about it. If you wake in the middle of the night flooded with ideas, write them in a notebook and then go back to sleep. Don’t get up and start working at the computer. If in the day the writing comes to a halt, stop. Either it’s finished, or you need time to refill the word-tank.

Keep notebooks everywhere – by the bed, in the bathroom, in the kitchen, in the car, in front of the television, in your bag. Ideas can strike at any time, any place.

Enjoy the journey. Don't be in too much of a hurry to finish a project. If a side-path presents itself, follow it. Who knows where you'll end up.

Don’t feel guilty about everything you’re not doing. (In my case this means cleaning the house, having a tidy garden, being sociable, seeing family, looking immaculate, doing things for the community.) Your writing is your gift to the world. Take it seriously. Put it first.

The East Devon coast two weeks ago

*You probably know all about right and left brain stuff but in case you don't - the left brain is the intellectual side and the right brain is the intuitive, sensory side. Women have more connections than men between the two sides which is why they see things more holistically.

**In the past publishers did everything for an author. Now you have to pay a literary consultancy for editorial advice and then an agent for selling your book to a publisher, and then you have to do all the publicity yourself.

Five on Friday

I’m writing this post as part of a blog link-in hosted by ‘I live, I love, I craft,I am me’*. The subject is gratitude and here are five things I’m grateful for.

Firstly, thanks to you for reading this blog. Writing (for me) is all about confidence and believing in what you’re doing, and every page view helps.

Thanks to The Literary Consultancy for arranging a second assessment of my novel (by a different person) free of charge because I’d found the first report so unhelpful. It brought my writing (apart from this blog) and hence my future to a juddering halt, but now things are opening up again.

Thanks to the police for taking seriously my complaint about the cage-trap on a neighbouring farmer’s land and thanks to a neighbour for being with me in this matter. (See my post 'Meltdown' on the subject.)

Thanks to the lockdown for simplifying my life and enabling me to see what really matters.

Which brings me to my final item. Thanks to Frog and Dog, my favourite companions, for being with me at this time.

The dog is there, honest. Can you spot her??

And I've just realised it's Saturday today, not Friday. Oh well.

*If you've accessed this blog through 'I live, I love, I craft, I am me' you may not be able to access the links. You'll need instead to visit my blog (www.belinda-whitworth.blogspot.com) directly. 

Sanctuaries

I’m fascinated by the minutiae of people’s lives and particularly so at the moment when we’re all thrown back on our own resources. I’m shy however of revealing my own (who on earth would want to know about them?).

    Yesterday morning however I read lovely post on my new discovery ‘I live, I love, I craft, I am me’ (actually, the blogger discovered me, which is a fillip), in which she gave us a tour of her greenhouse. It was so vivid I could almost hear the birds chirruping.

    This greenhouse is her sanctuary at the moment, and at the end of the post she asked her readers to share their sanctuaries. ‘How do you cope?’ she asked. ‘What is your strategy to survive? Do share, it might help others who are struggling.’

    So I thought I might do just that, or at least show how the lockdown affects everything and how I'm adapting, by describing in detail one of my days.

Thursday 16 April

Breakfast is always a moveable feast. Frog and I take it back to bed with us and spend a long time having what we call our ‘morning meeting’ – long discussions about life, the universe and everything, and also what our plans are for the day. It's an important part of our routine, especially so now you would have thought when so many routines have gone, but I'm restless. I leave Frog dozing and take the dog out.
    I stop off first at the gate of a neighbour, C. We're swapping books because I didn’t have time to get to the library before lockdown and because C and her husband are self-isolating. I’ve introduced her to one of my favourite series . . .

The first of  Elly Griffiths' books about Ruth Galloway, a forensic archaeologist in Norfolk, one of my favourite series

. . . and she’s introduced me to one of hers.

