9 Reasons Why You Should Not Read These Books

Posted in Writing by carolcooper

In case you’ve somehow missed my bragging, seven of us indie authors have got together to create an ebook compilation called OUTSIDE THE BOX: Women Writing Women. Some literati types like Dan Holloway and JJ Marsh love it already, but what do they know? I think it’s only fair to slap on a great big warning and tell you it’s not for everyone.

Here are nine reasons why you might want to steer well clear of OUTSIDE THE BOX:

1 You don’t like reading.

Maybe, like Kanye West, you are not a fan of books. Kanye adds, ‘I would never want a book’s autograph. I am a proud non-reader of books.’ If this applies to you too, you’ve read too much already. Stop right now and go rinse your brain with the finest hip-hop until you’re out of danger.

2 You only read books written by men.

Well, that’s your prerogative. As far as I know, there’s no book police yet, though there are traps like the works of George Eliot, George Sand, Ellis Bell, AM Barnard, JD Robb, Isak Dinesen and JK Rowling/Robert Galbraith.

3 You like one-dimensional characters.

In that case you will probably hate the woman who’s accused of killing her father, the young woman fleeing from the shadow of her infamous mother, the prima ballerina who turns to prostitution to support her daughter, the wife of a drug lord who attempts to relinquish her lust for blood to raise a respectable son, or any of the other unforgettable people featured in OUTSIDE THE BOX. This, it should be noted, is fiction about independent-minded, unconventional women. (Though you will also find quite a lot about the lives of men, children and animals.)

4 Strong language offends you.

Or maybe you think ‘sex’ is what goes on a form when you’re asked whether you’re male or female. As there isn’t the equivalent of a British Board of Film Classification, there should be an alert here. These books include swearing and even scenes of an intimate nature. The authors did not write these books to please their parents or Mother Superior.

5 You only ever read books in one genre.

Oh, dear. Authors like Joanne Harris and Jane Davis have seriously over-estimated you because they believe readers like a diversity of writing.

6 You avoid books by independent authors.

Maybe that’s because you haven’t read any yet? More and more books are self-published. Literary agent Andrew Lownie believes that in five to ten years, 75% of books will be self-published. The revolution in publishing has brought a brand new crop of indie writers willing to take risks. We’re no more alike than are authors published by the Big Five. But, as Roz Morris says, we seven have all proved our worth already with awards, fellowships and, of course, commercial success. Now’s your chance to get a toe wet.

7 You fight shy of weighty issues, even when they’re lightly treated.

Caution: this box set covers the full spectrum from light (although never frothy) to darker, more haunting reads that delve into deeper psychological territory. Maybe best stick to books where the biggest crisis is a broken fingernail or a scuffed Manolo.

8 You have way too much to do as it is.

Perhaps you’re busy creosoting the fence, bathing the kids, or honing your Oscar acceptance speech. I hear you. Luckily a book is like a true friend, one who knows you sometimes need to be elsewhere, who doesn’t make demands but is there for you whenever you find the time. By the way, Eddie, your copy is on its way, and we’re rooting for you on Sunday.

9 You prefer comic books.

POW! Nuff said.

For those who haven’t been put off, Outside the Box: Women Writing Women is an e-book box set of seven full-length novels for £7.99 (or about $9.99). It’s available from February 20 for just 90 days.

Self-Published Authors, eh? What are they LIKE?

Are You Ready to Venture Outside the Box?

6Feb2015

How to Be Single AND Happy on Valentine’s Day

Posted in Dating, friends, Writing by carolcooper

Even if the whole world is loved up and you’re not, you don’t have to be a sad singleton on Valentine’s Day, according to my friend and colleague Christine Webber. She’s a psychotherapist who’s just updated her book Get the Happiness Habit, so you can expect her to know what she’s talking about. Here’s what she has to say…

When you’re single, February 14 can feel like a nightmare – being one of those dates that loom large and trip you up emotionally. It’s nearly as bad as having to go to your sister’s wedding when you’re heartbroken after a relationship break up, or being forced into a family Christmas where relatives invariably – and loudly – ask if you’ve got a boyfriend.

On Valentine’s Day, everyone seems to be flaunting their flowers, their cards, and their plans for the perfect evening. Not surprisingly, you can easily allow yourself to feel a romantic failure in comparison.