Books 4 and 3 of Jacqueline Winspear's series of books about Maisie Dobbs, a 1930s' sleuth. I'm finding them comforting and absorbing in an old-fashioned way and just what I need at the moment

C and I stand talking at a safe distance either side of the gate, while C's husband stays in his wheelchair the other side of their courtyard explaining that he’s taking the infection threat more seriously now than he did. It must be very hard for him. He never complains however, and neither does C. Last time I dropped by - a few days ago - he came up close and joined in the conversation and we all saw a swallow – the first of the year. I haven’t seen one since.

I set off on the track that leads uphill from C's house but soon turn off because I don’t want to meet anybody. A lot of people use the track, especially so now, and it makes me sad that we have to avoid each other and that I have to put Ellie on a lead in case people are worried about picking up infection from her.

    Bullocks as well as cows with calves have appeared in the grass fields, and the wheat fields are being sprayed this morning according to C, so I cross where I can and duck into my favourite place, a Y-shaped wood along steep valleys formed by converging streams.

Only C, her sister and I venture into the wood and it’s a jungle – unmanaged and almost unfootpathed.

It occurs to me that I could explore the wood more easily by walking up the stream beds. Another time. I have a slight headache and flop down in a patch of dappled shade under an oak tree while Ellie hurtles up and down the precipitous valley-sides and into the streams where she noisily slurps water. She loves it here too.

    My head is busy so I don’t do anything very profound with it. Instead I rest and gaze at the first bluebells. 

I treasure the way this place is wild, that nature is more important here than humans are. Strangely, I have the sense that something similar is happening to the countryside as a whole as a result of the lockdown.

    A couple of days ago I surprised a red deer in a paddock close to home. I see deer on the hill but I’ve never seen any down near the houses before, and never red ones anywhere in the area as they usually live on the moors and wilder places. It looked at me as if to say ‘What are you doing here?’
    A friend from the village emailed me earlier with pictures she’s taken near where I live of a fox with its prey. She's amazed, she says, that it stopped long enough for her to do so. I too have seen a fox recently – the first for years – and I wonder if it's the same animal.

Fox photos taken by Trish Currie. See her blog 'What's Cooking'. 

Is it simply the lack of traffic bringing the animals out or are they identifying some change in us humans? If the latter, that's an exciting thought. 

I have lunch and try to plan my afternoon. I've been working on and off for ten years on my novel The Banker’s Niece but now I'm thinking of putting it aside. It's writing that makes me feel calmest, safest, most like me, and now just when I need it most I'm abandoning a large chunk. Ironically, it's the lockdown, the loss of so much that's familiar as well as the sense that we're all on Pause, that's given me the time and space to see that I might need to give up the novel. I wrote it to heal my life, and it may be that constantly reworking it is not helping. It's blocking the flow.
    What am I now, I wonder. Where am I going?
    To be continued

The Banker's Niece 43: Rick's recording AUDIO VERSION

In the recording studio

Audio version

Thanks to Frog, here below is an audio version (speech and music) of Rick's recording in Chapter 43. Enjoy it - he's done a fantastic job!

Text version

Click here for the text version.

Music

Here are the details of the musical extracts.

‘Sweet Jane’ from Loaded (1970) by The Velvet Underground

‘Love minus zero’ (written by Bob Dylan, performed by the Walker Brothers) from Take It Easy with The Walker Brothers (1965)

‘Life’s been good’ from But Seriously Folks (1978) by Joe Walsh

‘Jealous guy’ from Imagine (1971) by John Lennon

‘Her father didn’t like me anyway’ from The Humblebums (1969) by the Humblebums

‘Love chronicles’ from Love Chronicles (1969) by Al Stewart

‘To see you’ from The Machine that Cried (1973) by String Driven Thing

The Banker's Niece: List of music and books

Music

Chapter 5

‘I was made to love you’ from Dreamweaver (1976) by Gary Wright

Chapter 26

‘Love minus zero’ from Bringing it all Back Home (1965) by Bob Dylan

‘Ne me quitte pas’ performed by Nina Simone, written by Jacques Brel

Chapter 39

The Albion Band (1^st album under that name, Rise up like the Sun, March 1978)

Electric Light Orchestra (ELO) (eg Out of the Blue, 1977)