But here’s the thing. How insecure, or unfeeling, must your boss be about her relationship if she has to have a Valentine’s bouquet delivered to reception rather to her own home? Maybe she sent it herself? And how many of your friends are going to be seriously out of pocket after a poorly-cooked dinner in an overrated and crowded restaurant? People’s expectations of Valentine’s Day are stratospheric; so much so that they’re nearly always disappointed. Well, you have no expectations. And no need to spend a fortune. So your situation’s not all bad!

Why not stay home on Valentine’s Day and paint the kitchen or something? But then go out with a bunch of happy, single friends on the 15^th when everything is saner, cheaper and roomier.

Here’s something else to ponder. Most of us – in our fast-changing world – are going to be single from time to time. And it’s important that we view these periods of our lives as viable and productive – and not just as some sort of limbo till we fall for someone new. Individuals who place too much importance on the value of relationships are often guilty of believing that their single life can never be anything than a dilute version of the joys of coupledom.

This is dangerous thinking – particularly when people believe that they must have a partner in order to be happy. When they have those thoughts and beliefs they’re anxious about relationships even when they’re in one – because they’re constantly terrified that it might end. That anxiety generally manifests itself as neediness, which is hugely demanding on any spouse and damaging to the relationship.

So, this February, have a think about what being happy means to you. And make sure that there is plenty about your single life that is contented and joyous even though – at present – you have no romantic liaison.

When people take responsibility for their own happiness, rather than expect someone else to provide it for them – they become more mentally healthy, resilient and optimistic.

Of course, having a warm, loving partner is going to augment your levels of happiness, but he or she should not be responsible for it.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

Thank you very much, Christine.

For more insights and advice on being happy, see Christine’s book Get the Happiness Habit.

You may also like to read her guest post on How to Mend a Broken Heart.

By the way, in case you’re wondering, I’ve never seen Christine look glum.

1Feb2015

A Holiday Home for the Cat

Posted in Animals, Family life, Places by carolcooper

Moving house is a real performance. Just ask my cat.

Even if your heart isn’t set on a pad with an eye-watering price tag, like London’s Princes Gate or the Bishops Avenue aka Billionaires’ Row, it’s a major expense, and that’s before stamp duty. There are also surveys to arrange, solicitors to pay, and a mortgage to sort out. Get ready too for the gazumping, gazundering and chains which make the property game an expensive version of snakes and ladders.

Cats have no such worries. All Mishmish had to do was let herself be transported to a weekend retreat. “We’re going on a mini-break,” I tell Mishmish. She takes this announcement in her stride.

The weekend starts well because she loves her basket. This always surprises me, considering it’s only used for transporting her to the vet and back. Maybe it’s the ‘and back’ bit she remembers best.

The journey itself is no trouble, though it’s hard for the humans to squeeze into a car packed to the gunwales. It’s all very reminiscent of trips with my three children when they were young. Only in this case there are two cat trays, a favourite water bowl, the special cat food, her favourite toys, and of course The Blanket.

Not that anyone would call it a blanket now. You can always tell who has cats. Their blankets look like towels and their towels look like knitting mistakes, says the author of How to Live with a Calculating Cat. This little book has been making people laugh since 1962 because it’s so damn true.

Anyway, on arrival Mishmish bolts out of the basket and heads under the IKEA sofa. There she stays, oblivious of efforts to coax her out.

Husband and I put out food, water, toys, The Blanket, even a welcoming sign.

We talk to her in a silly voice. She sits there watching us make idiots of ourselves.

After a few hours our knees hurt and I wonder if she’ll be there until the sofa self-destructs. This could take a while. Many people I know have an Ektorp sofa and it lasts years, sometimes decades. As reliable as a Volvo, though without ABS brakes.

We tell each other that you can’t make a cat do something. You can only make a cat want to do something.

Actually, scratch that. If your cat doesn’t want to do something, it’s never going to happen.

Cats are highly territorial, but my first ginger cat was far more adaptable. Bananas went places. As a student, I’d take her from London to Brighton and back. When I was a junior doctor, I’d often have to spend 80 hours at the hospital, so I’d take her with me to my on call room if nobody else could look after her.