Chapter 41

‘Today’ from Surrealistic Pillow (1967) by Jefferson Airplane

Chapter 43

‘Sweet Jane’ from Loaded (1970) by The Velvet Underground

‘Love minus zero’ (written by Bob Dylan, performed by the Walker Brothers) from Take It Easy with The Walker Brothers (1965)

‘Life’s been good’ from But Seriously Folks (1978) by Joe Walsh

‘Jealous guy’ from Imagine (1971) by John Lennon

‘Her father didn’t like me anyway’ from The Humblebums (1969) by the Humblebums

‘Love chronicles’ from Love Chronicles (1969) by Al Stewart

‘To see you’ from The Machine that Cried (1973) by String Driven Thing

Chapter 44

‘Never going back again’ from Rumours (1977) by Fleetwood Mac

Books (and tarot cards)

Chapter 1

Sharon uses a pack called Cosmic Tarot (1988) by the German artist Norbert Lősche
Chapter 2
(Mole and Badger are characters in) The Wind in the Willows (1908) by Kenneth Grahame

Chapter 14

The Magician’s Nephew (1955) in the Narnia series (1950-6) by C S Lewis

Chapter 16 

The Wind in the Willows (1908) by Kenneth Grahame

Chapter 22

(Gabriel Oak and Bathsheba are characters in) the film (1967) and book Far from the Madding Crowd (1874) by Thomas Hardy

Chapter 28

(Puddleglum is a character in) The Silver Chair (1953) in the Narnia series (1950-6) by C S Lewis

Chapter 30

(Mole/Moly is a character in) The Wind in the Willows (1908) by Kenneth Grahame

Chapter 31     

(Mr Darcy is a character in) Pride and Prejudice (1813) by Jane Austen

Chapter 33

(Hagrid is a character in) the Harry Potter series (1997-2007) by J K Rowling

Chapter 34

(Gabriel Oak is a character in) the film (1967) and book Far from the Madding Crowd (1874) by Thomas Hardy

Chapter 37

(The Heffalump Trap features in) Winnie-the-Pooh (1926) by A A Milne

(Strider is a character in) The Fellowship of the Ring (1954) in The Lord of the Rings series (1954-5) by J R R Tolkien

The Banker's Niece: EPILOGUE

SPOILER ALERT

I've posted the Epilogue on another blog to stop you coming across it by accident before you've read the rest of the novel.

Click here to read the Epilogue 

Click here to read the rest of the novel

The Banker's Niece 44: Blackbird

SPOILER ALERT

This is the last chapter of the novel so I've posted it on another blog to stop you coming across it by accident before you've read earlier chapters.

Click here to read this chapter

Click here to read the rest of the novel

The Banker's Niece 43: Rick's recording

Sweet Jane . . . if I can still call you that . . . and if you still remember the song . . . if you still remember me . . .

Standin’ on the corner

Suitcase in my hand

Jack’s in his corset, Jane is in her vest

And me I’m in a rock ’n’ roll band . . .

Sweet Jane

Sweet Jane

Sweet Jane [1]

. . . except that you never wore a vest, and I’m not in a rock ’n’ roll band any more (long story) . . . But then we never did know what the song was all about . . . Perhaps only Lou Reed knew that . . .

But I’m digressing. Which I had hoped not to do this time as – after three failed attempts – I’ve actually made some notes. And I'm playing music to make up for the inadequacy of my words - other people's music not my own you'll be pleased hear. (For lots of reasons.) 

Sooo, what is this recording all about? Why am I doing it?

The answer is, I suppose, that I don’t know what else to do. I’m sitting here on a derelict farm, in a less than half-built studio, surrounded by packing cases and boxes and things for making music (‘So what’s changed?’ I hear you say) – the detritus of half a century – and I’m slowly climbing the walls. I have to talk to someone and the only person I want to talk to is you.