But I have to accept Mishmish is different. She’s a homebody. And now she’s turning a couch potato.

Over the course of the weekend, she doesn’t venture out, not even to use the tray placed about 5 feet away. I get that. If there are predators around, a fresh deposit will give away your presence faster than a big brass plate on the door. But still.

So after 24 hours we go home, with Mishmish having seen no more than the underside of the Ektorp sofa.

Back and seat frame: fibreboard, moisture-resistant particleboard, plywood, solid pine, polyurethane foam 20 kg/cubic metre.
Cover: 100% cotton. Machine wash, warm 40°C.

We try again two weeks later. It begins exactly the same way, with Mishmish heading straight for the sofa to complete her PhD in furniture construction. All I can hope for was that she might graduate to an armchair for her post-doctoral research.

The breakthrough comes on Sunday around 2 a.m. This, I can only assume, is the moment she realises she isn’t going to be mauled by a lion, and the ceiling won’t cave in if she emerges from her shelter.

Her eyes are wide. There are loads of new crannies to investigate and new places to play.

“Cupboards! Wow! This one must be mine.”

“Ooh, windows!”

“And what’s this? Instead of wooden flooring there are carpets! That means the whole house is a scratching pole. “

We’re kind of sleepy but this cat, having conserved her energies, is ready for action.

Pets depend on us, but they’re not children. Still, I get a warm glow now I see Mishmish likes it here. And it thrills me that she’s now eating and drinking.

Over the next few hours she uses both trays, sending the cat litter flying. I’m grinning from ear to ear with pride. Was I this delighted when my kids first used their potties and upturned them over each other? I’m really not sure, because my eyelids are drooping and I’m done in. Must repair to the sofa for a rest.

On top of it, not underneath.

21Jan2015

Six Lessons from the Eye Clinic

Posted in Pills, Writing by carolcooper

Today Sanjay takes his mother to her hospital appointment.

He’s a nice young man, a character from my novel One Night at the Jacaranda. Although I made Sanjay up, maybe you know someone like him?

He and his mother walk past a sign warning of the symptoms of Ebola.

Not surprising the font on the sign is massive. This is the eye clinic.

The morning is a learning curve. They arrive at 9.30am to find there are over 40 patients there already.

“Beta, I should have brought chair from home,” says Mrs Shah. Here comes Lesson One: in addition to bringing glasses (including bifocals), appointment letters, and any medication they are taking, in original containers, patients should bring something to sit on.

The only empty seat belongs to a man who’s just gone to the loo, which doesn’t flush, as he explains to all and sundry on returning to waiting-room.

A poster on the wall advises patients that clinic visits can take up to four hours. The notice on a board by the receptionist says the clinic is running 90 minutes late. Sanjay isn’t sure if this time should be added to the four hours, or whether it is already part of it. Nobody knows. Lesson Two: don’t ask stuff. Just accept it may take some time.

They stand in the corridor for a while. A nurse emerges from somewhere and calls out, “Philip Nutmeg” or something similar. When Mr Nutmeg fails to respond, she says it again, looking meaningfully at Mrs Shah. Sanjay says helpfully, “She’s not Philip Nutmeg.”

The nurse glares at him.

Eventually Sanjay’s mother is summoned into a little room to have her vision tested by another nurse, and to learn Lesson Three: computerised medical records do not necessarily contain any medical records. The entire hospital went computerised two months ago, this nurse says, but there are no clinical data on them. So Mrs Shah gets to recite her entire medical history. She looks over the nurse’s shoulder to make sure she writes everything down.

When they come out again, a cleaner in a hijab is here to deal with the loo. And Philip Nutmeg still hasn’t shown.

Lesson Four: nobody gives old people a seat, not even when they are rubbing their knee and looking around hopefully. It shocks Sanjay that not one person has stood up for his poor old mother. He considers ejecting someone forcibly, but then his mum isn’t as old or as poor as some of the others.

In the corridor there are two wheelchairs blocking doorways. In one, a woman with one leg. In the other, a man (or possibly a woman). This person has two legs, but Sanjay is not sure about the face because it’s covered with a blanket.

There’s also an old man pushing out some zeds and a younger man who reeks of alcohol. It is 10.45am.

Sanjay notices a woman with a pinched face and a jute bag bearing the name of a firm of solicitors. The doctors will love that, thinks Sanjay.

One of the doctors appears now to find out what’s wrong with the man with the blanket on his head. He insists there’s nothing wrong, but the light hurts his eyes.

Lesson Five, thinks Sanjay: bring dark glasses to the eye clinic because the lights can become unbearable once you’ve got dilating drops in your eyes. Now the man in the wheelchair is mighty pissed off because the doctor has asked him not to cover his head with the blanket. “It scares us, you see. We think something‘s wrong.”

Sanjay’s not so sure. He reckons you could die in the clinic and not be noticed.

The crowd eventually thins out and they get somewhere to sit. Sanjay’s stomach is rumbling, and so is his mum’s. Lesson Six: bring something to eat.

By the time they’ve been there three and three-quarter hours, Sanjay’s mother has had her visual fields tested and her corneal thickness measured, and her pupils look as wide as a dead cat’s. She’s also gone into the inner sanctum, where the consultant sits at a desk in front of a large cutaway diagram of an eye. This is worrying. Shouldn’t the doctor know what eyes looks like by now?

The medical verdict is not too bad. Mrs Shah’s eye pressure is fine today, and her cataracts don’t need doing yet.

Unlike a patient leaning on the front desk. There’s only one receptionist left, and this patient is pleading with her to expedite his cataract surgery because it’s very urgent. Unfortunately, the receptionist tells him he’s only on the routine waiting list.

By the time Sanjay and his mother leave, there’s just one man left in the waiting-room. Maybe it’s Philip Nutmeg.

12Jan2015

Are You Ready to Venture Outside the Box?

Posted in Writing by carolcooper

Meet a cast of characters you’ll never forget:

A woman accused of killing her tyrannical father.

A young woman fleeing from the shadow of her infamous mother.

A bereaved biographer who goes to war-ravaged Croatia to research the life of a celebrity artist.

A gifted musician forced by injury to stop playing the piano.

A prima ballerina who turns to prostitution to support her daughter.

A journalist who must choose between an easy life and a bumpy road that could lead to happiness.

The wife of a drug lord who tries to relinquish her lust for blood to raise a respectable son.

And here’s the best bit: you can get to know them all without leaving your warm and cosy home.

Apologies for the advert. I don’t normally have a whole post about a book, but I can’t resist because I’m so proud to be part of this project. In fact, grinning from ear to ear. Besides, it’s much more than one book. Outside the Box: Women Writing Women brings all these unlikely heroines together in a limited edition box-set of seven novels. It’ll be published in e-book format on February 20 and available for just 90 days.

Why mention it today? Because you can pre-order it from Amazon now (other outlets to follow).

Some have seen the anthology already. Dan Holloway, columnist for the Guardian books pages and publisher, says

The authors of these books are at the forefront of a strong cohort of ground-breaking, boundary-pushing women writing and self-publishing literary fiction. I cannot recommend this collection highly enough.”

The project is the brain-child of Jessica Bell, Australian novelist, singer/songwriter and Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal. There’s no one genre in this set. Each full-length book is a page-turner.

Blue Mercy by Orna Ross

Will you identify with mother or with daughter? When Mercy Mulcahy was 40 years old, she was accused of killing her tyrannical father. Now, at the end of her life, she has written a book about what really happened that fateful night of Christmas Eve 1989 – and she desperately needs her daughter to read it.

Orna Ross is founder-director of The Alliance of Independent Authors. The Bookseller calls her one of the 100 most influential people in publishing.

Crazy for Trying by Joni Rodgers

In 1970s Montana, a female voice on the radio is unheard of, but seeking to escape the shadow of her infamous mother – a radical lesbian poet who is larger than life, even in death – bookish Tulsa Bitters heads west, determined to reinvent herself as a late-night DJ.

Joni Rodgers lives in Houston, Texas and is the New York Times bestselling author/co-author of over a dozen books, including book club favourite Bald in the Land of Big Hair.

My Memories of a Future Life by Roz Morris

If you were somebody’s past life, what echoes would you leave in their soul? Could they be the answers you need now? When concert pianist Carol is forced by injury to stop playing, she fears her life may be over. Enter her soul-mate Andreq. Is he her future incarnation or a psychological figment? And can he help her discover how to live now?