It’s killing this real-life thing, isn’t it? Or perhaps you don’t have a problem with it. Perhaps by now you’re a fully formed, mature, calm and contented human bean and are about to click on ‘delete’ and consign this drivel to the great recycle bin in the sky – or wherever it is that electronic files go when we don’t want them any more.

But . . . in the hope that you’re still listening, I’ll carry on. So where was I? Yes, real life. Which started for me about a year and a half ago when my father died. D’you remember him? Warra nidiot. Although, much as it pains me to admit it, now that he’s gone I might even be starting to have sympathy for him and recognise him in myself. Bloody hell.

Damn, I’m going off track again, and I know how much it annoys you or did annoy you – you with your clear, concise, well-trained mind. And I mean that as a compliment. One of the many many ways we were different and apparently incompatible and ‘unsuitable’. But we knew better, didn’t we? We knew that we loved and needed each other . . .

My love, she speaks like silence

With no ideals or violence.

She doesn’t have to say she’s faithful

Yet she’s true, like ice, like fire.

People carry roses

Make promises by the hour

My love laughs like the flowers

Valentines can’t buy her. [2]

So anyway, the old bastard died and I decided the time had come for me to leave the band and move back to Devon and support my mother. D’you remember her? She always loved you, you know.

Actually, by then I couldn’t wait to stop all that travelling, all that posturing on stage, have some time for myself, write more music.

But the trouble is, now I’m here all I can think about is what a fuck-up I’ve made of my life . . .

They say I’m crazy but I have a good time

I’m just looking for clues at the scene of the crime

Life’s been good to me so far . . .

I make hit records, my fans they can’t wait

They write me letters, tell me I’m great

So I got me an office, gold records on the wall

Just leave a message, maybe I’ll call. [3]

Yeah, well, apart from all that, my biggest fuck-up was the way I treated you. So I suppose you could say that this recording is my way of saying sorry. (Got there at last.)

             I was feeling insecure

You might not love me anymore

I was shivering inside

I was shivering inside

Oh, I didn’t mean to hurt you

I’m sorry that I made you cry

Oh no, I didn’t want to hurt you

I’m just a jealous guy. [4]

And I suppose if it’s going to be a proper apology, I need to go through every grisly detail . . . which is not a problem for me as I’ve been through them all in my mind many times over the last few months. I just hope it's not a problem for you.

Incidentally, I had a thought the other day. It’s not when you die that your life flashes before you. It’s when a parent dies . . .

And perhaps it all started with that first – and only – visit I paid to your parents. I could have played ball – for your sake – and my mother’s. But I didn’t. I was young and arrogant and I thought I knew best.

The trouble was, I hated everything they stood for. Also, if I’m being honest – which I have to be with you – I was out of my depth. I’d never met anyone like them before. I didn’t understand the rules. I felt as if I was in a Noel Coward play without a script.

I could however have done some homework. I could have listened to Ma. I could have read the book on etiquette she lent me. But would that have made any difference? I got the impression I was damned before I even opened my mouth . . .

But it might have made a difference to me. I mightn’t have been so angry all the time. I might have been able to help you . . . and we might have stayed together . . .

I guess we were both out of our depth.

To tell the truth I didn’t have the nerve

I know I only got what I deserve

So now she’s taken leave of me today
Her father didn’t like me anyway. [5]

How are your parents by the way?

Which brings me to my next cock-up: Chris. My only excuse is that I was desperate. You and I seemed to be getting further and further apart, and she tried to help. And if it’s any comfort to you Chris and I finished not long after you left. (Damn, that sounds conceited, as if you needed comfort, as if I still meant something to you by then, as if I mean anything to you now.)

So I didn’t have you and I didn’t have Chris, and that’s when I left reality behind.

Yes, life on the road is an adolescent boy’s dream (even if I wasn't adolescent in years myself) and, while most of what you might have come across in the low-life media – if you concern yourself with such crap – wasn’t true, some of it was. Fool that I was, I thought it was my cure for a broken heart . . .