As a ghost-writer, Roz Morris sold over four million books writing the novels of other people. She is a writers’ mentor and a radio show host, and teaches writing masterclasses for The Guardian newspaper.

The Centauress by Kathleen Jones

Bereaved biographer Alex Forbes goes to war-ravaged Croatia to research the life of celebrity artist Zenobia de Braganza and finds herself at the centre of a family conflict over a disputed inheritance. She discovers a mutilated photograph, stolen letters and a story of indeterminate gender, passion and betrayal. But can she believe what she is being told?

Kathleen Jones is a Royal Literary Fund Fellow. She is best known for her award-winning biographies, and has also written extensively for the BBC.

An Unchoreographed Life by Jane Davis

Ballerina Alison Brabbage turns to prostitution when pregnancy and motherhood forced her into retirement. Struggling from day-to-day, the ultimatums she sets herself slip by. But there is one time-bomb she can’t ignore. Her daughter Belinda is growing up. Soon she will be able to work out who Alison is – and what she does for a living.

Jane Davis won the Daily Mail Award for her first novel, which secured her a publishing contract. She has now gone on to self-publish four other novels and isn’t afraid to tackle the trickiest subjects.

White Lady by Jessica Bell

Sonia Shâd, the wife of Melbourne’s leading drug lord, yearns for sharp objects and blood. But now that she’s separated from her husband and rehabilitating herself as a “normal” mother and mathematics teacher, it’s time to stop dreaming about slicing people’s throats and raise a respectable son. Easier said than done. Especially when she discovers her husband is back in town.

Jessica Bell is an Australian novelist, poet, singer/ songwriter /guitarist who lives in Athens, Greece. She is Publishing Editor of Vine Leaves Literary Journal and author of the bestselling Writing in a Nutshell series.

One Night at the Jacaranda by Carol Cooper

On a hope-fuelled night in London, lives intersect as a motley group of singletons meet in their quest for someone special. Undercover journalist Harriet is after a by-line, not a boyfriend, but soon she has to choose between the comfortable life she knows and a bumpy road that might lead to happiness.

Me, you already know. I’ve only produced this one novel so far, so I’m honoured to have it included in such stellar company.

There’s more about the books, the authors, and the swag on Outside the Box: Women Writing Women.

Happy reading!

Self-Published Authors, eh? What Are They LIKE?

Easy tweet:

“7 genre-busting ‪#‎novels in a limited edition box-set OUTSIDE THE BOX. Avail just 90 days! http://goo.gl/D1fyqW #WomenWritingWomen”

4Jan2015

An Epiphany

Posted in Family life, London, Writing by carolcooper

Twelfth Night looms and Harriet cannot wait for all traces of Christmas to be gone.

Simon packs every single decoration off the tree into its rightful place in its box. Only he knows where this is, so all Harriet can do is make tea. It’s Lapsang Souchong, brewed in a pot because he always says it tastes better that way.

Freelance journalist Harriet is a character from my novel One Night at the Jacaranda.

On the first day of Christmas, Simon gave her a cashmere and silk jumper, but it’s not nearly as soft as Pushkin was.

On the second day of Christmas, they had turkey drumsticks and leftover roast potatoes which, Simon reminded her, had not been as crisp on the day as they could have been.

Of course they weren’t. The heart went out of Christmas several years ago.

The tree survived well, but that was because there was no Pushkin to climb its branches or bat the baubles off.

“It’s just ailurophobia” she’d told Simon at first. But it wasn’t fear of cats. His breathing was really bad, beyond the help of inhalers, pills and sprays, and there was a tissue permanently attached to his nose. She tried products to keep down fur and dander, to no avail. It would have to be the RSPCA or the Mayhew Home. What alternative was there?

It was December 18. Simon got the cat basket out of the cupboard and Pushkin promptly fled under the bed.

“He’s gone into the bedroom!” cried Simon. “Now I’ll be wheezing all night.”

“Well, he won’t be here much longer, will he?” Harriet retorted.

Pushkin emerged warily, though not warily enough.

“Grab him, Harriet. I’d rather not touch him.”

Harriet picked him up and kissed the soft places behind his ears. It was too awful to let him go. “It’s raining,” she pointed out. “Pushkin hates rain.”

“Put a towel over the basket if you’re so concerned.”

The car was parked two streets away. Simon went to get it, but he drew the line at driving to the shelter. “I’d rather not spend the next hour sitting a foot away from him.”

Harriet lugged the basket downstairs and into the car. As Simon got out of the driver’s side, he warned, “Don’t bottle now, Harriet.” He may as well have added it was only a cat.

Harriet negotiated the traffic out of London. She thought the RSPCA place off the A1(M) would be best, as there’d be more chance of finding him a suitable home in a rural area. Plus with a shelter that far she’d be less tempted to rush back and adopt Pushkin herself.

She got stuck in a fierce bottle-neck on the A41, trapped between a bus and a Chelsea tractor surely bound for Brent Cross. When she finally moved off, a van driver nearly clipped the wing of the Peugeot.

Harriet had transferred the basket to the passenger seat. Pushkin yowled and stared at her through the grating with huge eyes.

“Come on, big boy,” she said, her voice catching. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Her words failed to reassure a stressed Pushkin, and the car filled with an unmistakeable aroma. Fresh dog turds occasionally smell of coffee grounds. Cat shit, on the other hand, only ever smells of one thing.

Harriet wept openly on arrival. The kindness of the RSPCA staff only made things worse.

“My partner’s allergic to cats,” Harriet explained.

“Has the cat had any health problems?” the girl asked.

“Well, he has a slight irritable bowel.” What kind of luck was it to have a fastidious boyfriend and a cat with loose motions?

Tears streaming, she left Pushkin and a large donation and returned to the car with the empty basket.

The potatoes had been soggy and the turkey tasteless ever since.

As the last bauble goes into the box, Harriet thinks of this year’s Christmas message from the Queen and its theme of reconciliation. She wonders whether it can ever apply to them.

***

Twelfth Night marks the end of Christmas for many people, but in the Eastern Orthodox Church Christmas isn’t until January 7. That means there’s still time to enjoy the Christmas Party Blog Hop devised by Helen Hollick. My own contribution is below, and you’ll find about 25 other bloggers taking part too.

19Dec2014

How to Be a Party Animal

Posted in Family life, London, Places by carolcooper

Christmas parties come in many shapes and sizes. This one had four legs. The Mayhew Home’s Tinsel & Tails extravaganza at St Paul’s Church, London W6 was a red carpet affair with candle-light, chilled fizz and celebs galore. We had a fabulous time. I also gleaned valuable tips on being the ultimate Christmas party animal.

1 Dress up for the occasion. Ditch the much-loved blanket and get into some glad rags, like Rufus and Bobby.

photo of Bobby and Rufus by Bonnie Baker

Here’s Evie in a red frock, a classic choice for Christmas.

2 Get some humans to volunteer for something eg giving readings and drawing raffles.

At this year’s Tinsel & Tails, Sylvia Syms and Beatie Edney did a mother-and-daughter routine, assisted by their Mayhew dogs Bunny and Billie. Peter Egan, fresh from guesting on Downton Abbey, read poetry while his pooches provided vocal encouragement.

3 Have a bit of a sing-song. Georgian choir Maspindzeli sang a few numbers, while The Great British Bark-Off competed at the back of the church.

4 Don’t invite cats. They always climb the tree and raid the buffet.

5 Make sure there’s plenty to drink. You don’t want to run out of the good stuff halfway through.

6 Watch out for gate-crashers. Big stars like Bill Bailey get their own bodyguard.

7 Have fun, but remember the true meaning of Christmas. When CEO Caroline Yates outlined the Mayhew’s work at home and abroad in countries such as Russia and Afghanistan, there was scarcely a dry eye in the house.

Some less fortunate souls didn’t get to go the ball.

Amaruq (photo from The Mayhew)

You can find out more about 17-month old Siberian Husky Amaruq by clicking here.

Alfie Moon (photo from The Mayhew)

Alfie Moon had to live rough for years. But he’s a gentle boy who likes the quiet life. Find out more here.

Rambo (photo from The Mayhew)

Despite his name, Rambo is a sweet 4-year old cat who likes having his cheeks rubbed. Find out more here.

Honey (photo from The Mayhew)

Honey is a 9-month old female Staffy crossbreed who arrived at The Mayhew because her owner was no longer able to look after her. She’s active, with a sensitive side. Find out more here.