And so it came that I stood disillusioned

By everything I’d been told

I just didn’t believe love existed

They were all just digging for gold

Widows and bankers and typists and businessmen

Loved each other they said

But all it was though was just a manoeuvre

The quickest way into bed

And so I followed the others’ example

And jumped into the melée

In the hunting grounds of Earl’s Court and Swiss Cottage

I did my best to get laid . . . [6]

Meanwhile I didn’t go home to see my parents except for brief visits for more than thirty years but then, when my father died, my mother needed me.

           

I stayed with her. We talked. And I realised that we’d stopped talking to each other properly when you left. Perhaps even then – although I didn’t know it – I felt guilty. I helped her move out of the bungalow and into her parents’ cottage in the middle of the village where she’d always wanted to live.

Somehow, what with all that talk, and seeing my grandparents’ cottage again – its long overgrown garden full of places where we used to hide as children, the tiny kitchen where Grandma baked us biscuits – and the past exploded over me like a thunderstorm. I knew I had to come home for good.

So I bought this farm a couple of miles outside Black Dog (Yup, strange name. I remember you laughing at it.) and set about renovating it and converting the barns into recording studios for me and other musicians. At least that was the idea. I haven’t got very far.

Anyway, to cut a long story short, one day last autumn as I sat drinking tea with Ma she suddenly said ‘Did you know that Jane’s back in Devon too?’

    ‘Jane?’ I said, not sure whether I’d heard right. Ma and I had by then talked about lots of things, but we’d never got round to talking about you.

    ‘Yes, Jane. Jane who you once wanted to marry,’ she said. ‘I heard about it from Flo – my old schoolfriend - whose grand-daughter works at the same place as Jane.’

    ‘Oh,’ I said, trying not to react.

    ‘And she’s single,’ said Ma.

    I didn’t say anything at the time – I didn’t want Ma to get ideas - but I couldn’t stop thinking of that news about you.

Which brings me to my latest screw-up which, ironically, is probably the one I feel worst about, and I’m afraid it involves Chris again.

One of my biggest problems since I got here is being alone. The very thing I wanted was the very thing I couldn’t deal with. In particular I’ve missed the band, even though I couldn’t wait to get away from them. But Dougie’s bought an estate in Scotland and moved there with his family, Steve’s still on the road, working with other people, and Johno’s in rehab somewhere.

So, after Christmas, I went back to the uni and trawled the department to see if any of the old lags were still around. (Yeah, I was that bad.) And who should I bump into but Chris. (I know Chris has her suspicions, but I swear I didn’t know beforehand that she would be there.) It turned out that she was back in Devon too, working in the department. What’s more, she’d broken up with her husband and she too was single.

Now I was really confused. Fate had to have a hand in it somewhere. Why else would all three of us be back in Devon at the same time and all three of us free agents? And the reason for the coincidence, or whatever you like to call it, according to my warped logic – skewed no doubt by years of so-called success – was that Chris was there to help me get back in touch with you.

We stopped for a coffee together and while we were talking, catching up on old times, this idea came to me, and when I put it to Chris she agreed, because like before she wanted to help. But as soon as I put it into action I knew it was wrong and wanted to undo it.

And what was this idea you ask (if you’ve listened this far)?

The idea was that Chris and I would pretend to be engaged so that when you heard about it through the media (if you did) you would be reminded of me - and Chris - and the past, and shocked enough to take another look at everything. Or, to put it another way, so that I could approach you without risking myself.

Hideous. Unforgiveable.

And now I don’t what to do, and the only person who can help is you.

I’m sorry. Sorry for everything. I wish I could go back and undo it all. I wish you were here.

To see you

            is all I want

And all I want
is to see you now. [7]

1 From ‘Sweet Jane’ by The Velvet Underground

2 From ‘Love minus zero’ performed by The Walker Brothers (written by Bob Dylan)

3 From ‘Life’s been good’ by Joe Walsh

4 From ‘Jealous guy’ by John Lennon

5 From ‘Her father didn’t like me anyway’ by the Humblebums

6 From ‘Love chronicles’ by Al Stewart

7 From ‘To see you’ by String Driven Thing

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