Merry Christmas, one and all, and here’s hoping all these dogs and cats find forever homes in 2015.

dog-tired

As you can see, Evie is now partied out, but you’re invited to continue the Christmas Party Blog Hop with my fine blogger friends. Big thanks to Helen Hollick whose brainchild it is. Now follow on below for more fun. Look carefully. There’s even some party swag in there.

Helen Hollick: “You are Cordially Invited to a Ball” (plus a giveaway prize)
Alison Morton: Saturnalia surprise – a winter party tale (plus a giveaway prize)
Andrea Zuvich: No Christmas For You! The Holiday Under Cromwell
Ann Swinfen: Christmas 1586 – Burbage’s Company of Players Celebrates
Anna Belfrage: All I want for Christmas (plus a giveaway)
Clare Flynn: A German American Christmas
Debbie Young: Good Christmas Housekeeping (plus a giveaway prize)
Derek Birks: The Lord of Misrule – A Medieval Christmas Recipe for Trouble
Edward James: An Accidental Virgin and An Uninvited Guest
Fenella J. Miller: Christmas on the Home front (plus a giveaway prize)
J. L. Oakley: Christmas Time in the Mountains 1907 (plus a giveaway prize)
Jude Knight: Christmas at Avery Hall in the Year of Our Lord 1804
Julian Stockwin: Join the Party
Juliet Greenwood: Christmas 1914 on the Home Front (plus a giveaway)
Lauren Johnson: Farewell Advent, Christmas is come – Early Tudor Festive Feasts
Lucienne Boyce: A Victory Celebration
Nancy Bilyeau: Christmas After the Priory (plus a giveaway prize)
Nicola Moxey: The Feast of the Epiphany, 1182
Peter St John: Dummy’s Birthday
Regina Jeffers: Celebrating a Regency Christmas (plus a giveaway prize)
Richard Abbott: The Hunt – Feasting at Ugarit
Saralee Etter: Christmas Pudding – Part of the Christmas Feast
Stephen Oram: Living in your dystopia: you need a festival of enhancement…(plus a giveaway prize)
Suzanne Adair: The British Legion Parties Down for Yule 1780 (plus a giveaaway prize)
Lindsay Downs: O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree

Thank you for joining in, and see you in the New Year.

Easy tweet: “How to Be a Party Animal by @DrCarolCooper http://bit.ly/1vbXmo3 #winterparty with @HelenHollick @alison_morton @clarefly & other bloggers”

14Dec2014

I Hope Aliens Don’t Find my Phone

Posted in Family life, Writing by carolcooper

There’s a lot of embarrassing rubbish on my mobile, including the logo.

As my husband pointed out, aliens could be mighty confused if they ever got their hands on it. I’m confused just looking at the memos. ‘Next book’ is one of them. Here I meant to jot down amazing plot ideas as they came to me while sitting on the 13 bus. But what could I have meant by ‘Dr Tiggywinkle’, and then something about cradling a fire extinguisher? It hardly seems the stuff of which Booker winners are made.

The shopping lists are easier to decipher. There’s no spellcheck on memos, so one list goes

Bresd

Winr

Benecol?

Veg

Narnite

Surely everyone likes a bit of Narnite on their bresd.

I have 389 bonkers photos, mostly blurred, which may be just as well. Alongside Remembrance Sunday in Aldeburgh and the cat sitting on my neck trying to suffocate me, there are toilet facilities in Lion Yard, Cambridge:

Here’s Sigmund Freud clutching his belly in what can only be an attack of womb envy:

I’ve kept this great memento of a shag on the beach:

There are slides from a lecture by Roger Neighbour:

Every cat owner has close-ups of their cat sleeping. I’m no exception.

I’ve kept some choice texts, like the one from Henk the oven cleaner, and the exchanges with wretched PPI claims companies. My usual text reply? PPISS OFF.

At five minute intervals, there’s a pop-up which invites me to validate my BlackBerry ID credentials. I’ve forgotten it, so that’s not going to happen.

There are a gazillion back and forth BBM exchanges from friends I never manage to meet, and WhatsApp messages from people I’ve never met in my life. One mystery missive asks me

Es tu cumple hoy?

If you speak any Spanish, you probably know this isn’t as obscene as it sounds.

I’ve no idea what else is on there, as the thing has just seized up. Excuse me. I’m just off to write a letter to Santa.

My next post should be a lot more festive as I’m going to a party. A Christmas blog hop, no less. And you’re invited too.

6Dec2014

A Stroll though Highgate Cemetery

Posted in London, Places, Writing by carolcooper

My mate Gus was out one day;

Someone asked ‘Do you know the quickest way

To Highgate Cemetery?’

‘You bet I do’ said Gus

As he pushed the poor fellow under a bus.”

There are lots of reasons for visiting Highgate Cemetery in North London. Here are just a few of them.

It’s a final resting place for many literary folk, among them Douglas Adams, Alan Sillitoe, George Eliot, Pat Kavanagh and William Foyle (who founded Foyle’s with his brother Gilbert).

Douglas Adams, with pencil tribute

The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner’s writer

Literary agent Pat Kavanagh

One half of W & G Foyle Ltd

Then there’s this avid reader.

Jim Horn 1976-2010

Poor Harry Thornton didn’t survive the flu pandemic.

Pianist Harry Thornton 1883-1918

I expect you know who Malcolm McLaren was, unlike the couple nearby who thought he had something to do with double buggies.

Malcolm McLaren 1946-2010

Pop artist Patrick Caulfield plays a visual joke on the headstone.

DEAD or alive? Probably dead if you look closely.

But Jeremy Beadle goes all serious with books.

Jeremy Beadle 1948-2008

There are war graves, mainly from World War One, and a 1930s monument to the London Fire Brigade. There’s also one very bad boy.

Mastermind of the Great Train Robbery 1963

Bruce Reynolds, the brains behind the Great Train Robbery

You were expecting the big man? Oh, all right. Here you go.

Funny how the communist gets the most lavish tomb, dwarfing those around him. Souls of lefties gather round, among them historian Eric Hobsbawm and Iraqi Communist leader Saad Saadi Ali, while a little further away lies Philip Gould, architect of New Labour.

Eric Hobsbawm 1917-2012

Saad Saadi Ali

See? Ali is left-leaning even in death.

We were not alone, as we soon discovered.

These days you can still be buried in Highgate, though space is at a premium. The impressive statuary is packed close.

We’d only visited the East Cemetery, but, as the sun began to set, it seemed time to leave…

27Nov2014

The Top 5 Things I Learned this Week

Posted in Family life, London by carolcooper

You’re never too old, right? This week I found myself on a steep part of the learning curve, and began to wish I had crampons to stop me falling off. Here’s what I learned.

1 It’s entirely possible to tell the difference between hairspray and other kinds of spray, but – here’s the tricky bit – I have to remember to look first.

Still, I had the reassurance of knowing that my hair wouldn’t smell like mouldy trainers.

2 ‘Loading’ does not have a strict definition set out in legislation. If you think stopping to pick an order from a shop constitutes loading, then be prepared to argue your case. The general interpretation is that loading/unloading should be in the nature of a collection/delivery. It does not include parking in the loading bay while shopping or, if you’re feeling peckish, visiting McDonalds.

If you too are just getting to grips with that little lesson, you may like to check out Ticket fighter.

3 There is only one correct way to offer a horse a lump of sugar. FYI it is not by holding the sugar cube in your fingers.

If the first one doesn’t bite your fingers off, the second one probably will.

4 Although drinking alcohol on London’s underground system has been forbidden since 1^st June 2008, it doesn’t mean the guy swilling Special Brew on the Jubilee Line will thank you for pointing that out to him, especially if he has a fuck-off haircut and a nasty glint in his one good eye. No, not even when you explain you’re only trying to spare him a hefty fine.

On the other hand, you may qualify for a discounted coffee at London Bridge station (wonder if there’s a sliding scale of discounts depending on the location of the injury?).

5 Letting a child with a cold kiss you is a really bad idea. I’d show you the end result, but it proved far too gruesome for a photo.

You know what really worries me? The week isn’t over yet.

Pills & Pillow-Talk

Carol Cooper – trained to observe, born to write.

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A Stroll though Highgate Cemetery

The Top 5 Things I Learned this Week